Chapter 1
ONE
KAYA
Present
The end of the school year is always the hardest yet most rewarding time. Farewell hugs go on for days. So do the teary eyes and choked-up words. But when the kids share their gratitude at having me in their lives, incomparable joy fills my soul.
Those small sparks of appreciation remind me of why I chose this career path. To help guide children when they feel lost or out of place. To listen to their happiness and heartache, especially when they feel no one else cares. To give them a voice when they often feel silenced.
Constantly bombarded with expectations while trying to figure out who you are, it’s hard to be a kid. Add in the ever-changing influences online, peer pressure, trends, and feeling the need to grow up years ahead of your time, it’s a wonder why more kids haven’t totally lost it yet.
Thankfully, I get to be one of their sounding boards. A safe space. An adult they can share their feelings and opinions with and not feel judged, forgotten, or degraded when they leave my office. If anything, I teach them it’s okay to feel the way they do. It’s okay to be upset or angry or frustrated. What matters most is how they channel and release their emotions.
I may not be the best behavioral specialist in Washington, but I am the best in Stone Bay. A hallmark I wear with pride.
A couple half-packed boxes sit on the credenza behind my desk. Colorful pictures in crayon, marker, pen, and colored pencil stowed carefully. Thank-you letters in tidy and messy scrawl folded neatly and stashed in an envelope. A thick stack of photos with countless smiles and bright eyes.
Although my office will be the same next school year, I like to pack up special mementos from the current year and take them home. Add them to the scrapbook I started last summer after my first year in this role. Small tokens that make me smile and drive my love for helping children be their best selves.
A muffled buzz distracts me from my task. I open my desk drawer, pull out my phone, and tap on the text notification.
Clarissa
drinks later?
I smile down at the screen as I type out a response.
Count me in. What’s the occasion?
is that a serious question?
Light laughter spills from my lips, a gray bubble dancing on the screen as she continues to type.
I survived another year of teenage angst, being told I have no idea what I’m talking about because I’m old, and being told I’d be hot if I knew how to take care of myself. I’m still in my 20s. I am NOT old.
I laugh harder, grateful I’m not on the high school campus with Clarissa right now. Being the only person in my field in the Stone Bay school system, my time is split between the elementary campus and the middle and high school campuses, which are side by side with the shared administration offices between them.
You are not old. And I told you, don’t let the kids get to you.
I know… *insert dramatic eye roll with a huff*
Ringing through the room pulls me out of my conversation with Clarissa.
I press the speaker button on my desk phone. “This is Kaya.”
“Hi, Kaya. It’s Mia.”
“Hey, Mia. What can I help you with?”
A heavy sigh echoes through the line. “I’m sending a student your way. Tucker Calhoun. He’s been acting out most of the year, but I’ve managed to redirect the behavior. Today, no such luck. He riled up the class in no time and won’t calm down.”
A pang blooms in my chest. Most children act out for a reason, and it typically stems from a painful source outside the classroom.
“Thanks for the heads-up, Mia. I’ll talk with him and hopefully figure out what’s going on.”
“He’s a good kid. Just has some pent-up frustrations.”
“I’ll keep you apprised of what we talk about.”
“Thanks, Kaya.”
The line disconnects.
I type out a quick text to Clarissa before I stow my phone back in my desk.
Duty calls. When and where for drinks?
A knock sounds on my open door, and I look up to see an office assistant with who I assume is Tucker.
Genuine smile on my face, I step around my desk and toward the door. “Are you Tucker?”
Arms crossed over his chest, he screws his lips tightly and stares at the floor. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence or my question, but I don’t take it personally. Anger radiates off his aura like thick fog.
I glance at the office assistant. “I’ll take it from here, Enola. Thank you.”
They smile and nod, then head back to the front desk.
“Come in, Tucker.” I gesture to the guest chairs near my desk. “Have a seat.”
Tucker stomps across my office and plops down in one of the chairs, an exaggerated huff leaving his lips.
Closing the door, I cross the room and take a seat in the guest chair next to Tucker, twisting so I’m angled in his direction. Silence stretches out between us, a quiet I don’t disrupt.
Both my position in the room and my reticence serve a purpose. Sitting next to Tucker as opposed to the other side of my desk, I appear less an authority figure and more a friend. Remaining quiet for a couple minutes gives him a moment to collect himself and his thoughts.
He undoubtedly thinks he was sent here to be punished for his behavior in class. But I’m not here to discipline. My job is to find the root cause of his troubles, talk him through it, share the possible ramifications, and guide him on what to do when he feels this way in the future.
I extend a hand toward Tucker. “Don’t think we’ve met, Tucker. I’m Ms. Imala, the school behavioral specialist. But my students call me Kaya.”
His eyes flit to my proffered hand, then go back to staring at the desk.
