Isaac

I am hiding out in one of David's bedroom under the pretense of dropping off my coat. My leather jacket was added to the pile ten minutes ago, so I don't have any excuse to stay other than I don't want to leave and face the crush of people out there all eager to meet me and congratulate me for actually making something of myself. They will probably be polite to my face, I know, but many of them are still scratching their heads as to why the son of Polly isn't some guy's girlfriend in a prison somewhere.

I can't entirely blame them. If you would have told me back when I first moved to Lexington that I would one day go to Harvard and help build a multimillion dollar business, I would have thought you were smoking something.

When I first arrived at the party, David introduced me to one of the girls from high school, a skinny girl in a backless dress that I remember as a stuck up snot who snubbed me back in the day. Apparently, muscles and a buttload of money is enough to overcome the strongest of prejudices, because she seems to have forgotten she despises me. She gushes on about how noble my work is with the poor wretches in Africa and keeps touching my arm for emphasis. Gives me the shivers. Hypocrite.

I think of Kwami, my friend and CEO of my nonprofit, a man who was born into poverty to a single mother in Ethiopia. He literally grew up digging through trash heaps to scrounge for whatever he could sell to take care of his family, but his vision for his future never wavered. He eventually found his first job, and proving himself there, he worked his way up and his tail off to earn enough money to put himself through school and eventually earned a business degree. He created a successful business, bought his mom a house, and retired to pursue his passion of helping the poor at the age of 25. Poor wretch? Nonsense!

I once asked him how it was that he could dream so big when everyone around him was living so small. He shrugged. I had nowhere to go but up, he said, and just never stopped climbing. Then he turned the question on me, and the only answer I could think to tell him was I wanted to impress a girl. He smiled at that, but didn't ask questions. That's one of the best things about Kwami. He lets you be.

I'm not eager to return and mingle. The idea of facing a bunch of wealthy people doesn't excite me. I've forced myself to a few functions like this since I formed my nonprofit to raise funds for the cause. I try to be civil, I really do, but these people seem so fake to me. Most of the time they have no clue what they're talking about. They speak with self important pride about that time they donated a hundred bucks to this cause or saw the plight of the poor beggars while taking shore leave on their glitzy cruise, and they think they understand poverty just because they've seen a tiny piece of it. Hard to believe it as they're sipping champagne and flashing their diamonds.

You don't understand poverty until you've experienced it first hand. Kwami gets it. I get it. Sadly, millions around the world get it.

Poverty is a state of suffering mind and heart. It's the helpless feeling when your child is sick, but is denied the option to see a doctor. It's not having access to school, and sometimes no access to reading. It's the gnawing pit in your stomach, never knowing what it is to be full.

The only difference between me and them is I have a Gran, and too many of them have no one.

The door opens and a woman holding a stack of coats so high she can't see over them runs smack into me and drops the coats all over the floor.

"Sorry," she mumbles, then looks up and her eyes widen as she recognizes me.

I stare down into Beth's stunned expression and am dazzled. Her gleaming brown hair is coiled in an elegant updo with a silver filigreed leaf comb. She is wearing a pair of pearl earrings and a pink dress that hugs her curves perfectly. As she bends over to pick up the coats, I can't help but ogle over her beautiful backside. At least I'm smart enough to snap my eyes to her face as she straightens before she catches me staring.

Realizing I probably should have been helping her pick up the coats, I move to help her now. I notice children sized coats in the pile, and I'm curious. Do they belong to her children? I glance down at her hand. No ring, though that doesn't necessarily mean she's not married.

She smiles at me self consciously and as my heart speeds up, I realize I'm in as much danger as ever of falling for what I can't have. I breathe deeply and force myself to focus. Beth frowns, and I realize I'm blocking the door. I don't want her to leave. As dangerous as staying here with her might be, I prefer this kind of danger to the vipers on the other side.

Beth clears her throat.

"How have you been since you've returned Isaac?"

Her voice is so formal, it's painful. There was a time we could talk about anything with ease.

"Great. It's nice to see Gran again."

"I can imagine."

Awkward silence ensues.

She looks pointedly at the door again. She's given her obligatory polite welcome, and it's clear she wants to escape the room. For some perverse reason, though, my legs seemed to be glued to the ground.

"Have you done anything fun since you've come back?" she asks politely. So stiff and stilted. I wish she'd loosen up.

"I went to Gran's book club today," I say. Beth widens her eyes in surprise and laughs, revealing her adorable dimples. That's more like it.

"How did you get roped into that?" Beth asks. Good. Real conversation. She might be starting to thaw.

"Yeah, well, it went something like this," I say. "I was washing the dishes and wasn't paying attention when she asked me if I wanted to go. I said yes without realizing what I had agreed to." I was so not going to admit to Beth that I had been distracted by thoughts of her.

"I'm sorry I missed this one. I had family obligations. So how was it?" she asked.

"First off, I was the only guy. Second, I hadn't read the book. So already I was in trouble," I say. "You have read it, right?"

Beth's eyes cloud up.

"Yes. It was a tough read. Those poor girls."

