Page 96 of Loving at 40

“Reminds me of my days as a police officer.”

He shifts when I mention this, moving from his casually stretched body visibly tightens. The legs of his chair clack on the floor when he sits up straighter. I don’t have the details pertaining to his drug situation. He’d been high in school, but it wasn’t marijuana. That’s all the social worker would share with me.

“Of course, I also worked for the Drug Enforcement Administration.”

“Am I under arrest?” he asks, leaning forward and balancing his elbows on his thighs.

“Not yet,” I state, pretending to be as bored as he is. “But you might be one day.”

“But not this day,” he mocks, falling back in his seat.

Taking a deep breath, I remind myself I’m not interrogating him. I’m here to mentor him, and I might be shit at this. What do I know about staying out of trouble? I was in so deep on my last investigation I got shot and the experience fucked with my head.

“You have Ms. Davis as a teacher?” While Jenna was married, she kept her maiden name.

“Yeah.”

“She’s kind of awesome,” I say.

He shrugs.

“And she cares about you.”

His head turns to the side, suggesting he doesn’t care.

“She asked me to meet with you.”

He huffs, crossing his arms.

“I’m new in town. Got any recommendations where to go?”

He turns back to face me, and his eyes narrow. “Get out of it.”

Okay then. Next. I shift myself, lowering my elbows to my thighs and clasping my hands together. We stay silent for a long time. I’m good at this, waiting out arrestees, letting the silence weigh heavy in the room. We don’t have to talk. I’m not here to impart wisdom, lecture him, or detain him. I’m present to be here for him, but starting a friendship with a sixteen-year-old will be harder than I imagined.

Flipping my wrist, I glance at my watch.

“Ready to get rid of me?” he asks bitterly.

Oh, the punk speaks. I bite my tongue when the urge for sarcasm strikes.

“Notice we have ten minutes. How about a walk?” Even I don’t want to be in this room, so I can only imagine how he feels. He gives me a long look before reaching down for a bag at his feet.

“What’s that?” I ask as he tugs the bag up and over his head, allowing the shoulder strap to cross his body.

“School-issued laptop bag,” he states dryly.

I huff at the concept, feeling my age. Back in my day . . . computers in schools were a boxy, bland khaki color with a green screen and tiny dots forming letters with a blinking underscore which was a new term then. They sat on desks and were heavy as hell. These kids have it all on their hip and even in the palm of their hand with cell phones, but I don’t share with him my back-in-the-day story, sensing he’d care not at all. Instead, we roam the hall, him trudging slowly beside me. The building is your typical school, adorned here and there with the high school’s colors and posters of encouragement.

Don’t Do Drugs. Yeah, that one probably isn’t the most effective. I don’t fault the school, though. They bought into programs and were sent samples of the ten-step challenges, six pillars of character, and four-point ideas for bettering students.

As we pass a few other students in the hallway, they dip their heads, not giving Brad a glance. On top of that, I notice they carry regular backpacks, not the laptop bag Brad wears. The official-looking, standard crossbody bag does not fit the rest of Brad’s persona, but I know better than to judge a book by its cover. We pass the gym, the cafeteria, an auditorium, and classrooms. Finally, we arrive at the library. Reaching for the door, I open it and wave him inward. For a second, he stares at me, hesitating on the precipice of entering. We weren’t allowed to meet in here for whatever reason, but that little cinder block room wasn’t the way to get through to this kid.

Once we enter, a woman at a table set apart from other gatherings of mentors and students glances up at me.

“Brad?” she questions, shifting her gaze from the teen to me and back.

“Thought we’d take a walk,” I state. “Brad was giving me a tour.”