CHAPTER SIX
DR. NIGEL AMIN-RASHID (NAJEE)
Punctuality wasn’t just a preference… it was a principle.
He’d already read Maximus’s Brown’s file twice.
Now he was reviewing his mother. Single mother, North Philly address, Limited academic history.
The boy was intelligent, sharp even, but struggled with impulse control, redirection, and boundary recognition.
Nigel had seen it before. He’d written papers on it.
Spoken on panels about it. However, what stood out most wasn’t Max. It was his mother…Jacqueline Brown.
Najee heard her name before, not in clinical terms, but in Cash’s voice.
The one time his cousin mentioned her, there had been something Nigel didn’t expect: tension, curiosity and maybe even regret.
Nigel rarely passed judgment without evidence, but when his Aunt Malika mentioned Jackie was “rough around the edges,” he formed a loose mental picture of a woman, who was loud, defensive, and dismissive.
The kind of parent who showed up swinging before understanding the assignment.
But when the door to his office cracked open, everything in his head shifted.
She wasn’t what he pictured. Jackie stepped inside like she had been summoned, not invited.
Wearing a green ribbed polo dress that hugged her body with just enough intention to feel dangerous.
Her makeup was soft and natural. Her lips were glossed, eyeliner sharp, and she carried the scent of cinnamon and amber, warm, grown, and womanly enough to make his mouth water.
She did not shrink or overcompensate. She was composed and annoyed as hell.
“Jacqueline?” he asked, standing slowly, voice smooth and professional.
“Jackie,” she corrected, one brow raised.
“Only the Police and my grandmother call me Jacqueline.” Nigel smiled.
“Jackie it is.” He gestured for her to sit.
She hesitated for a second before lowering herself into the chair across from him—back straight, arms folded.
“I’m Dr. Nigel Amin-Rashid,” he said, settling in.
“Najee, if you prefer less formal.” She tilted her head. “Ain’t that convenient. Everyone calls me Jackie, but y’all get two last names.” He chuckled, genuine. “Fair enough.” He watched as she glanced around his office, taking everything in. The space was decorated in earthy neutral tones.
He had his interior designer come in to replace the harsh lighting the school originally provided with something more therapeutic.
The school’s interior team had styled the space with cool African American art, and they even framed a few of his scholarly articles on the walls: Black Boys Don’t Have to Be Broken.
The Diagnosis Gap: Reframing ADHD in Urban Black Youth.
“Let’s just be clear,” she said, locking eyes with him.
“I’m only here because Sister Malika set this up.
Not because I think Max needs fixing.” Nigel nodded.
“Noted. And to be clear, I don’t think he’s broken either.
” She blinked—surprised, if only for a second. He leaned forward, folding his hands.
“I think he’s navigating more than he’s ready to articulate.
And I think you’re doing the best you can with what you’ve been handed.
But that doesn’t mean he’s okay, or that you’re supposed to figure this out alone.
” Jackies shoulders dropped, like his words allowed her to release whatever tension she carried into the session today.
It was the first time since she sat down, Nigel could see there was more to Jackie Brown that met the eye.
She was apprehensive. But Nigel recognized it for what it was. Fear.
Jackie was concerned for her son, and unfamiliar with this part of the process. Still, she was willing to relax her guard temporarily and at least listen.