Broken Trust : Pacific Prep

by R. A. Smyth

  I’d just been going through the motions, barely paying attention to the kids that walked through my door, until she walked in. I know there are a handful of scholarship students here, but ironically, none of them ever need to come see me. I reckon, like myself, life has taught them how to suck it up and get on with it, even when shit is hitting the fan. So when my first scholarship student walks through the door, I’m intrigued, especially given the reason she’s here. The bullying doesn’t surprise me, what does surprise me though, are the images.

  I’ve gone over case studies of children of abuse. I’ve read files, studied psychological theories, and learned about therapeutic treatments; but I’ve never had to actually deal with one. It was the last thing I expected to have thrown at me in this pretentious school of pampered princes and princesses.

  I was taken with her the second I saw her picture. It had nothing to do with her scars, and it sure as fuck wasn’t because she was mostly naked. I could barely tear my eyes away from her face to look at anything else. It was the same when she stepped into my office. She was the embodiment of everything I’ve read, yet she was a complete contradiction to what I expected.

  With her hostile demeanor, prickly attitude, and wary manner, everything about her screamed distrust; her dry wit and evasive answers, those defensive measures designed to keep people at arm’s length. All of it a protective defense, no one can hurt you if you don’t let them in. No one can catch you unaware if you’re constantly on alert.

  Despite the ugly reason for why she ended up in my office, I couldn’t help but be excited that she was here. She’s exactly the distraction I need right now. A challenge I didn’t know I was looking for.

  Unlike the other kids that come storming in here, immediately blurting out their problems and expecting me to fix them, I’m going to have to actually work to get Hadley to talk to me. It’s going to take patience and careful prodding, well placed questions and tactful sharing of information.

  I get the impression if I can get her to trust me, to open up to me, to let me see the real Hadley she hides underneath all that sass and snark, she’s going to make me question everything I’ve ever known.

  The knock on the door alerts me to her arrival and I immediately sit up straighter in my chair, running my hand through my hair, smoothing it out. Jesus, I feel like a tween about to go on his first date. I’m a riot of nervous energy. Clearing my throat, I call out, “Come in.”

  The door swings open, and Hadley storms in, her face shuttered and back straight. Does she walk around the school with that attitude or is it just for me?

  “Have a seat.” I gesture to the chair in front of the desk, assuming that’s where she’ll sit since it’s where she chose last time, but with a raised eyebrow in my direction, she strides over to the couch, dropping her bag on the floor and making herself comfortable, sinking into the couch cushions.

  I have to force my lips not to hitch up as I swallow my laugh at her defiance. She never does or says what I expect.

  In all the literature I’ve read, it explains how children of abuse grow up to be closed off, independent individuals. Hadley is certainly all of those things. But where the textbooks say they are also broken, nervous, anxious people, Hadley is all strength and defiance.

  “I have some work to finish up. I figured you probably have homework you could start on, or there are books on the shelf, feel free to look through them.”

  Her eyes narrow slightly, the only indicator of what she’s thinking. If I had to guess, I’d say I’ve taken her by surprise. She was expecting prying questions into her childhood, into whatever is going on at school, but I’ve already ascertained that that won’t work on her.

  I need her to trust me. I want her to trust me; and that starts with getting her comfortable in my presence. Saying nothing, she bends down, pulling out a tablet and notebook before getting to work.

  Neither of us says anything for the next hour, both of us working away in silence. Only once the hour is up do I stop focusing on the pages on my desk, looking up at her. She’s lost in her work, scribbling away in her workbook, transcribing notes from the tablet. Her face is softer than I’ve seen it before, making her look younger, more her own age. Just seeing her relaxed and focused like that feels like a victory already.

  As though sensing my eyes on her, she snaps her head up, her face hardening as she glares at me. “Sorry,” I apologize, looking at her for a second longer before breaking eye contact. “That took longer than I expected. Our time is up.”

  “No worries.” She shrugs, shoving her belongings back in her bag and throwing it over her shoulder.

  Just before she can head out the door, I call out, “Same time next week.” Her steps falter and she hesitates, not once looking my way before giving a sharp nod, pulling open the door and leaving.

  After she’s gone, I sit back in my chair, replaying our, albeit very limited, interaction. She didn’t give me much, but she said more than she realized. The fact she turned up is telling in itself. It’s not like anyone would track her down and force her to come here if she didn’t show. Equally, when I told her I was busy, she didn’t try to worm her way out of the session by suggesting we reschedule. So without even saying a word, she’s told me a lot. She showed me she’s used to following orders, doing as she’s told, even if she doesn’t agree or internally rebels against it. My guess is the scars have something to do with that—pain and torture are excellent methods of compliance. The fact she was comfortable enough to focus on her schoolwork tells me that, while she may not want to be here, she feels safe enough in this room, in my presence, that she doesn’t need to be constantly on alert. I have no doubt she’s still finely tuned in to her surroundings, but she doesn’t perceive me as an immediate threat—something I’ll take as a win.

