One teenage boy sat alone beside a window with a paperback open on his knees.
A little girl nearby knocked over a box of crayons.
The boy immediately put down his book and crouched to help her.
He even crawled beneath a table for the last blue crayon.
Then he returned to his chair.
When she saw who I was looking at, her expression changed.
I nodded toward him.
“Who’s that?”
Denise followed my gaze.
When she saw who I was looking at, her expression changed.
“Luke.”
“You should know he’s had a lot of placements.”
“How old is he?”
“Sixteen.”
“Can I meet him?”
She hesitated.
“You should know he’s had a lot of placements.”
“Was he violent?”
“How many?”
“Ten.”
I stared at her.
“Was he violent?”
“No.”
“Did he hurt younger children?”
“Drugs?”
“No.”
“Did he hurt younger children?”
“No.”
“Then what happened?”
Years earlier, after my husband died, Noah’s teachers called him difficult because he stopped talking in class.
“Different things. Luke is…complicated.”
I hated that word.
Years earlier, after my husband died, Noah’s teachers called him complicated because he stopped talking in class.
What they meant was that my grieving eleven-year-old no longer made their jobs easy.
“I’d still like to meet him.”
He glanced at the only empty chair and gestured towards it.
Luke stood when I approached.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Caroline.”
He glanced at the only empty chair and gestured towards it.
“Please, ma’am. You can sit here.”
I almost laughed.
We discussed the book in his hands for nearly an hour.
“I’m forty-seven, not ninety.”
His mouth twitched.
“I wasn’t implying anything.”
“You absolutely were.”
That got a real smile.
“One good conversation doesn’t guarantee a placement.”
We discussed the book in his hands for nearly an hour.
When I left, Denise said, “One good conversation doesn’t guarantee a placement.”
“I know.”
So I came back.
Again and again.
