Conflict of Interest

1

St. Catherine’s Youth Club.Bolted to

a chain-link fence that hemmed in the corner lot, the battered

metal sign was pocked from thrown stones and riddled with what

might’ve been bullet holes. Tall weeds strangled the grass inside

the fence and broke up asphalt that had once covered a large

parking lot. As Alex Hitchner eased his car around the curb, he

frowned past the fence at the squat brick building hunched at the

far end of the lot. A clothing warehouse back in the day, the

building with its discolored fa?ade and crumbling edgework now

housed a live-in shelter for runaway teens. Near the double

entrance doors, a group of boys played a heated game of keep-away

on a makeshift basketball court. Glancing at the envelope in his

passenger side seat, Alex checked the directions he’d received from

Father Taylor one last time. Fourth and Main, they read. This

must be the place

He avoided the empty spots near the building’s doors, unwilling

to park too close to the kids and their dribbling basketball. As he

got out, he slammed the car door behind him, then tugged on the

handle to make sure it was locked. Hot stares burned into him,

baleful eyes assessing him, his clothing, his car. Judging him.

You’re here as a volunteer,Alex reminded himself. To

help these boys. Nevertheless he avoided meeting those hungry

eyes, and he kept one hand on his wallet as he trotted up the few

steps to the shelter. A small voice inside him prayed his hubcaps

were still on his car when he came back.

Inside the shelter, a few teenagers sat around the wide-screen

TV in one corner, playing video games. A group of girls congregated

by the large open windows, giggling over pictures in a teen

magazine, and some older boys worked behind tables laden with soup

and bread and food, set up for lunch. The place was filled with

kids—older than Alex had imagined, to be sure, but none looked old

enough to be in charge, and no one wore the Roman collar Alex had

expected this Father Taylor to wear. For a moment he just stood in

the doorway, looking like another one of the lost kids in off the

streets for a hot meal and a place to sleep.

Then a guy broke away from a game of tabletop tennis, already

smiling as he walked toward Alex. With his dark spiked hair and

trim goatee, he was definitely older than the rest of the kids, and

as he approached, Alex noticed diamond studs in each ear. “Alex

Hitchner?” the man asked, extending his hand.

Alex shook it quickly. “Father Taylor?” he ventured, taking in

the dingy t-shirt and baggy jeansYou’ve got to be

kidding.

But the man laughed. “Just call me Nate,” he said. “All the kids

do. Or Father Nate if you insist on the title. I see you found us

all right?”

Alex nodded, more at ease with the thought of this man as

Natethan Father.“Your letter said you had someone

you wanted me to meet.”

It had been weeks since Alex had signed up for the Outreach

Youth program at St. Catherine’s. The whole thing started as his

roommate’s idea, but Dave lost interest when he hadn’t gotten an

immediate call back and to be honest, Alex hadn’t expected to hear

anything either. Then he received Father Nate’s letter. His first

thought was to throw it away, or call the shelter and say he was no

longer interested.

But the more he thought about the program, the more he talked

himself into it. He had a few months before classes started again

at the community college where he studied music, and his job at the

radio station was flexible enough that he could afford to spend

some time helping out the shelter. “It’s like a big brother

program, right?” he asked as he followed Father Nate down a narrow

hall. The walls were yellow cinder blocks painted with bright grass

and a picket fence in the hopes of livening them up. “I’m not sure

I understand what it’s all about.”

“There’s not much to it, really,” the priest said with a

shrug. At the end of the hall, he stopped and opened a door to

reveal a tiny office overflowing with two chairs, a cluttered desk,

and too many filing cabinets.

Taking a seat behind the desk, he motioned Alex to sit down. “We

take the survey you filled out and match you up with a youth we

think you’ll have a lot in common with,” he explained. “In your

case we picked someone roughly your own age. These kids need

someone strong in their lives, Alex. Someone to show them that

there’s a life beyond the streets. They come from broken

homes—runaways mostly, but some have been tossed out by their

parents. Most of them have been in gangs, into drugs and

prostitution and things you and I don’t like to think about. Things

we like to pretend don’t exist except on TV and in the movies.”

From the papers on his desk, he extracted a thin folder and

handed it to Alex. “His name is Jamie. It’s all in there—everything

we know about him. Take a look. If you think it’ll be too much,

just tell me and I’ll understand. You can leave without ever seeing

him. But if you think it might be worth it to take the time and be

a friend…well, he’s in a room down the hall, waiting.”

“It’s that easy?” Alex opened the folder and found a

picture of a sullen kid staring back at him, a shock of orange-red

curls hugging his scalp tightly. A spray of freckles tanned his

nose and cheeks, his mouth was curved into a full-lipped pout, and

his eyes…

Jesus. Alex caught his breath. He had never seen eyes as

blue or as deep before, not in a photograph, not ever.There

was no way he could close this folder and walk out now. Those eyes

would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life. “He’s my age?” he

asked softly.