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CHAPTER1
Della
“A good counselor draws from their own experience,” Mary says, pacing slowly up and down the front of the class.
She’s a stylish woman, wearing a long dress with her hair tied up in an intricate weave. She adjusts her poncho as she speaks.
After one week of lessons, I’m starting to learn it’s a habit for her, fiddling with her clothes when she really gets going.
She pauses, as though for dramatic effect, looking around the small community college classroom.
There are around twenty of us in here, all of us quiet, most of us with notepads covered in copious notes. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m taking too many and if all the notes are making it more difficult for the information to sink in.
But I’m keen to do well and make the most of this opportunity.
Helping people, talking through their problems with them, going into the community, and teaching people how to handle their anxiety.
That’s going to be better than scrubbing dishes in eight-hour shifts, surely.
Finally, Mary continues her pacing. “But don’t become lost in your own experiences. For example, let’s say a charity hires you to help with their work in an underfunded, ignored, nasty part of the city. Let’s say you go there, and as soon as these people share their heartbreaking stories with you, you say…One time, this not-at-all-related thing happened to me. No, students.No.”
She pauses again, drawing quiet laughter from some.
It’s more like it comes from nerves, as though sitting opposite Mary and her narrowed eyes is too much.
I try not to turn away, though the desire is strong. The regular desire, almost dull at this point, is to avoid eye contact.
It’s been one of my goals since winning a modest scholarship for this course. Grow in confidence, not just academically, so I’m ready to face all aspects of the working world…and maybe all aspects of life too.
“Relating to one’s own experience, as with everything in our craft, is a tool to be deployed intelligently. Don’t let it become a habit.”
She claps her hands together as though wanting to wake up those students who might be daydreaming.
“Right, that’ll be it for today. On your way out, please take one of these forms.” She wanders over to her desk and taps her fingernails against a stack of paper.
“I know some of you have yet to complete certain modules. Several tutors have kindly agreed to be available to you by text and email, so please, make full use of them. I want youallto do well.”
Everybody stands, a line forming for the list of tutors.
I stand alone, feeling weirdly self-conscious when I hear people chattering behind me. Part of me wants to turn, smile, and try to become part of their conversation.
But it’s like there’s this block inside of me, making me think of Jess and all that mess.
Mary smiles up at me when it’s my turn.
“Good work today, Della,” she says.
I beam under the praise, though I can’t help but say, “All I did was take notes.”
Mary nods. “I saw how intently you were listening. You’re humble and you want to learn. They’re good traits to have.”
I beam some more, then take the sheet and head for the exit.
Second Chance College is a special place, technically a community college, but with a prestigious reputation. Many teachers here are successful in other areas of life. Mary’s a podcaster and has released several books.
Looking down the list of tutors, I’m sure many of them have impressive achievements too. But I haven’t got time to ponder it, not right now.
I basically run for the bus, across the open-plan grounds and past the well-maintained gardens. The autumn air tickles me coolly as I pick up my pace, just about making it to the stop in time.
