The Kindness of Strangers Read Online Free Page B

pulled a white cotton tablecloth out of the pile she’d packed for the lunch. “Here. Dry off.” He took it from her, and she backed out of the drive. For a moment he just held the tablecloth; then he wiped his face.
    Keeping an eye on the road—she’d twice nearly hit deer down here along the golf course—Sarah attempted to elicit some kind of friendliness from this boy. She was never sure if he was just unbearably shy or simply hated talking to her, but she always wanted to try; it seemed too cruel to pretend he wasn’t there and drive along in silence.
    “I’m cooking for you guys again Friday night,” she said. Tomorrow she’d cater curried chicken on rice noodles, with lime-and-pepper sauce, for three couples at the Kendricks’. Mark was entertaining some clients.
    Jordan didn’t answer.
    “Those parties are probably boring, huh?” She wanted desperately to fill this quiet, to be nice to him. “Are there ever any kids your age, or is it just grown-ups?”
    Jordan looked straight ahead but whispered, “There’s kids.”
    “Oh, good. Do you like them?”
    He shrugged, then pulled the tablecloth around him, as if cold. Looking at him draped in white like that, Sarah remembered that kids at school mockingly called Jordan “the angel,” partly because he was so obviously the teacher’s pet but mainly because of an incident she’d witnessed at the choir concert rehearsal. The concert was very much a Christmas concert, even though the school called it a “holiday” concert, apparently in concession to the non-Christian families like her own. She’d been standing with Danny’s class lined up in the gym waiting their turn to go onstage and practice. They watched the fourth-graders sing “Silent Night,” and the lights changed to reveal a tableau of little girls dressed as angels. Jordan, standing at her elbow, had said, “I wish I were an angel.” He had a way of blurting out the most bizarre statements to no one in particular, and half the time Sarah thought he didn’t mean to speak aloud. She was certain he hadn’t meant to that time, as he startled and blushed at the derisive laughter from the kids in earshot.
    “Ooh,” Billy Porter had taunted. “Jordan wants to wear a dress and wings.”
    “Shut up,” Danny had said.
    Sarah had quieted the kids and scolded Billy—and later praised Danny for sticking up for his friend—but five months later the nickname stuck.
    Jordan, here in the van, sighed. She looked over at him. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Are you sick?”
    She reached over and touched his forehead. In the second before he rolled his head away from her reach, ovenlike heat met her fingertips. “You’re burning up. You are sick.”
    Jordan thrust the tablecloth from him and sat up straight. “Pull in here,” he said with urgency, nodding to a gas station at the intersection ahead. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
    “Sure.” Sarah glanced at him. Was he going to throw up? The van bucked across the uneven gravel lot of the tiny station. Jordan grasped the dashboard, his face white.
    “Oh, no. They’re closed. But we can—”
    “There’s a port-o-john,” Jordan said, pointing.
    “Oh, no, hon, you don’t want to go in there—” But he was already opening his door. “Jordan, they’re so dirty. Can you hang a few more minutes? I’ll get you to a cleaner bathroom.” He slid out the door, knees buckling as his feet hit the ground. He picked up his backpack, then hesitated. He looked at the port-o-john, then at Sarah, and carefully put the bag back on the floor.
    “You need any help?” she asked, but he shook his head. He bit his lip, looked at his pack, then slammed the door. He weaved his way to the port-o-john and disappeared inside it. Sarah pulled up the hood of her rain jacket and followed him. “I’m right outside,” she called, feeling helpless. She wanted to go inside with him, but God knows what she’d