I lace my fingers and rest my hands in my lap. “Ms. Cambridge tells me you’ve been upset. Do you want to share what’s bothering you? Whatever we talk about in here stays between you and me.”
As I say the last part, Tucker’s shoulders relax a little and his expression softens. Progress.
“When I was your age, kids in my class picked on me.”
With a slight tilt of his head, he peeks up at me, curiosity in his eyes.
I nod. “It’s true. Because I didn’t look like most of the girls in my class, they called me names and teased me about my heritage. They spoke to and about me with no regard to how it’d make me feel.” I pause and let my words sink in a moment. “Words hurt people. Sometimes worse than cuts.”
Throughout most of my childhood, many of my peers made me feel less than, unattractive, incapable, and as if I didn’t belong. Being the center of their censure, abhorrence, or discrimination came too easy for some of my classmates. What’s worse is they felt no shame, guilt, or remorse over the horrid names they called me or pranks they pulled at my expense.
I am not the only Native American my age or in my generation in Stone Bay, but there are fewer of us in town than when the Imalas journeyed here more than a hundred years ago and connected with the local Indigenous, the Stonewater tribe. As our numbers have dwindled over the generations, more of our history and culture have gotten lost, dismissed, or ignored.
My family strives to keep our ancestors’ memories alive. We share our stories, pass them down to each generation, and learn the suppressed and forgotten ways of our people. We take pride in who we are and where we come from.
When a student enters my office, their struggles may be unique and slight compared to others, but they are still valid. Each person deserves the opportunity to be heard, seen, and supported. I do everything within my power to provide this to my students.
Tucker’s brows scrunch together then relax.
“When those kids said mean things about me, it made me so angry. I wanted to yell and hit something.” I lean a little closer to Tucker and lower my voice. “I wanted to hit them .”
This garners his attention. Wide hazel eyes stare up at me with dozens of questions. “Did you?”
An empathetic smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I sit back and slowly shake my head. “No, I didn’t hit them. When I got home from school, my anaanatsiaq felt my sadness and anger.”
“What’s an anaa?—”
I cut off his fumbled pronunciation with a smile. “ Anaanatsiaq ,” I repeat. “It means grandmother.”
Tucker’s brows and lips twitch. He’s likely repeating the word in his head. Trying to master the speech pattern.
It isn’t often I use Inuktitut with people who don’t speak the language. But like most dialects, if you don’t speak them regularly, you start to forget. Considering the Inuit side of my family migrated to Stone Bay, some of the language and traditions have slipped away over the generations. Ahnah—my anaanatsiaq —works tirelessly to keep who we are and what we do know alive.
“How did she feel your anger?”
I shrug a shoulder. “Some people are born empaths. They just know how other people feel.”
Eyes lifting to mine, Tucker tilts his head and narrows his gaze. “Are you an empath?”
The corners of my lips turn up as I shake my head. “No. I have my own gift.”
His fingers wring the bottom hem of his shirt. “You do?”
“Yes. I’ve always been good at helping other people find peace when they’re upset.”
“Oh.” He tucks his chin to his chest and studies his fumbling fingers in his lap.
“Would you like to tell me what made you upset earlier?”
He clutches one hand with the other, squeezing until his knuckles blanch. “I don’t snitch.”
Interesting. Maybe he was a part of something and has since been rejected, hence his outbursts.
“Remember, Tucker, whatever you share with me stays between us. I promise.”
Lifting his chin, he studies my expression with narrowed eyes. Silence hovers around us as he reads the lines of my face, searching for any indication of deceit. He isn’t convinced I’ll keep my word, and it hurts my heart someone so young feels such a high level of distrust.
“Tucker, my job is to help you navigate your feelings in a healthy way. Unless someone is hurting you or the other way around, I won’t share our conversation with your teacher or family.”
“Really?” So much hope surrounds the single word.
My chest aches as I nod and draw an X over my heart. “Swear.”
Once more, he tucks his chin to his chest. Inhales a deep, shaky breath as his hands twist in his lap. “Kids in my class are saying mean things to me.”
The pang in my chest intensifies as I soften my tone. “I’m sorry that’s happening. I bet it hurts.”
Back slumped and shoulders caved, he nods and stays quiet.
“Do you want to share the mean things they’re saying?”
His chin trembles a moment before he sniffles then drags the back of his hand across his nose. Tucker shrugs then mumbles, “Stuff about my mom and dad, and me.”
I don’t make a point to learn everything about all the students enrolled at the elementary, middle, and high school. It’d take weeks, if not months. Typically, I dive into their file and homelife after they visit my office or a teacher or administrator brings up their name.
This is the first time I’ve seen or heard anything about Tucker, so I have no context on his history.
“Do you want to tell me the mean things they’re saying about you and your parents?”
