Page 7 of Not My Problem

“Are you dyslexic?” I asked, remembering that’s how a friend in high school had described her experience with dyslexia.

She tilted her head. “There’s a name for it?”

My heart pinched at the shock on her face. She didn’t know?

“Yeah, it’s a pretty common learning disability, but I understand there are tools that can help. I’m surprised that your teachers never talked to you about it.”

“I changed schools a lot since we moved around so much,” she said, her voice quiet as she looked at the croissant in her hand as if it had all the answers. “I thought I was just stupid or something.”

“You’re not stupid,” I said firmly. “You just haven’t been taught in a way that works with your brain.”

Zoe

Istared at Gretchen, processing her words. Was I dyslexic? I’d heard the term before but never known what it meant. If other people had this problem why hadn’t anyone told me before? Then again, I didn’t talk about it very often. My mother knew, but I don’t think I’d said anything to anyone else about why reading was hard for me. I just let them think I was an idiot.

I was surprised that I’d shared it with Gretchen. I barely knew the woman, but for some reason I was comfortable telling her anything. It wasn’t like me. Not at all. Usually I was a vault, keeping my feelings to myself.

“I’m sure there are some YouTube videos about dyslexia you could watch to see if it sounds like what you experience,” she continued. “I mean, if you wanted to learn more about it.”

“Yeah, I would.”

I took a bite of my croissant, eyes closing with pleasure. This was a damned good croissant, way better than any of the ones I’d had in the various restaurants I’d worked.

“How old are you anyway?” Gretchen asked, the stern expression returning.

“Twenty-eight. You?”

“Thirty-six.”

We were both quiet for a couple of minutes before I spoke up again. “Since we’re sharing life stories and all, tell me about yourself.”

It felt like we were on a date, I realized. Or at least the kinds of dates I saw on TV and in the movies. I wasn’t big on dating. I’d never even had a relationship. It was easier to stick with hook-ups. I’d meet someone I was attracted to, we’d spend a night or two together, then we’d move on.

“I grew up in Portland, with a single mom just like you. I was nine when my mom died,” she answered. “I didn’t have any other family, so I went into foster care, which was challenging. At that age you’re too old to be adopted – everyone wants to adopt babies -- so you just move from placement to placement until you turn eighteen and age out of the system.”

I didn’t need to ask her if it’d been hard on her. She’d said as much last night when she threatened to take me down. Also I’d had a few neighbors over the years who’d been foster parents, and it had been evident they’d been in it for the money, not to take care of the kids.

“My mom always wanted me to make something of myself when I got older, but I went through a wild child phase when I was a teenager. When my last foster family kicked me out after my eighteenth birthday because the state wasn’t paying them to take care of me anymore I ended up homeless, like a lot of former foster care kids.”

Her eyes clouded up for a minute like the memories were too hard, then she blinked and her expression evened out.

“I lived on the streets in Portland for about a year. I smoked a lot of pot and got a lot of tattoos, shoplifting and pickpocketing to support myself. But then a case worker at the homeless youth drop-in center took an interest in me. Her name was Miranda and she told me I could be more, that I could go to college and be successful. She kept telling me that until I started to believe it myself.”

She smiled and for a second my breath stuttered in my chest. It was the first time I’d seen her smile.

“Miranda changed my life. She helped me apply for colleges. I’d gotten good grades in high school despite moving around so much and I tested well on the SATs, so I was offered a full ride to go to the University of Washington. I graduated with a degree in finance and accounting.”

“You work in finance then?”

“I’m the chief financial officer at a local nonprofit that helps homeless families and other low income populations,” she said proudly. “It’s my dream job.”

“That sounds nice.”

I could hear the wistfulness in my voice, and I could tell from the look Gretchen sent my way that she did too. I wondered what it would be like to have a dream job instead of a job where drunken assholes pinched your ass when you walked by with a tray full of cocktails. Maybe if I could figure out this dyslexia thing I could think about a career change.

“I sent your grandmother an email last night,” she said, changing the subject. “She told me before she left that she’s going to be checking email once a day, so I expect I’ll hear back later today or tomorrow.”

“You said she’s in Europe?”