Chapter 9 #3
“These are yours,” Nate said. “Pick the color you like best. You can write in them, draw in them, glue stuff in them—whatever. Nobody’s going to read them unless you want to share.
” He held up one of the printed pages. “The printouts contain a few starter prompts from Joshua’s playbook—just something to help if you’re staring at a blank page and don’t know where to begin.
Think of them as suggestions, not assignments. ”
He glanced around the group, his tone softening. “But before you leave today, I’d like you to write down just one thing. One thought. One feeling. It doesn’t have to be deep. It doesn’t have to be pretty. Hell, it can be one word—scared, confused—or two words: pissed off.”
He tapped the notebook lightly. “Writing it down puts it outside of you. Gives you a little distance. And that’s where figuring things out can start.”
He handed the last notebook to Emma, who took it carefully, as if it might break.
“You’ve got a half hour,” Nate said. “And then we’ll talk for a few minutes before we end today’s session.”
The room filled with the soft scratch of pens and pencils.
Some kids wrote quickly, filling half a page.
Some stared at the blank paper for a long time before writing a single sentence.
Emilio drew a small, detailed skull in one corner of his page, then wrote something beneath it that Colin couldn’t see.
Emma wrote slowly, her handwriting small and precise. Colin watched her out of the corner of his eye, his chest tight.
When the half hour was up, Nate clapped his hands softly. “Okay… let’s come back together.”
A few pens kept moving for another second before slowing, then stopping. Chairs creaked as the kids shifted.
“You don’t have to share anything you wrote,” Nate said, glancing around the circle. “Seriously. You can just sit there and look mysterious if you want. That’s a valid artistic choice.”
A couple of small smiles.
“But if anyone does want to share—even just a word—I’d love to hear it.”
Silence held for a beat.
Then Ben cleared his throat. “I just wrote… ‘confused.’”
Nate nodded immediately. “That’s a great place to start.”
Ben blinked. “It is?”
“Absolutely. Confused means you’re asking questions. Questions mean you’re thinking. That’s where everything begins.”
Ben looked down at his page again, like it might be worth more than he’d thought.
Marissa lifted her notebook halfway. “I wrote a song lyric,” she said.
“Of course you did,” Nate said, grinning. “Are we allowed to hear it, or is it top secret?”
She hesitated, then shook her head, smiling. “Not yet.”
“That’s fair. Protect the art.”
Jamie leaned back in his chair. “I didn’t write anything.”
“Also valid,” Nate said easily. “Blank pages are underrated. Lots of potential.”
Jamie snorted, but he didn’t look away.
Emilio shrugged, tapping his pencil against the skull he’d drawn. “I just drew.”
Nate leaned forward a little. “Drawing counts. A lot of people think better that way. You can fill that whole thing with sketches if you want.”
Emilio gave a small nod, like that hadn’t occurred to him.
Nate looked around the circle. “And just so we’re clear—these journals are yours. Not homework. Not something we collect. You can write in them, draw in them, paste stuff in them, tear pages out if you need to. There are no rules.”
He tapped his own notebook lightly. “This is just a tool. You decide how to use it.”
Emma’s fingers tightened slightly on the edge of her notebook.
Nate softened his voice. “And if today all you got down was one word… that’s enough.
You showed up. That counts.” He smiled at all of them.
“That’s it for today. Tomorrow we’ll be here from ten to four, so bring energy, bring whatever you need.
We’ll provide lunch and snacks. And if you want to talk privately to any of us—Kyle, Colin, Joshua, me—just let us know. We’re here for you.”
Joshua moved to stand next to Nate. “Let me add this to what Nate just said,” he said.
“And I tell this to every single group we visit. We don’t do closed-door chats.
We can’t. There will always be another adult within earshot.
Not because we don’t trust you—but because we protect everyone in this room, including ourselves.
Also… please understand this. You can talk to us about anything—but there are a few things we can’t keep private.
If someone’s being hurt, or you’re thinking about hurting yourself, we have to get help. That’s not betrayal—that’s protection.
Most of the kids nodded in understanding, then stood, gathering their things, chatting with each other or with Nate.
“Wait—hang on a sec before you go,” Kyle’s voice called from the hallway. He appeared in the doorway, holding a stack of small business cards. “Before you all take off, I need to give you something.”
Emma paused. Marissa and Daniela, who’d been whispering by the door, turned back. Ben stopped halfway to the exit.
Kyle entered the room and spoke to the assembled group. “Look, these guys are only here for two days. After that, they’re gone. But I’m not. Farmville is my home. I live here. I work here. And I want to make sure you know how to reach me.”
He held up one of the cards. “This has my cell number, my email, and the community center’s main line.
We’re going to continue these circle sessions once a week.
And if you need someone to talk to, if something comes up, if you’re in a scary situation and need a ride, if you just want to know about other groups or resources in the area—call me.
Text me. Whatever you need. I’m here for you. ”
He walked around, handing cards to each of them. “I mean it. I’m not going anywhere. You’re not alone, even if it feels like it sometimes.”
Emma took her card carefully, studying it for a long moment. Then she tucked it into her notebook, holding both against her chest like a shield.
“Thanks, Kyle,” Ben said softly.
“Anytime, kid.”
Jamie was the first out the door, notebook shoved into his backpack. Emilio followed close behind.
Emma was the last to leave. She stood slowly, clutching her notebook to her chest, and walked toward the door. As she passed Colin, she stopped.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, not looking at him.
Colin’s throat tightened. “You’re welcome.”
She nodded once, then continued toward the door.
The remaining teens filtered out, cards in hand. Kyle watched them go, then turned back to the circle where Colin, Joshua, Nate, and Alex were gathering supplies. “That was good,” Kyle said. “Really good. Some of these kids needed to hear what you said today.”
Colin nodded, but he was staring at the empty doorway where Emma had disappeared.
Joshua’s hand landed on his shoulder. “She’ll come back tomorrow,” he said quietly.
Colin wanted to believe that. He nodded, but the tightness in his chest didn’t ease.
They were still packing up supplies when Sharon appeared in the doorway. Her face was calm, but Colin knew the look—the careful neutrality she wore when she was hiding her fear.
“Colin,” she said quietly. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
He set down the stack of chairs he’d been folding and followed her into the hallway. Paul stood a few feet away, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Sharon pulled Colin aside, voice low. “We need to talk about Emma’s parents.”
Colin’s heart dropped. “What’s wrong?”
“They’re supportive—about her being gay. That’s not the issue. The issue is school. She’s being destroyed, Colin. Relentless bullying. The school’s done nothing. Her mom says Emma’s skipping lunch to avoid the cafeteria. She’s completely alone.”
Paul’s voice was raw. “They’re watching their kid disappear. Just like—”
“Just like Alex did earlier this year,” Sharon finished.
Colin stared down the hallway, picturing Emma shrinking in her chair, already halfway gone.
“They want to know if there’s anything you can do. As a prosecutor. They’re desperate. Emma’s a sensitive child, and she’s terrified.”
Colin’s mind spun—Title IX, harassment, lawsuits—but none of it would save Emma tomorrow.
“I’ll talk to them. Before the session tomorrow. I’ll make sure they leave with something real. Even if it’s just hope.”
Sharon’s relief was palpable. “Thank you.”
She and Paul headed back into the main room, leaving Colin alone in the hallway. He stood there for a moment, hands in his pockets, staring at nothing.
Another Alex. Another kid being torn apart when people should be protecting her.
He thought about Kathy. About all the ways he’d failed to see what was happening until it was too late.
Not this time, he told himself. Not again.