An audible huff fills the room. “Kenny called my mom a bad word. Said she doesn’t love me anymore.”
Kenny is a little jerk.
“It must’ve hurt a lot when he said those things.” I reach over and touch Tucker’s shoulder a moment. “But Kenny doesn’t know what your mom feels.”
“Maybe he’s right,” Tucker mutters.
My brows bend in confusion. “Why would you say that?”
His lips turn down at the corners as he tucks his chin closer to his chest. “Before I was here, I lived with my mom. We lived in a bunch of places, but the last had lots of noise and scary people.” He wrings his shirt until his knuckles blanch. “I didn’t know my dad until two Christmases ago. He says him, me, and my mom all lived together until I was almost two, but I don’t remember that.”
A twist of pain settles beneath my diaphragm as emotion swells in my throat. I take a slow, steadying breath as I shove aside the gut instinct to wrap him in comfort. Swallowing, I say, “A lot of parents don’t live together. Doesn’t mean they don’t love their child.”
“What if they’re never home? What does that mean?”
Another crack lines my heart. “Was your mom away a lot?”
Tucker nibbles on his lips and shrugs. “She was always with one of her boyfriends.”
“At home or not?”
“Sometimes at home. Sometimes I didn’t see her for two days.”
My stomach cramps as my skin heats with anger. Quietly as possible, I inhale for a count of three and exhale just as long, trying to remain calm. It takes quite a bit to light a fire in my veins. In most cases, it’s when a child is mistreated by an adult.
“Is it better with your dad?” Please say yes.
“I guess.” He sniffles as a forlorn look consumes his expression. “He works a bunch.”
“When you’re not at school and your dad has to work, what do you do?” Please tell me you’re not home alone for several hours . The last thing Tucker needs is to go from one irresponsible parent to another.
A hint of his sadness is replaced with reverence. “I stay with Grandma Angel, Papa RJ, GG Grace, or Auntie Abi.”
“GG?”
“She’s my great-grandma.”
As part of the Seven—the Stone Bay registered founding families—I am familiar with some of the more prominent families in town. Although the Calhouns aren’t part of the Seven, they have made a name for themselves over the years. They’ve also become good at keeping tidbits about their family—Tucker and his mother—out of the limelight.
I know of the Calhouns, but I don’t know them.
“Well, I’m glad you have people who love you here,” I say with heartfelt honesty.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“I don’t know your dad, but I bet he works hard so you can have everything you need.” I reach out and touch his shoulder again. “It’s okay to tell him what you want.” My hand falls back into my lap. “Some parents don’t realize they’re not giving you what you need. Lots of kids want toys and other fun stuff. But some kids want a day with their mom or dad. Both are okay to ask for.”
His chin wobbles. “What if he says no?”
My heart squeezes at his question. “What if he says yes?” I counter.
Tucker turns in his seat and looks up at me, his hazel eyes glassy but brighter. “I like you, Miss Kaya.”
“I like you, too, Tucker.”
His entire face scrunches to the middle. “What about Kenny and the other mean kids?”
After hearing of this group of cruel fourth graders, I plan to have a conversation with the staff. Obviously, we can’t be in all places at all times, but it is our job to make sure situations such as this don’t fester and become worse. Left unchecked, kids like Kenny eventually switch from using words to hurt others to inflicting physical harm with their fists.
I refuse to let that happen on my watch.
“Although it’s hard, you have to ignore his mean words. Especially the bad ones.” I rise from my seat and move around my desk. “Most bullies have their own sadness. To keep their hurt hidden, they pick on other people. They pass it on so no one sees their pain.” I open one of my desk drawers and sift through the small open box inside. “Do you have a favorite thing to do? Or a favorite color?”
“I like it when I get to help my dad cook. He got me a bright-red apron with my name on the front.”
“Red like this?” I hold up a small piece of tumbled garnet.
Tucker shakes his head.
I riffle through the box again and stop on a Matchbox fire truck with a moving ladder on top. Scooping it up, I show it to Tucker. “How about fire-truck red?”
“Whoa!” He wiggles out of his chair and pins himself to the front of my desk, his eyes the brightest I’ve seen them since he entered my office. “I love fire trucks.”
Closing the drawer, I move back to the other side of the desk. “Fire trucks are pretty cool. But this one”—I hold it between us in my open palm—“is special.”
“It is?”
“Yes. It was made just for you.”
His brows tug together in confusion. “But it’s like all the other ones in the store.”
“True,” I agree. “Want to know why it’s different?”
Tucker nods rapidly.
“I have a box of special items I save in my desk. When I’m in a store, sometimes small items call out to me.”
“They talk to you?” he asks in wonderment, his eyes widening.
“Not like how people talk. It’s more of a feeling.” I lay a hand over my belly. “The items let me know that one day soon, someone I see will need them.” I hold the fire truck closer to Tucker. “When I was shopping two days ago, this fire truck called out. It knew I’d need to give it to you.”