  Our next few appointments go the same way. Me finding excuses not to conduct our session so I can silently observe her and give her time to get comfortable in my space. Each week I see her getting more and more relaxed, becoming used to the routine, but today I can tell I’m not going to be able to continue with this tactic for much longer. She’s fidgety, unable to focus on her work, constantly casting glances my way. She knows it’s only a matter of time before this silent truce between us comes to an end and the hard questions begin.

  Before she can ask whatever questions are rattling around in her head, I speak up. Like I said, this only works if we trust one another. To do that, I’m going to have to share with her a part of myself.

  “I grew up in a run-down one bedroom apartment in Black Creek. You’ve probably never heard of it—”

  “I’ve heard of it.” Her eyes are narrowed, skepticism written all over her face as she takes in my fancy-as-fuck suit and styled hair. Yeah, I’m a far cry from the Black Creek kid I used to be. I may not be that scrawny street rat any longer, but this suit isn’t me, either. It’s the persona I donned when I agreed to this job. The person I had to become to fit in with the uppity staff and pretentious kids.

  If I’d shown up in my worn jeans and faded t-shirts, they all would have taken one look at me and sent me packing. It’s been made very clear to me that appearances matter here. Everything ultimately boils down to how you look, how you come across to others. It’s got absolutely nothing to do with who you are, how good of a person you are. It’s all superficial bullshit. But the other students that I see would be straight on the phone to their parents, demanding a ‘real therapist’ if they knew I wasn’t one of them. So every morning, I put on my unfamiliar, pretentious clothes, don my fake smile and pretend I actually enjoy this platitudinous job.

  The only problem is, every step I’ve taken to fit in with the people here has created a wall between Hadley and I. One I now have to carefully deconstruct, forcing me to put my trust in her that she will keep anything I share to herself.

  “You don’t look like anyone I’ve ever met from Black Creek.”

  The fact she knows anyone there surprises me. The only people in Black
Creek are mobsters and gangbangers. Not exactly your everyday folk; and according to her file, she’s been bounced about from home to home all over California, but she’s never lived in Oregon.

  Rolling up the arm of my shirt, I show her the crude tattoo on my forearm. It’s jagged and uneven, looking like a botched job. In fairness, it was. That’s what happens when a bunch of thirteen-year-olds with nothing better to do attempt to tattoo themselves. I’ve added other professional ink around it over the years until the entire length of my arm is covered in various tribal designs, but this one still stands out.

  Looking at the ink, I have to swallow around the emotion in my throat, shrugging away the painful tug in my chest; each harrowing memory hitting me like a punch to the gut. Despite its prominent position, making it impossible for me to overlook every day, I never let myself reminisce on the past and everything the tattoo once represented.

  Setting aside her workbook, she stands up from what has become her usual position on the sofa, cautiously approaching me, as though I might be trying to lure her into a trap.

  When she’s in front of the desk, she leans down, getting a better look at the symbol on my arm. It’s a crude shape of the number four, with the words ‘Reaper Rejects’ encircled around it in barely legible writing.

  “Reaper Rejects? I’ve never heard of them.”

  “They aren’t anyone.” I sigh. “A bunch of kids who thought they were all that, wanting to grow up way too fast, but when their world crashed down around them, they didn’t know how to handle it.”

  Her eyes flick up to mine for a moment, as if wanting to test the truth of my words, before she looks back down at the ink. “What happened to them?” Her voice is a low whisper, like she’s afraid if she talks any louder it will break this moment of truthfulness between us.

  “We all went our separate ways. I don’t know what happened to the others.”

  The way Hadley is looking at me; for the first time since I laid eyes on her, her walls are lowered. It’s still impossible to get a read on her, but understanding sits heavy in the air between us. The sense of shared trauma and unresolved pain, memories we would both rather leave buried in the past.

  Clearing my throat, I glance down at my watch. “Our time is up.” I had planned all along to tell her who I am, who I was, but I never intended to bring up that. That part of my past is not something I talk about. It’s not something I think about. I spend a huge part of my day pretending it never happened, so to bring it up so easily, to share it with her, has left me raw and unsure of my next move. I can’t think straight when my head’s a mess like this, and her close proximity is playing havoc with my brain. I can’t afford to do or say something that might undo the little bit of progress we’ve made today.

  She stares at me for a moment longer. Her eyes are softer than they were before, like she’s finally seeing past the privileged, rich, white guy facade I’m wearing, and glimpsing the real me.

  Giving a small nod, she murmurs, “Okay,” before moving back to the sofa and hastily shoving her things into her bag, pausing as she passes the desk on her way to the door.

  “Same time next week?”

  Unable to look at her, I give a quick jerk of my head. “I’ll see you then.”

  It’s only when the door clicks shut behind her that I let out a shaky breath, loosening the tie around my neck and bending down to lift out the bottle of bourbon and a coffee mug I keep hidden in my bottom drawer.

  Pouring a small measure, I knock it back in one go, leaning my head against the headrest, closing my eyes and letting the memories flash behind my eyelids.

  Despite the impoverished way we grew up, we were always laughing and smiling. We never complained about being hungry or not having the latest technology. Black Creek was our playground, where we made games out of dumpster diving and constructed toys from the trash littering the streets. Together, we were happy. We had each other, and we were naive enough to believe that was enough.

