CHAPTER 6
Reed
I watch as Lila hurries down the steps to the parking lot and gets inside her car.
The sound of Haniyah typing away at the computer and mumbling to herself doesn’t pull me away from the blonde until her car disappears down the road.
“Are you done ogling dear Lila?”
I snap my head toward her—the woman who gave me everything when I had nothing.
“Don’t say that. It makes me sound like a creep.”
I’m met with her easy laugh. “I watched you grow up into the man you are today, Reed. You’re many things, and a creep isn’t one of them.”
“Care to share what those many things are?” I smirk, leaning over the reception desk as she continues to fiddle around with the computer. “Need any help with that?”
She throws me a glare. “I might be old, but I can handle technology just fine.”
“Just teasing you, Han.”
Her eye roll is affectionate. “Well, let’s see. You’re the sharpest and most driven person I know, for one. You’re incredibly stubborn, which sometimes plays in your favor—but often doesn’t. You also have the kindest, most selfless soul I’ve ever come across, and I know many people. What else? Oh, yeah, you’re definitely not a creep, but you’re hiding something from me. Something about Lila. So, what is it?”
Damn it, this woman is something else.
After nearly three decades of knowing her, I should know better than to think she can’t see right through me. That’s how we became family, after all.
Because, for all intents and purposes, Haniyah is like a mother to me.
“She said she knew you from the university,” she presses.
“Right. She isn’t my student, though.” I glance at the clock mounted on the wall behind the reception desk. The kids will be here in less than an hour. “And I don’t exactly know her from the university. I’ve worked with her mother before, the children’s author—Grace.”
Haniyah’s eyes widen. “She’s Grace’s daughter? They do look alike, now that I think about it.”
Grace has been to the youth center several times to talk about what it’s like being an author—as some of the kids here really enjoy writing—and even co-organized a storytelling workshop with me once.
“I mostly know her through her parents, that’s all,” I explain.
“When I told her you’d be supervising her internship, she looked kind of freaked out.” Her voice is quiet, as if someone could overhear us. “Why would that be? Have you ever taught any of her classes?”
“I haven’t.”
But I might have a slight idea as to why she didn’t seem too excited about the idea of me supervising her.
“I looked at her résumé, and it’s truly impressive. I haven’t heard of a 4.0 GPA since yours, and that was years ago. She’s quite the brilliant young lady, so don’t scare her away. She could really help the kids here.”
“I barely know her as it is,” I tell her. “I’m not trying to scare her away.”
“Let’s keep it that way.” She gives me a stern look, but I know she’s messing with me. “Who do you have on for today?”
I don’t need to look at my planner. “I have Cameron in for a counseling session at four. We’re still working on his anger issues, but I’m not seeing much progress, so I’m thinking of changing my approach.”
“Maybe Lila can help you with that when she joins us. A new perspective will be good for you,” she muses.
Something tells me Lila won’t be joining us at all, if her reaction to seeing me was any indicator. But I don’t have it in me to tell Han not to get her hopes up.
“I’ll see what I can do.” I rap my knuckles on the counter. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”
“Sure. Have a good day, Reed.”
No matter how much time goes by, I never get used to the silence in the youth center before we open up. It feels wrong that these hallways aren’t filled with laughter and the occasional excited scream. Because if I’ve learned anything in the past five years as a board member, it is that the word quiet isn’t part of any child’s dictionary.
And honestly? I’m more than okay with that.
I think about Cameron and the rest of the kids here who need our help, and my chest constricts. Despite the numerous improvements we’ve made in the past year alone—such as upgrading the main playroom and organizing more educational field trips—it doesn’t feel like it’s nearly enough.
More . We should be doing more. I should be doing more.
Hopefully, the project I’m working on with the state government will go through and give foster homes and youth centers enough funding to improve our mental health departments. It won’t get approved—if it even does—until next year, but everything is going smoothly for now.
I haven’t come this far—which is a miracle in itself, considering my past—only to stop now.
***
“I want to run him over with a car.”
I count to five in my head and take a deep, calming breath through my nose.
Here we go.
“You’re twelve, Cameron. You can’t drive,” I say in an even voice, not looking away from the boy across from me. His eyes are glued to his jeans-clad lap where he rests his angry fists. “Which isn’t the point, anyway. Running people over with cars is illegal. I bet you don’t want to go to jail.”
“Kids can’t go to jail,” he tells me, sounding so sure I wouldn’t put it past him to have looked into it.
“They can.” At that, his alarmed eyes snap up at me. “There are prisons built specifically for minors who commit crimes.”
“You’re lying.” I give him a flat look that tells him no, I’m very much not bullshitting him. His throat bobs with a hard swallow before he asks, “Are you going to send me to a kids’ prison?”
“Why would I do that?”
He shifts on the armchair placed in the middle of the counseling room, a layer of guilt draping over his face. “Because I just told you I want to run Sean over with a car.”
“You can’t go to jail for something you haven’t done. What I’d like to know is why you’d want to do that to Sean in the first place.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Because he made fun of my sister for having dyslexia.”
Before today’s session started, I already knew he’d bring this up. According to what one of the volunteers told me, a few days ago, Melody—Cameron’s twin sister—was struggling with her homework when one of the other kids her age made fun of her for not getting the answers right.
Melody was diagnosed with dyslexia and ADHD three months ago, which helped us craft a more thorough study plan for her here. She’s doing okay, but her brother has made it his life’s mission to protect her from all harm.
And it would be noble of him if he didn’t use violence to keep her safe—he didn’t run Sean over with a car, but last month, he would have punched him in the face had Haniyah not intervened in time.
