I attempt to mask my surprise, but some of it slips through my features, causing him to step back farther, his guard coming up.
“Don’t, Mr. D. I’m fine.” He snaps the words out.
“You’re clearly not fine, Trevor. You have a black eye. Have you gone to the doctor?” I ask.
“No, and I don’t need to. This isn’t the first black eye I’ve gotten. I’ll be fine in a week or two,” he huffs with a self-deprecating laugh.
“Trevor, you can’t keep showing up with bruises all over and expect me to do nothing. Not if someone is hurting you. I can help you. Please let me,” I stress, hoping he hears the seriousness in my tone.
I won’t keep dropping this for much longer.
I’ve had my suspicions for a while that he’s beingabused at home. He has all the classic signs, on top of taking care of his two youngest sisters. He’s aboycarrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, stuck between a rock and a hard place.
“I need to go. Sara called me, and she won’t stop throwing up. I’m the only one who can go get her.” His body angles like he’s ready to bolt at any minute.
“Fine, but you need to come into my office tomorrow to talk about this. I’m making a call. This isn’t going to keep happening to you.” The finality in my tone leaves no room for argument.
The courtyard has long since emptied out, the students all in class. The silence stretches between us. The labored breathing of the boy across from me wrecks my heart.
Who has been looking out forhim?
How long has he had to take care of his sisters when he should be a kid?
He should be enjoying high school, playing a sport or thriving in academics. Maybe he’d be in theater or band. Instead, he’s barely making ends meet with his part-time mechanic job and flunking out, all to keep his sisters afloat.
“You don’t have to keep shouldering this alone, Trevor. Let me have your back. Let me stand with you while we get you help—for you and your sisters,” I reason, hoping he hears me. I don’t want to just help him. I want to helpallof them. “I’ll come with you if you want. I’ll make sure they can put you somewhere together.” I coax the promise out as gently as I can.
“You can’t promise that, and you know it. We’ll get lost in a system that doesn’t really care about us. I was in it before, and I refuse to put my sisters through that,” he spits, then takes off toward the parking lot.
My feet move forward, if only to run after him, evenknowing it’s futile. I need him to admit something is happening, but who’s to say calling CPS won’t just make things worse for him at home? If he won’t tell me, he’s not going to open up to a random social worker.
But I’m left with no choice, the signs can’t be brushed off any longer.
I sigh and run my hands through my hair, feeling my rings scrape my scalp as I pull in frustration before spinning around and marching back to my office. I throw my bag down on the ground next to my desk and heave myself into my chair. I blow out a breath and try to focus my racing thoughts—the panic swirling in my brain about what could be happening to these kids. My mind wars with making a call or waiting just one more day.
Am I damaging these kids further by doing nothing but respecting Trevor’s wishes? I want to do right by him. That’s how I’ve gotten him to trust me so far, but I feel that trust fraying each time I push him. If I call, will I be pushing him over the edge? Will I irrevocably ruin that trust and lose any chance of helping him at all?
The conflicting thoughts whirl in my brain until my office phone rings and I’m thrown back into the now. I stare at the ringing phone for a moment before answering. Dawn tells me my appointment is waiting. I hang up, straighten my shirt, and take out the paperwork I brought home last night, trying to gain some sort of balance within myself before welcoming the student in and getting on with the day.
And before I leave for the day, I make the call.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
avery
Don’t Let Me Go – Cigarettes After Sex
“What the fuck?”
I have been sifting through my whole sock drawer to find a pair before I head off to work, and every single sock I pick up does not match. How is that possible?
It would be reasonable to assume that I would just wear mismatched socks, but I hate the feeling of different toe seams on my feet. So, as I scatter all the contents of my drawer on the floor, frustration rises inside me, and I let out a loud groan the longer it takes to search and come up with nothing.
Morgan sticks her head in my room and sees me on the ground as I scavenge through the contents on the floor.
“Uh, Ave, did you finally have that mental slip from sanity we’ve all been worried about? Or is there a reasonable explanation for why you’re on all fours throwing socks around the room?” Morgan muses, coming to lean against the door frame, her laughter audible even as she tries to muffle it behind coughs.
“Definitely the sanity one,” I confirm and sit back.
