by J. A. Little
“Whoa,” Brayden says loudly.
“Come on, guys, we need to go.” Kayla puts her hand on Matty’s shoulder to usher him through the door. “Mr. Wyatt, I’ll need a full list of everyone employed by Wyatt House on a temporary, permanent, or contractual basis. I would also like to meet your brother and anyone else who will be spending a significant amount of time here.”
“I’ll email the list over this afternoon.” I say, smirking. I can tell she’s irritated. It turns me on, but I’m also acutely aware that there are teenage boys practically drooling behind me.
Kayla shoots me one more glare before turning around and walking out the door. I watch as Logan holds his hand up to the small of her back. I can see that he’s not really touching her. In fact, he’s several inches away from her so as not to rouse her suspicions, but I’m pretty sure he wants it to look more intimate than it is. He turns around and grins at the boys, whose mouths are all agape. When his eyes meet mine, I frown. His ears turn bright red.
“Shit! Who the hell is that?” Brayden gapes as the door shuts.
“That was Ms. Brooks, Logan and Matty’s worker,” I explain. “Watch your language.”
“Aw, man. How’d they get so fucking lucky? Why can’t I get a worker with an ass like that?”
I swat Brayden on the back of the head. “I said, watch your mouth,” I growl, more irritated that he was looking at her ass than by what he said. It’s not like he could see through her coat, but I don’t even want him looking.
“Ouch! What’d ya do that for?” he laughs. “You know, if they find out you’re beating us…”
“I’ll show you beating.” I pretend to lunge at him, and he jumps back, laughing. I throw my arm around his shoulders. I love Brayden. He’s eighteen and has been living at Wyatt House for almost seven years. He could leave anytime now that he’s legally an adult, but he promised me he’d wait until after he graduated.
I was twenty-three when I met him and not even a year out of prison. I was trying to salvage what was left of my life. My dad asked me to take him under my wing, as if that was a safe place to be at the time. But Brayden hadn’t responded to anyone else.
Like a lot of kids in the system, Bray’s mom was a junkie. He was born with drugs in his system and CPS got him straight from the hospital. His mom did what she had to do to get him back, but within weeks, the social worker following up on the case found him in their apartment, severely dehydrated and sitting in a shitty diaper. His mom was found on her bedroom floor with a needle in her arm. It was too late to save her.
Brayden bounced from home to home after that. His explosive anger, propensity for stealing, and pyromania made him a liability. He’s come a long way, though. He no longer tries to set things on fire when he’s upset, his fingers are slightly less sticky, and he’s a solid B student. He’s even considering community college in the fall. The state has offered him a full scholarship if he can keep his GPA above 2.5. I still worry that once he’s away from here, he’ll fall in with the wrong crowd. It’s so easy to do when you feel alone.
“Bus is here,” I announce as the boys scramble to get their coats and shoes on. They pile out the door clumsily. “Eric, if I get another call from the principal today, you’re on restriction the rest of the week.” I don’t need to see his face to know he’s rolling his eyes at me. I hope he listens, though. Fourteen-year-old Eric is a freshman, and he’s already been suspended twice this year. I’m a bastard when it comes to restriction. The kids can literally do nothing but sit in their rooms or in the study room and either do homework or listen to music. And I get to pick the music.
I watch to make sure that the four boys taking the bus actually get in.
“See ya, D,” Brayden says, dangling the House car keys from his finger and brushing by me. I close the door behind him. Not many kids in the system get driver’s licenses, but it’s something my dad thinks is an important aspect of becoming an adult. It’s a privilege for those who have worked hard and shown responsibility.
“So what’s up with you and the social worker?” Tracey asks, startling me.
“What?” I feign ignorance. “Nothing.”
“Uh-huh. You might want to wipe the saliva off your chin, then,” she laughs. I ignore her and disappear into my office.
Sitting down at my desk, I try to work. It’s not easy. My mind keeps drifting. Before I know it, my brother is sitting in front of me, leaning on his elbows with his hands clasped under his chin. He’s looking at me expectantly.
