Tiger Girl Read Online Free PDF Page B

hole—chocolate—into her mouth.
    â€œDo you make all these with Uncle?”
    â€œOh, no, sweetie. Not me. Your uncle’s got his groupies.” Anita winked at me.
    Uncle emerged from the back room, carrying several large cardboard boxes. He set them on the end of the counter, then opened a case and pulled out a long baguette. “You must be hungry, Nea,” he said. He sliced it openly neatly, slathered it with butter, and handed it back to me.
    I accepted the bread, my stomach suddenly growling. “You know, Uncle, this would be a big hit in a city someplace. Have you ever thought of moving to a better location? Maybe L.A., or Hollywood even?”
    â€œNo, no. This is the perfect place for me.” Uncle nodded, as though confirming this to himself.
    â€œOh, they love your uncle here, darling,” Anita said.
    I looked at the barren parking lot, the customer-less shop, and didn’t know what to say.
    â€œWell, time for church,” Uncle said. He picked up his boxes.
    â€œIt was sure nice to meet you, Nea.” Anita waved good-bye.
    I followed Uncle out to the parking lot, where he loaded the cardboard boxes into the back seat of the Toyota. I got into the car, trying not to drop baguette crumbs all over the upholstery.
    I felt awkward and unhelpful, an intruder. “I’d like to help out, really,” I said. “I can start working any time.”
    Uncle nodded, turned on his religious music channel again, and drove us past strip mall after strip mall until we came up to a small, white, stand-alone building. The sign out front proclaimed, “The Church of Everlasting Sorrow.” My heart fluttered uneasily in my chest.
    â€œI want you to meet everyone, Nea,” he said happily.
    I nodded, a knot in my throat. Ever since I’d been baptized publicly by our sponsors, I’d been wary of the religious. Their aid came with long strings attached, in my experience.
    Uncle picked up one of the boxes, and I followed him through the gravel-covered parking lot to the back of the church, where a straggly line of homeless people waited to enter the soup pantry. Uncle rang the bell beside the door, and a tanned priest peered out. He smiled when he saw Uncle.
    â€œFather Juan,” Uncle said. “I brought a donation.”
    The priest slapped Uncle on the back, thanking him and taking the large box. He handed it to a layperson, or a very casually dressed nun, I couldn’t tell, and turned back to Uncle. “Your donations are always a big hit around here.”
    â€œI want to introduce you to my niece, Nea. She’s in college.”
    â€œCongratulations,” Father Juan said. “Visiting your uncle?”
    I nodded. At least he didn’t ask me what I was majoring in.
Undeclared
wasn’t much of a major.
    â€œWe love James,” the priest said. “He’s one of our most loyal benefactors.”
    James
? I thought.
    â€œNo, no,” said Uncle modestly. “I just do what I can. Well, we have more donations to make.”
    â€œYou’re welcome to come to Mass any Sunday, you know,” Father Juan said.
    â€œI will come someday,” he said. “You know I will.”
    Then I was following Uncle back to his Toyota.
    â€œWas this a special early Christmas donation?” I asked.
    Uncle shook his head. “My usual rounds. You’ll see. There are so many good people here. They are trying to help many people.”
    That afternoon we continued making our pastry drops and I met Uncle’s grateful beneficiaries: Azaela, who worked at a battered women’s shelter; Grace, who volunteered for hospice; Thahn, who ran a youth center; Sophany, who translated at the hospital, and on and on. Everyone thanked him, but no one but me seemed particularly surprised by his generosity. We made several more stops back at the donut shop to pick up more boxes and then spent the rest of the day delivering the boxes until the