Tucker stares at the fire truck, speechless.
“I want you to have it, Tucker. Every morning, I want you to hold it in your hand and say, ‘Today will be a good day.’ Can you do that for me?”
Gingerly, he reaches for and takes the fire truck from my palm. “Yes.”
“Good. In the afternoon or evening, I want you to do something different. It sounds funny, but I want you to tell your fire truck about your day. The good things that happened and the stuff that upset you. This fire truck will keep all your secrets safe.”
“Can I play with it?”
“Only after you do those two things, but not in school. You can carry it in your backpack, but it’s best to only have it out at home.” I tap the fire truck in his palm. “Special secret keeper.”
He stares at the toy that is now a way to release his frustrations. “The most special secret keeper,” he whispers before he shoves it in his pocket. “Thank you, Miss Kaya.”
“You’re welcome, Tucker. We should get you back to class.” I cross the office and open the door. “Don’t tell anyone else, but I think the fourth graders are getting a pizza party for lunch.”
“Yes,” he hisses then fist-pumps the air.
When we reach the front, I ask Enola to escort Tucker back to class. Once they are out the door, I audibly inhale.
Such a wonderful little boy. If only he got the attention and affection he so desperately craves.
Clarissa clinks her wineglass with mine. “Cheers to three more days of endless teenage hormones.”
I laugh, and the sound blends with the pub music. “So you know, I’m not drinking every night this week.”
Clarissa sticks out her tongue. “You’re no fun.”
“Maybe. But at least I won’t be on death’s door when one of those teenagers comes into my office tomorrow.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Clarissa brings her glass to her lips and drinks a healthy sip. Then her body language shifts. She leans forward and shows a touch more cleavage.
Great.
I follow her line of sight across Dalton’s Pub to see who she is making eyes at. A man with salt-and-pepper hair sits on a stool at the end of the bar. Broad shoulders and a tall frame, he is dressed in a sharp, dark-colored suit. No tie around his neck, the top two buttons of his dress shirt undone. He appears to be alone, nursing a pint.
Clarissa has him in her sights, but he has yet to notice her.
I wave a hand in front of her face. “Want me to leave so you can flirt with Mr. Anonymous?”
“Not yet.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Joking, Kaya.” Clarissa rests a hand over mine on the table. “Can’t help but admire a beautiful man.” She arches a brow. “What about you?”
Knowing exactly where this is headed, I play stupid. “What about me?”
“Anyone catch your attention recently?”
“You already know the answer.”
Clarissa downs the rest of her wine, then holds the glass up until the bartender nods. “You need to date more. I worry about you.”
I roll my eyes. “No, you don’t.”
She spins the stem of the glass between her fingers. “All the heavy stuff we deal with, it’s important to take care of ourselves. And not just our mental health, but also our sexual health.”
As the last words leave her lips, a full glass of wine is deposited on the table.
My face flames with embarrassment. My skin undoubtedly sunburn red. Once we’re alone, I give her a pointed stare. “Can we please not talk about my sex life in public. Ever.” My plea is more a statement than a question.
“Fine,” she says with faux exaggeration. “But you’re too young to become a recluse with hundreds of porcelain statues you talk to and call your friends.”
“I have plenty of actual people to talk to, so no need to worry.” I take a small sip of my wine. “Plus, I’ve told you, right now, work and family are my priorities. When I have a few more years of work under my belt, I may consider a romantic relationship.”
“But sex…” The word comes out a mile long. “How can you live without sex?”
Chuckling, I drop my gaze to the table and shake my head. “Believe it or not, it’s possible.” I squeeze her hand. “It’s called focus.”
“You’re so weird sometimes.”
I lift my chin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Clarissa drinks half of her second glass before I get through half of my first. Her gaze flits between me and the guy at the bar. And if I’m honest, all this talk of relationships has killed my barely-there buzz.
When she finishes her second glass, I slide mine in her direction. “Here. Drink mine and go meet Mr. Anonymous.”
“But I want to spend more time with you,” she whines playfully.
“I love you, Rissa. But I need to call it a night.” I nudge my head toward the guy at the bar. “And if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll make your night much better.”
“Are you sure?”
I shoulder my purse and slide off my stool. “Absolutely.”
Clarissa hops off her seat and wraps her arms around my neck. “Love you.”
I laugh at her tipsy sentiment. “Love you, too. Get home safe, okay?”
She swipes up the wineglass. “I will.”
I kiss her on the cheek and head for the door. Before I exit, I peek over to the man at the bar and see a brilliant smile on his face. When my gaze shifts to Clarissa, her expression mirrors his.
One day, I’ll smile at someone like that. One day, I will find love. But not yet. Not until I’m ready.