“What?” I snap.
“I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes, Dean.”
Ten minutes? How did I not notice him for ten minutes?
“Whatever. Are you ready?”
“No ‘how you feelin’, bro?’ No, ‘glad you’re back after your kids nearly gave you the plague?’”
“Are you better?”
“Yes, thanks for asking.”
“Yeah, it would suck balls if the flu went around this house, so…” I shrug.
“Fucker,” Aiden laughs. “So does your daydreaming have anything to do with a certain caseworker cutie who stopped by here last night?”
“Shit, do you and your wife gossip like little girls all the time or only when it involves me?” I gripe. “And I wasn’t fucking daydreaming.”
My brother leans back. “Of course not.” He sighs. “We weren’t talking about you, though. Em seemed so taken with her, I thought maybe we could ask her to join us for a little…” he sucks his teeth and winks at me, “fun.”
“Shut the fuck up and be professional for once.”
Aiden doesn’t even try to hide his amusement. “You know I’m just fucking with you, D. My wife would have my sack for breakfast.”
I know he’s kidding, but I still don’t like it.
“You like her,” he gapes. “She’s cute. Why don’t you ask her out?”
“Aiden.” The warning in my voice is similar to the tone I used with Jax this morning, but there’s no humor in it—I’m not amused.
“D, you have to let someone in someday. Maybe it can be her.”
“So look: the two new kids are Logan and Matty Davidson.” I keep talking, filling Aiden in on the new kids, ignoring the conversation he wants to have—again. I’m not having this discussion. I live my life the way I want to live it. Nothing and no one is going to change that.
Chapter 5
Kayla
As I sit in the front office of the school, waiting to register Logan and Matty, I stare down at my iPhone and check emails. It keeps me from focusing on the fact that I am in yet another office. I feel like I’m always in some kind of office. It doesn’t really matter where I’m at or what I’m doing—they’re all the same. Fading yellow walls with chipped paint, bone-colored metal filing cabinets, ancient computers that run way too slow with a heavy hum, and disenchanted individuals sitting behind crappy desks. I need a vacation.
Dean Wyatt’s office isn’t like that, though. It’s gorgeous. I could spend all day in his office. Not with him in there, of course. The man is gorgeous, too, sure, but boy is he an ass.
Next to me, Logan’s knee bounces up and down, making the floor vibrate.
“Stop,” I hear Matty say flatly. Logan snickers. “Stop it!” Matty repeats with a little more emotion.
“Stop what? This?”
I look up just in time to see Logan flick Matty’s ear. Matty gets up abruptly and moves to the other side of me, away from his brother.
“Knock it off, Logan,” I scold, shaking my head and frowning.
“Dude, stop being such a girl,” Logan scoffs.
“Ms. Brooks?” A middle-aged woman with wire-framed glasses calls from the doorway of yet another office. She’s attractive in a very stern type of way. The sign on the wall reads “IMOGENE SYLVESTER – PRINCIPAL.”
“Yes?” I answer politely.
“Come on in, please.”
Standing, I motion for Logan and Matty to follow me. I see her eyes scanning over
them, already making judgments.
“Have a seat. This shouldn’t take long, and then we can get the boys to their classes. Logan, you’re a senior, right?” she asks, sitting down at her desk and glancing at her computer.
“Yup,” Logan answers, his tone bored.
“And, Matthew, you’re a freshman?” She looks up at him over the top of her glasses. Matty nods.
“Here are all of their transfer documents,” I say, handing her the files.
“Thank you, Ms. Brooks.” She nods and opens the file. “Do either of the boys require an Individualized Education Program?”
“No.” I shake my head. “They’re both currently on track. No IEPs necessary.” I glance at Logan, who has his head back and is looking at the ceiling. He doesn’t put any effort into his schoolwork and still has a 3.2 average. His SAT scores were 1,940 out of 2,400. He could easily get into college, assuming he doesn’t do anything that will land his ass in jail first.