“How would hurting Sean help your sister?” I ask him.
Cameron looks away, arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t know. He will stop bothering her, I guess.”
Voices from outside of the room filter under the door, other children running up and down the hallway while getting reprimanded for running in the first place.
“All right, let’s say you hurt Sean and he stops messing with Melody. What happens when another kid makes fun of your sister?” I lean back in my armchair. “Will you run them over with a car, too?”
He shrugs. “If I have to.”
“Then I guess someone else will have to protect your sister when you’re in jail.”
That has him looking at me again, alarmed. “No. I will protect Melody. Nobody else.”
“You can’t protect anyone from jail. And depending on how badly you hurt Sean, or anyone else, you might stay in jail forever. You might never see your sister again. Is that what you want?”
“No.” He sits up, agitated. “No. I don’t want to go to jail.”
“Let’s leave jail aside for a second.” I lean forward, resting my arms on my knees. “I know how you’re feeling, Cameron. You love your sister and you want to keep her safe, but we all get hurt. It’s part of life, and that’s also how we grow. It makes us stronger. You can’t control what happens to your sister.”
“But it’s unfair. Melody did nothing wrong. She can’t control her dyslexia.”
“You’re right. We have very little control over what happens to us,” I concede. “What Sean did was wrong. It shouldn’t have happened, and it hurt your sister. But instead of threatening to run people over with your nonexistent car, I think you should focus on helping Melody instead.”
He frowns. “I help her lots.”
“You aren’t helping her, Cameron. You get in fights with whoever so much as looks at her the wrong way, and eventually you’re going to get in serious trouble.”
When I catch his light intake of breath, I take it as a sign to keep going. “Both you and Sean are twelve and should know better. You’re not babies anymore. Wanting to protect your sister is very honorable, but do you know what would make you an even better brother?”
“What?” he mutters, not sounding like he’s that interested in my answer.
I take a quick glance at the clock on the far wall, noting we only have a few minutes left of our session.
“Teaching Melody how to defend herself,” I say. “And not with her fists. You know violence isn’t the answer.”
“But it works.”
“Not in the long run. You know why? Because you’re giving other people the power to control you. Their words and actions affect you so much, you lose your temper and do bad things. Sure, punching someone may stop them from hurting your sister, but it will also get you into trouble. There are ways to stand up for yourself and for others that won’t have terrible consequences for you.”
“Like what?”
“Like not caring about what people say. If someone bothers your sister, what you should do is ignore that person and tell a parent or a teacher. They will deal with it and make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
He gives me an unsure look, like he’s not fully convinced. “What’s the point if Melody will be hurt anyway?”
I can’t say I didn’t see that rebuttal coming. “She’ll get hurt even if you run someone over with your car, won’t she? The damage will be done, but we can control how we react to it. You don’t care about what others say about you, and that’s a great thing. I think you can teach your sister to be more like you in that regard. Help her stand up for herself.”
He hides his hands inside the pockets of his hoodie. “Maybe I wouldn’t mind going to jail for my sister.”
The alarm in my phone goes off, signaling the end of our session. But a different one rings in my head at his last statement.
“Before you go.” I pass him over a small notebook. “Homework.”
His groan isn’t unexpected. “What is it?” he asks, scanning the blank notebook.
“Every time you feel angry or frustrated, instead of hurting someone or breaking something, I want you to write down whatever bothered you on this notebook and then rip the page you wrote on.”
His eyes widen. “You’re gonna let me rip the pages?”
“Yep.” I give him my pen. “Go ahead. Write something that bothered you today, read it to me, and then rip it out.”
Visibly enthusiastic about this idea—or at least curious enough to try—he quickly scribbles something and clears his throat, reading what he wrote. “Mom made me wear this hoodie today, and I don’t like it because it has a dinosaur on it, and it makes me look like a baby.”
“Very well. Now rip the page.”
I don’t have to tell him twice.
Cameron destroys the paper until only the smallest pieces remain. When he’s done, his face has visibly relaxed.
“Feel good?” I ask, earning me a nod from the boy. “Here’s the catch, though. Once you write down what bothers you and you rip the paper, that’s it—you can’t think about it again or act on it. You can feel all the anger and frustration as you’re breaking the paper, but once you’re done, you have to move on. And clean up the mess, of course. Do we have a deal?”
He surprises me by reaching out his fist, silently asking me to bump it. “Deal.”
Twenty minutes after our session is over, I’m working on his report when my phone pings with a text.
Cal: I have a free slot in two weeks for that tattoo. No pressure (yes pressure).
I shake my head, smirking at his sheer determination to ink me up. To be fair, I suggested it first. It was during a moment of weakness—after a few glasses of whiskey at a social gathering neither of us wanted to be at, but Grace had been invited—and Cal, who was very sober, never let go of the idea of tattooing me.
Me: We don’t even have a sketch, man.
Cal: Throw some ideas and give me twenty minutes.
Me: Maybe next time. Still unsure.
Cal: You know I’m just messing with you. You shouldn’t rush it. Just wanted to remind you I have a slot for you whenever you want it.
The tender, marred skin between my shoulder blades burns, just like every time I think of covering it with ink.
Do I want to erase what happened? Choose the easy way out?
The most logical part of me knows my wounds run much, much deeper than the ones visible on my skin. Tattooing over the scar my father gave me when I wasn’t strong or brave or old enough to defend myself doesn’t mean my memories will go away.
But my heart refuses to accept it.
Me: Appreciate it.
I lock my phone and turn on my computer, going back to Cameron’s report.
And I wonder if Cal knows why his daughter looks like she wants to run away from me every time she sees me.