"Yeah, well, those ladies at your book club—wow. All I can say was it was interesting."

"How so?"

"So if I understand the story correctly, a girl from Yemin is married off for her dowry when she is only 10 and has to go to court to beg for a divorce because not a single member of her family other than her father's second wife will raise a finger to protect her from the animal of a husband that rapes her daily."

Beth winces and nods.

"The girl finally gets her divorce and vows to get her education and protect her beloved younger sister so her father doesn't marry her off to some old scuzzo too. Her repentant father promises he will never marry an underage daughter off again. Happy day. Throw the confetti. My guess is the book club ladies went home content knowing the child has secured her divorce and now all the pieces are in place for her to become a lawyer and save her little sis from a fate worse than death. I got curious and couldn't resist Googling it, but that's not what happened. Want to know how the story really ends? What's not in the book?"

"Yes," Beth says, biting her lip. I am having a hard time dragging my eyes away from her lips, but I force them up to her eyes. Bad idea. If anything, her gorgeous brown eyes are even more distracting, transparent windows to her soul. I clear my throat.

"Yemeni law does not allow her to receive the money directly until she is 18, so her father receives $1000 month from the book sales to pay for her education. Instead of paying for her education, her father buys two more wives and expands the family to 14 children. Of the $1000 a month she is supposed to earn from book sales, she gets only $30 a month and drops out of school. Her father, on the other hand, forces his daughter to leave the house and live with her brother. He buys a new wife a house. Worst of all, despite his promises he wouldn't, he sells off her beloved younger sister to a man twice her age. "

Beth gasps.

"That's awful," she says.

"It's hard not to get cynical about these things. The only way anything will ever be fixed is for the laws to change and not financially reward men for selling, er I mean, marrying off their daughters. The problem is the people are steeped so heavily in tradition, it would be difficult to make that happen."

"I can imagine," Beth murmurs.

"Watching these women at the book club with their designer handbags and expensive clothes sitting around discussing a book like this, well, it's tough. It's like there is a disconnect. Nujood and her sister just some characters in a book. They are real, but they're not. These women discuss 'the poor dear' and how grateful they are that this is so far removed from them and that they are blessed to live in America and their daughter and granddaughters don't have to deal with it.

"I can't help but think, really? Is that all they learned from the book? That they are glad other people's girls are getting raped and not theirs? Then they got into an argument whether force is actually considered rape once you're married, or if you are supposed to be obedient to your husband. I just couldn't stomach it any more and had to leave."

Beth shakes her head.

"You can't just sit there and casually discuss this stuff like you have the right to judge. You don't know what the hell is going on. These things you're reading about, they're real, and they are happening to living, breathing girls that are no different than your daughter or your granddaughter. What gives your daughter the right to live in luxury while you sit idly by and do nothing to change things for those who aren't so fortunate? Women like that think nothing of spending $500 on a handbag or a new pair of shoes when they already have 200 pairs that they don't even really wear, but they can't spare 20 lousy bucks to educate a child? It's only $350 to educate a child for an entire year! No, I can't say that I understand it."

"Maybe you're being a little hard on these women," Beth says. "I think many of them have good hearts. The things in these books are so far removed from many of their lives that they forget they have power to do anything to change them."

"You are way more charitable toward them than I am," I say.

"I'm not saying they shouldn't think about these things. It's just hard to remember how others are struggling when your life is so comfortable. I imagine you have incredible stories to tell from your travels."

"Not really. Every time I start talking about the poor, most people get a glazed expression on their faces and have somewhere else to be. I could tell you stories that would break your heart, but no one wants to hear them. People want to hear about fun stuff. Everyone wants to know if I went on an African safari and if I rode on an elephant. They want to pretend like the ugly stuff doesn't exist."

"I want to hear."

"Yeah, well you're the exception then."

Beth's eyes flicker toward the door again. I sense she's torn—intrigued by our conversation but also anxious to go. She's still not comfortable around me. After what we've been through, how could she be? I wonder if she's afraid her family will catch us together. Or maybe she has a husband or boyfriend out there waiting for her? I should probably move out of the way, but I don't want to. 

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If you enjoyed this chapter, please hit the star!

The story from the book club Isaac and Beth are discussing is sadly a true story. The book is called "I Am Nujood, Age 10 and Divorced." My husband bought it for me a few Christmas's ago and I found the story riveting. You can imagine how sad I was to discover that so far with her father seizing control of the finances, Nujood's dreams have been thwarted and the very thing she was trying to prevent has occurred, namely the sell of her younger daughter to a man twice her age. I highly recommend the book. I'm hoping when she is 18, things will change when the money will go directly to her.

Here's some pics of Beth and Isaac at David's party:

Join me next Friday for more about the party. I update Tuesdays and Fridays.

Dedication goes to the fabulous SkyLabyrinth, who is a talented artist and runs a graphic shop on Wattpad. We have a lot in common, including our love of writing, art and music. Thanks so much for reading the Shadow Wars books and Restless Hope. I so enjoy your comments and think you are amazing!