Principal Sylvester flips through the papers, sighing every now and then. I hate the documents in those files. Every time a new placement or educator reads them, they form preconceived notions of these kids—especially Logan. He gets labeled as a troublemaker and degenerate. Talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy. There are only so many times a kid can hear he’s hopeless before he starts to believe it and wonders why he should make an attempt if it’s only going to end in failure.
I’ve been telling both boys for years to ignore the comments. Logan says he doesn’t give a shit, but I know he does. He wants to be a role model for Matty but doesn’t know how, so he doesn’t even try.
“Hold on just a moment,” Principal Sylvester says, standing. “I’m going to give their previous schedules to Mrs. Fowler so she can find openings in the appropriate classes while we finish speaking.”
When she returns, she sits down, folding her hands together on top of the desk and looking at Matty and Logan.
“So obviously you know that we have all the Wyatt House boys here,” she starts, her voice stern. “We are well aware of the variety of issues that you face both in your personal lives and at school. You should not be surprised that we do not tolerate violence on this campus, nor do we allow drugs. There is a zero-tolerance policy against weapons of any type. If you are caught with such an item while on campus, it is grounds for immediate expulsion.”
I watch Logan roll his eyes. He gets the same lecture every single time he starts a new school, all because of the initial weapons charge against him when he stabbed the guy who tried to buy Matty. He wasn’t prosecuted, but we’re required to reveal any violent behavior. I want to scream at them that he was just defending his little brother from a pedophile, but I know that I can’t. Confidentiality really can be a bitch sometimes.
After about twenty minutes, the boys are released to get their class schedules. I hand Principal Sylvester my card.
“If you have any questions or concerns, please call me,” I tell her before following the boys out. Logan is staring at his schedule with a smile.
“I take it you’re happy?”
He sticks his tongue out. “I’ve got five female teachers. I’m all set.”
It’s always a show with Logan, even with me. He knows I don’t buy it, but he does it anyway.
“What about you?” I ask Matty.
“I didn’t want to take algebra again,” he grumbles.
“Why not?” I frown.
“‘Cause I’m not good at it.”
I purse my lips together. Another self-fulfilling prophecy. Over the years, Matty’s silence has been mistaken for stupidity, and he’s starting to believe it. I grab his chin, trying to make him look at me. At first he refuses, his eyes darting everywhere other than my face, but eventually he gives in.
“Stop,” I say firmly. “Don’t let one jerk teacher make you believe that crap.”
Two months ago, Sandy Barker and I were called in to talk about Matty’s refusal to participate in his algebra class. The teacher suggested—in front of him—that algebra was a little beyond his capabilities. I was livid. I filed a complaint with the school, but nothing happened, of course. Nothing ever happens. Matty tries to turn his head, but I grip a little tighter.
“Matthew.”
“Okaaaaay,” he groans. I let go of his chin and pat him on the cheek. I don’t miss the slight upward curl of his mouth.
“You,” I say, poking my finger into Logan’s chest. “Behave yourself. Please.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Logan grins innocently.
I hum. “You guys can catch the bus home with the rest of the boys. I’m stopping by later this afternoon, but only for a few minutes. Enjoy your day, make new friends, and stay out of trouble.”
Logan laughs. I say the same thing every time I register them in a new school. It’s become my mantra. It makes them smile, so I keep saying it.
I leave the school and drive through the city to work. After showing my ID badge at the employees’ entrance, I head to my office. It’s not really an office—more like a big room with four desks and no door. Only supervisors get doors.
My unit consists of myself and three other social workers—Sara Dravin, Warren De Jesus, and Dana Jeffries. Sara is a year younger than I am. She’s fun, bubbly, and absolutely loves her job. She’s been doing it for three years and even though she’s had some really devastating cases, she’s good at not letting them affect her spirit.
Warren is thirty-one and fabulously bisexual. He has a wicked sense of humor and usually says out loud all the crap that everyone else is thinking.
