All That Really Matters by Nicole Deese (new books to read TXT) 📕

her, too. “Nope. It was something I was sent a few months back but didn’t think I’d have much use for. But I think it worked out well for tonight’s class. They seemed to have fun with it.”

Though fun wasn’t the main objective for our life skills classes, it was certainly a plus. I sat at the edge of one of the long tables across from her. “It certainly made for an engaging visual.” As had she.

She glanced up, a glint of humor in her eyes. “Does that mean I’m off probation?”

“I don’t believe probation was the word I used.”

She laughed. “No, you probably used a much longer, much more sophisticated word suited only for the intellectually inclined.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”

“Come on, you know what I’m talking about.”

I had no clue.

“Silas, you speak like you’re . . . I don’t know, like you’re some kind of dignified aristocrat from the 1800s. Like a duke. You speak like a duke.”

“And have you heard many a duke speak?”

She raised her chin. “No, but I have read many a duke’s dialogue. Which is basically the same thing.”

This woman is . . . I shook my head. I didn’t even know how to continue such a nonsensical conversation. It was ridiculous. I took a mental return back to the grounds I knew better how to navigate. “No.”

“No?” She put her hands on her hips. “No what? Are you actually going to challenge my prolific reading of historical fiction as a teenager? Because books were pretty much my entire social network from the age of thirteen to—”

“No, you’re not on probation, and yes, if you’d like to join our team and work alongside Clara and the rest of our staff this summer, we’d . . . we’d welcome your help.”

Her smile grew. “I don’t think anybody has ever welcomed my help before.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Affirmative,” she said with a stiff dip of her chin. “I enjoyed them—the residents. They’re surprisingly . . .” She paused, seeming to consider her words, which I was now quite interested in hearing. “Well-adjusted. I mean, considering their pasts.”

“What had you expected?”

“Um . . .”

“An unruly gang of profane, irreverent vandals?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Unfortunately, that’s often the assumption. And to be fair, there are plenty of group homes and transitional institutions full of kids whose past traumas have manifested in unregulated behaviors.”

“Unregulated behaviors like . . .”

“Rage, outbursts, violence, vandalism, aggression, theft, open defiance—the list goes on.”

Molly nodded slowly. “So none of that happens here at The Bridge?”

“Oh, it happens. Just usually not in the same way. We rarely see outward displays of unregulated behavior here, given the steep requirements our residents are asked to uphold to stay in the program and live on campus. But there are still a myriad of unseen behaviors that can be just as dangerous and as damaging. Trauma can’t be erased from our histories, but it can be managed through specific techniques taught by trained professionals and counselors.”

I took in her stunned expression and felt a pang of envy at her innocence to this part of our broken world. “These residents may not know the correct way to set a dinner table or dress for a job interview, but I guarantee every one of them could find their way out of a burning house while blindfolded. These young adults are expert survivalists. And even after months and months of living here at The Bridge, sitting in mentorship meetings, attending weekly counseling sessions, and being offered support and community on a daily basis, many of them are still just surviving—saying and doing whatever we ask so they can take another step forward.”

“But how do you fix that? How do you change such an ingrained mentality? That seems . . . impossible. And I rarely use that word.”

I smiled at her astuteness. “You’re right. It absolutely does seem impossible. And yet, I’ve witnessed the transformation dozens of times. Our objective is not to change their instincts but to embrace them. To meet their need to feel safe and provided for head on with every lesson and conversation and experience we offer them. But ultimately, the choice to embrace us, and our program, is their own.”

Molly said nothing for several seconds, though I had little doubt of a lively narrative taking place inside her head. “I can’t imagine how it must feel to do all that you do here and still watch some of them choose to walk away unchanged.”

Devastating was too shallow a descriptor for that level of pain, though that was hardly the most professional response to her question. “Part of our process as a staff is to be prepared both mentally and emotionally for those types of . . . difficult setbacks.”

She studied me. “In other words, it’s brutal.”

“Yes. But I can assure you that as painful as it is to watch some leave unchanged, it pales in comparison to the pain they’ve yet to let go of.” After a moment, I cleared my throat and reached for the folder I’d placed on the shelf at the start of class. “If it works with your schedule tonight, I’d be happy to give you a brief tour of the house while the residents are at D&D—dessert and discussion hour. Unless you’d rather have Glo or Clara show you around next time you’re here.”

“No, no. I’d be happy to take a tour of the house tonight. I’d like to get a better feel of everything that goes on here and where everything is located,” she said as she eyed the folder I’d set on the table in front of her. “Is that the volunteer paperwork I need to sign?”

“Feel free to read everything over at home. You’re welcome to bring it back with you Friday.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine to sign it now.”

And that was exactly what she did. For the next several minutes, Molly sat at the table and combed through each document, signing and dating them all like someone well versed in contracts. But as she reached the final page, her hand paused on the signature