When My Heart Joins the Thousand(44)

“Fine.”

“It says here that you work at a zoo. . . . Do you enjoy the work?”

“It’s fine.”

“You can’t answer every question with ‘fine.’ Elaborate a little. You like the animals, don’t you? Talk about that. It’s important to be professional, but you also want to come across as . . . warm. Human.”

“That I’m human should be obvious. Do you think she’ll assume that I’m an android. Or an alien.”

“You know what I mean. Make her sympathize with you. Make her like you.”

“She’s there to decide whether I’m fit to live on my own. It shouldn’t matter if she likes me or not.”

“You’re right. It shouldn’t. But it does.” He smiles, lips thin and tight. His gaze shifts away. “You know, a lot of people don’t like social workers. It’s a necessary job, but we’re seen as fussy, moral busybodies, telling others how to live their lives. And when people don’t like you, it makes things harder. It isn’t fair, but that’s how the world works.”

I shift in my chair, not sure how to respond. He doesn’t usually talk about himself like this. I don’t exactly like Dr. Bernhardt, myself. But then, I don’t like very many people. And I must admit—with the exception of our last encounter, he has generally been one of the more tolerable adults in my life. “I don’t dislike you,” I say.

“Well, I’m pleased to hear that,” he says. “It’s hard to tell, sometimes.”

It never occurred to me that Dr. Bernhardt might care about whether I liked him.

“How are things going with your friend?” he asks. “Stanley, was it?”

I freeze. Now that he’s asked me directly, I can’t avoid the subject—not without lying. So I give him my usual response: “Fine.”

“You’re still seeing him, then?”

When I’m silent, he averts his gaze. “I realize that I expressed some reservations about your friendship with him. But I might have spoken out of turn. I meant what I said—it’s your decision. I won’t try to interfere.”

Is it possible? Did I misunderstand him, before? Maybe he wasn’t threatening me—maybe my state of mind affected my perceptions. I want to believe him, but I’ve been betrayed in the past.

I decide, on impulse, to take him at his word. “Good. Because Stanley is my friend, and that’s not going to change, regardless of what you think about it.”

He looks me in the eye. “Maybe it’s none of my business, but . . . is he just a friend?”

Even if I wanted to answer that question, I wouldn’t know how. The truth is, I’m still not sure what kind of relationship Stanley and I have. We haven’t kissed since the night he broke his arm. We haven’t talked about it, and he hasn’t tried to do it again. Maybe he’s waiting for me to take the initiative. Given my boundary issues, that makes sense. I keep thinking about it, replaying the moment in my head. A part of me wants to try it again. But a vague anxiety always stops me, a whisper of warning from inside the Vault.

“We’re friends. That’s all.” It’s starting to feel like a mantra. “I would prefer not to discuss him.”

He lets out a small sigh and glances down at the clipboard. “All right. Let’s continue.”

As we go over the questions, his words echo in my head: When people don’t like you, it makes things harder. Judge Gray, based on my limited memories of her, is a severe, no-nonsense woman. A bit like Ms. Nell, but without the eye-abrading fashion sense. And I am not the sort of person who easily inspires sympathy in others.

If Dr. Bernhardt is correct—if the judge’s decision will be based on whether she finds me likable—I’m in big trouble.

“So this is Chance,” Stanley remarks.

I nod.

Chance preens his wing and shifts his weight, claws flexing and clenching on the branch.

“He’s beautiful,” Stanley says. “You said you feed him by hand?”

“Yes. He’s grown more comfortable around me. I still have to be careful, though.”

“Is he dangerous?”

“Only to those who don’t respect him. I’m the only one he’ll tolerate inside his cage, but I don’t have any special secret. It’s just a matter of moving slowly and being patient.” Common sense. But many people don’t seem to have that kind of patience.

Stanley glances at me, blue sclerae flashing. They’re especially striking in the sunlight, as if the vivid azure of his irises has seeped into the whites. I wait for him to ask what happened to Chance’s amputated wing—everyone seems to ask that—but he doesn’t.

I start to walk. “This way. I’ll show you the other animals.”

We follow the curving path past the hyenas, the river otters, and the pair of gibbons. Buttercup, the lone cougar, is curled in the sun, her head resting on paws the size of dinner plates.

I glance over at Stanley, my gaze focusing briefly on his lips. With an effort, I look away.

Since the night we kissed, it feels as if we’ve stalled; as though neither one of us is quite sure where to go or what to do next. It has occurred to me that maybe I should invite him to my apartment—but I haven’t, and he hasn’t brought it up. Perhaps he senses my reluctance.