Dana’s a little bit older. She’s the grandmother of our group and often scolds us when we start getting too crude for her tastes. I’m pretty sure she’s going to have a heart attack one of these days from the stories of our misadventures. Sara and Warren are my best friends, my partners in crime. We work hard and party harder.
Our unit is managed by Mrs. Katherine Okoro. We call her Kate. She’s extremely tall, standing at about six foot one, and has a thick Nigerian accent. She just celebrated her fifty-fifth birthday, but she doesn’t look a day over forty.
I spend the next hour taking advantage of the fact that no one else is in the office to complete the incident report from the previous night and the transfer paperwork. When I’m done, I slip them into Kate’s inbox before heading to a foster home just south of the city to visit another child in my caseload.
When I finally get back to the office, I’ve just flopped myself down at my desk when Sara walks in.
“Did you seriously place the Davidson boys at Wyatt House last night?”
“Yep,” I answer. “How’d you know?”
She shrugs. “My computer froze up, and I had to use yours to type up a court report. You left your email open, and it popped up with a message from Dean Wyatt.”
“Oh. Yeah, that place is swanky.”
“Right? Wish there were more group homes like that. Who was there when you placed them?”
“I don’t know. I just dropped them off at the front door and hoped someone would eventually let them in,” I deadpan. Sara scowls at me. “Emily let me in, but I mostly dealt with Dean. Why?” The look that I get from my best friend is comical.
“You had to deal with Dean?” she asks. I nod. “Was he…?”
“Was he what?”
Two years ago, Sara had a fifteen-year-old boy placed at Wyatt House. Unfortunately, after only a week of living in the house he stabbed a high school classmate at a football game. Meth-induced psychosis. He was sentenced to three years in a juvenile detention center. DHS is no longer involved.
“I mean, he’s totally gorgeous, but I’ve heard he’s kind of…“
“He’s a dick,” I say, nodding. “I don’t care how attractive he is, I’m not looking forward to working with his moody ass.”
“Really?” she asks, smirking. “I thought you liked dicks.”
“Shut up,” I laugh.
“Kayla, Kayla, Kayla,” Kate
groans, walking into the room with what I assume is my report in her hands. “Logan Davidson? Again?”
“I know,” I sigh.
“Matty doesn’t deserve to be at Wyatt House. He’s done nothing to warrant that placement.”
“I know that, too, Kate, but I can’t separate them. Trust me, I’ve tried. If I do it forcibly, I’ll lose Matty completely. And I’m pretty sure Logan would completely give up, too.”
“Logan’s already given up,” she murmurs. I’m not meant to hear it, but I do. And I jump to his defense.
“He hasn’t given up. If everyone would stop telling him how worthless he is, maybe he’d stop believing it.” I clench my teeth together, hoping Kate won’t take my frustration personally. Luckily, she doesn’t.
“How’s he doing with the independent-living information?” she asks, changing the subject slightly.
“Once he gets settled, we’re going to start again. I think we’re on financial responsibility.”
Sara lets out a snort, but bites her tongue when I glare at her. She has no faith in Logan, either. She thinks he’ll end up in jail at some point no matter how hard I try to steer him in another direction.
“That’s good,” Kate muses. “Well, I know it’s hard when he keeps blowing his placements. Just try to stay on target.” I don’t respond. It was a rhetorical statement anyway.
“I’ve got another visit to do before heading over there, and then I have to go pick up Claire.” I announce, resting my head on my desk.
“Why?” Sara asks curiously.
“She’s staying with us for the next two weeks. My mom and Richard are heading to Maui for their anniversary.”
“Must be nice,” Sara scoffs. “Can’t she stay by herself?”
I chuckle and turned my head to look at her. “I suppose if they hadn’t had to deal with me first, they might have let her. Actually, no, probably not. Her father’s too paranoid. He likes to punish her before she does anything wrong.”
Claire is my half sister; we have the same mother. You’d never know it by looking at us, though. I’m short and skinny with brown hair and dark-blue eyes. Claire is a good three inches taller than me. She’s got curves that could cause a car accident, white-blond hair, and eyes the color of glacier ice.