  I’ll never forget that day; the gunshots, the screams. Everything changed and before I could come to terms with it, my mom pulled us out of there, carted me off to a brand new town and made me promise I’d never step foot in Black Creek again, or reach out to my old friends.

  It’s been nearly ten years since that fateful day. Nearly as long since I last thought about them all, shrugging off any notions with false pretenses that they are probably okay, out in the world living their lives. In actual fact, they’re most likely dead, or in prison at best.

  Fuck it, I decide, pouring myself another glass of bourbon. It’s not like I have any more students today and I’m already in a piss-poor mood. May as well drink my pain away until I’m too far gone to think about them, until I can numb the gnawing guilt inside of me for never going back for them, for never getting them out of there.

  Chapter 23

  I hesitate with my fist in front of the door. Goddammit. Why did he have to go and mess with our usual routine of silence? Does he expect me to open up to him now after our little powwow last week?

  Whatever happened in his past must have sucked, and he’s clearly not the typical rich asshole I first thought he was. I was too quick to judge him, but just because he decided to share some deep dark part of himself doesn’t mean I’m obligated to do the same. Trust me, despite how fucked up his history might be, mine is worse.

  Straightening my back, I take a final deep breath and rap on the door, opening it when he calls out.

  “I’m swamped with work today, do you mind just working on your own stuff?”

  I let out a silent breath of relief at his words. I know he’s bullshitting me. Why would he insist on me coming here every week if he’s just going to do paperwork? It’s a tactic. Yet, each week I show up and not once have I said I could skip the week's session if he’s busy.

  If I’m being honest with myself, I’ve come to enjoy the undisturbed hour in this room, away from the prying eyes and hushed whispers of the other students. I enjoy the companionable silence; often finding myself letting down my guard and getting comfortable. That’s not something I ever thought I’d do around other people. Life has taught me not to trust anyone, yet I trust him enough to be relaxed in his presence.

  I have no idea what that means. Every time I think about it, it freaks me out and I tell myself I’m not going to show up to our next session. Yet every week, here I am, standing in his office like I just can’t help myself.

  “Yeah, that’s fine,” I respond, heading over to my usual spot on the sofa and pulling out my tablet and books and getting to work.

  I’m too distracted this week, though. Just like last time, I constantly find my attention drifting, my eyes repeatedly flicking up to drink him in. Maybe it’s because I know this quiet peacefulness we have going has to come to an end soon, but I also can’t deny I’m just insanely curious about him, especially after what he revealed last week. He’s more like me than I thought, than anyone else here at Pac could ever be. If there was one person who might ever understand what I’ve been through, it would most likely be him.

  Despite the fact this is all a ruse, he appears to be actually working. His brow is furrowed in concentration as he taps away on his laptop, and he doesn’t seem to be aware of me watching him. It gives me the opportunity to look him over with fresh eyes. He’s wearing yet another one of his ridiculously expensive-looking waistcoats and shirts. Today’s waistcoat is light gray, paired with a pale blue shirt; the combination making him look professional and straight laced in a ‘I just stepped out of a hot male model photoshoot’ kind of way.

  Unlike in our first appointment, where I saw the extravagant suit and ritzy hairstyle, I look beneath all of that, taking in the haggard lines on his face and the knowing look in his eyes that only comes from being forced to grow up too quickly; when you realize at far too young an age that the world fucking sucks. It’s filled with horrible people willing to do whatever they want for their own gain and there isn’t a fucking thing you can do to stop i
t.

  Taking in his hands as they fly across the keyboard, typing at a speed I could never hope to replicate unless I wanted to write gibberish, I notice the toughened skin and calluses that come from manual labor. Those are not the hands of an upper-class kid raised with servants at their beck and call and taught to delegate work instead of doing it themselves.

  “What made you want to be a school counselor?” I ask, surprising myself. I had no intention of engaging him in conversation, although now that I’ve asked it, I’m genuinely curious.

  His hands pause on the keyboard as he looks over at me, a mixture of surprise and something else I can’t place before it disappears. “I wanted to help kids like me, help them realize there is more to life than violence and gang wars. Give them more options than I had growing up.”

  All of that makes sense, and yet…

  “I wouldn’t think too many kids at Pac end up involved with gangs and drug lords.”

  A surprised burst of laughter erupts from him, like he wasn’t expecting my sarcastic response, a slow smile growing across his face. Holy shit, does he look fucking magnificent when he smiles. His whole face lights up, his eyes sparkling. It’s almost like smiling is a rarity for him, but when he does, he puts everything he has into it.

  It leaves me a little breathless, and I have to subtly swipe my finger along my lip, making sure no drool slipped out; all the while ignoring the weird fluttering sensation in my lower abdomen. I’ve felt something similar on the odd occasion; when Cam gives me a heated look, or when West was pressed against me in the library, but it’s never felt this tumultuous before.

  “No, I’m sure they don’t.” He chuckles. “But college isn’t exactly cheap, and I’m working toward my masters, so I couldn’t afford to turn down such a well-paid job.”

  I simply nod my head, not sure what to say to that.

  “Do you know what you want to do with your life?”