Page 45 of Nyx

"What are your plans for the evening?"

She shrugs. "I don't have any, but I can't stay in that room any longer."

"Is it okay with your mom to be down here?"

"I'm nine," she snaps, that fiery attitude popping right back up. "I can leave the bedroom if I want."

I blink at her, giving her a moment to consider how she just responded.

She sighs like she's sixteen rather than nine, and when her shoulders drop, I can tell she realizes she reacted in a way that most people wouldn't receive very well.

"Mom says it's fine so long as I don't go outside, but I'm so bored."

"Oh no," I say with a smile, letting us move on from the attitude because she semi-corrected herself. "That word is a no-no. Follow me."

I walk past her, realizing my mistake when she keeps her feet rooted in place.

"I need help with a project," I tell her, leaning in slightly closer but making sure I'm not invading her space. "But only bored nine-year-olds can help."

I straighten and watch her, waiting for her to decide.

She glares right back at me, eyes narrowing further with each second she considers my offer.

"Will I get into trouble?"

I shake my head.

"Will it hurt?"

"Oh gosh, Daisy. No." I pull in a deep breath and give her a small smile. "I was wanting help sorting the beads in that box in the living room. I was thinking by color and then by size, but it's a lot of work. I'd love it if you helped me with it. I think we could have it done by dinner if we work together."

She stands a little straighter, head up, with a smile on her face, as if having all the information presented to her makes the decision so much easier.

"That can be done by a four-year-old," she says, strutting past me. "Let me show you how."

I make a mental note to explain things to her in detail. Instead of wording things the way I might with others, I need to present all the information together.

I imagine I wouldn't have gotten the attitude if I simply said, "I have a bead-sorting project I was going to see if you would help me with, if it was okay with your mom. I don't want her to worry about where you are."

Some kids just need a better explanation, and despite growing up in a do-what-I-say-when-I-say-it household worked for me, it's not going to work with everyone.

I've learned in my history working with kids from many different backgrounds, with various levels of trauma, that each one has individual needs, and once you can figure that puzzle out, then the hard work has already been done.

Traci shuffles by about half an hour later, heading to help Andrea in the kitchen, giving us both a wave as she passes.

Dana stops in an hour into our task, giving me a grateful smile that is still coated in so much pain and shame when I look up at her.

"When I tell you this child is a genius," I say, praising Daisy. "All it took was a box, a couple of strainers from the kitchen, and a couple of shakes, and we were able to knock out the bead-sorting job in less than ten minutes."

"I told you it was simple. Even an idiot could do it."

"Daisy," Dana chides.

"I thought we agreed it was so easy a four-year-old could do it," I say, not focusing on the bad behavior, but offering an option to correct it.

Daisy looks up at me, contemplation in her eyes. "So easy a two-year-old could do it."

I smile at her.