All That Really Matters Page 11

  Good. Now back to ignoring him.

  I reached in my bag and took out my iPhone.

  “If you can each strike a pose with your arms down at your sides and your hips squared . . . yes. Just like that.”

  A catcall came from somewhere behind me and the room erupted again.

  I snapped a picture of each of them, getting their approval before I plugged my phone in to my laptop and projected their images on the screen pulled over the whiteboard.

  “Okay, everybody, say hi to Monica and Devon as we know them now,” I instructed.

  They obeyed, the class participating in earnest, invested in the process while still unsure about what was coming up next.

  I bent over my keyboard and tapped a few keys on a fashion editing app I had received a few months back in exchange for a positive review. After making a few minor adjustments to the angles and colors, I tapped the share icon.

  The class gasped, and I couldn’t help but release a little cheer. Monica was now wearing a crimson power pantsuit, while Devon wore a dry-fit polo and straight leg denim jeans with canvas boat shoes.

  “I’ve gotta send this picture to my mama!” Devon shouted out. “She won’t believe it’s really me!”

  More laughter. Even one unfamiliar laugh coming from the back.

  “Now.” I held up my hand to hush them like a true professional. “One rule is that we are not here to dis anyone’s current style of fashion, and we won’t be discussing body types or specific features at all, understood?” They nodded. “Good. Our two friends here, Monica and Devon, are simply a social experiment for us to work with. Keeping that in mind, tell me what assumptions you make when you look at this picture of Devon in his new clothes.”

  No one said a thing.

  “Come on, don’t be shy,” I coaxed.

  “Spoiled.”

  The front row chuckled.

  “Okay, and?”

  “Like he takes care of himself.”

  “Great,” I encouraged. “What else?”

  “He probably has a good job.”

  “Responsible,” said one of the other guys. “A college graduate.”

  Devon did another one of his seated mock bows. “Thank you, thank you.”

  I pointed to Monica. “And what about Miss Monica here.”

  “Rich!” Devon shouted out.

  The class laughed.

  “Fascinating,” I added. “What else?”

  “Powerful.”

  “Focused on her career.”

  “She looks like a boss!”

  “A leader,” said a sweet, shy voice toward the back.

  Ah. I glanced up at Wren’s participation and smiled at her. “Isn’t that interesting? All those positive thoughts came from a simple outfit change on two people you already knew. It tells me that clothing, though such a simple thing to change, can create one of the most powerful judgments about us. What we wear speaks for us, whether we want it to or not. It tells a story about who we are and where we want to go. When we project an image to the world—not only to the strangers we encounter, but to our teachers, our co-workers, and even to our future employers—that image fills in the gaps of what is known and unknown, whether we want it to or not. Now,” I said, pivoting on my heel, “do you think Devon and Monica would be received well if they showed up at a real estate firm to interview for a paid internship looking like this?”

  “As long as their brains can back it up,” said Sasha, Monica’s seat neighbor, with a sassy bite.

  The class murmured in agreement.

  “Very true. And from what I understand, it sounds like all of you have made the investment in that area. So while you’re taking big steps forward in finishing up school or achieving trade certificates and job experience,” I said, “it’s also important to keep the big picture in mind as you work to achieve the goals for the next steps in your independence. How you present yourself to the world matters. If you want to be taken seriously, then putting an extra ten minutes of thought into what you should put on your body before you sit down at an interview may have the potential to change the narrative in yourself . . . and the narrative in others, as well.”

  A girl from the front, one who’d been quiet yet attentive, slipped up her hand. “Do you have more examples? Like, can we all have a turn with that app thing you used on them? Also, Silas mentioned budget tips. Do you have any tips on how and where we can shop on a limited budget and still look this good?”

  I could feel the smile welling up inside me. If there was ever a question etched in the sky with my name on it, this was it. And I’d spend the rest of my classroom time giving them every tip and trick I knew. Right after I took each of their pictures and let them play with my Try It On fashion app.

  I’d definitely be leaving a glowing review for the creators of Try It On after this evening. Because if the approval I saw on Silas’s face was any indication, I’d say it just landed me a summer position at The Bridge. And quite possibly a giant step up in my audition résumé.

  12

  Silas

  We’d had all types of individuals teach life skills classes at The Bridge over the last few years—mechanics teaching car basics, mothers demonstrating easy meal prep, financial advisors showing budget management. And many topical classes on conflict resolution, maintaining safe boundaries, and the pressure of dealing with negative influences. Never had I seen the level of engagement Molly had coaxed from a room of co-ed young adults.

  She was magnetic.

  Within thirty seconds of beginning, she’d captured the attention of everyone in the room, especially the male students in our program. And it was clear it wasn’t just her laptop presentation they were interested in. Unfortunately, a several-year age gap didn’t mean much when it came to an attractive member of the opposite sex. And whether I wanted to admit it or not, Molly’s physical appearance was anything but unappealing. She was, in fact, as exquisite as her thick golden hair that swung to the center of her back.

  As the students high-fived Molly on their way out and asked when she would be back and what she would be teaching next, I watched Wren inch her way toward the front of the room. Likely waiting until the others had exited.

  I worried about that girl. Even more than I worried over the majority. Molly hadn’t been wrong about her during the interview. Wren was intelligent, bright in a way that surpassed many of her peers, but she was also a loner. And while I believed there were natural introverts who refueled independently, I also believed Wren’s tendency to stick to herself was less about personality and more about an isolated grief she didn’t know how to share.

  In many ways, I understood that. Which was, perhaps, why I’d accepted her mid-program instead of adding her to the wait list for the coming fall. There hadn’t been a vacancy when the social worker called last December. But when I hung up the phone that evening, I knew I would pay out of my own pocket to bring her to Fir Crest Manor if I had to. Wren’s backstory wasn’t the most dramatic account I’d heard in my line of work—no reports of criminal activity, physical abuse, or illegal substances. But there certainly had been trauma, nonetheless. Losing a parent was traumatic no matter what the circumstance or age of the child. But something about a grieving nineteen-year-old being separated from her much younger, adoptable brother was too much for me to walk away from.

  I’d been there once, too. Not as the grieving teenager, desperate to keep his family together by any means necessary, but as the adoptable younger sibling who had wanted nothing more than to stay with the only living family member he had left. A hope never to be realized.

  The minute Molly finished passing out her Five Tips to Selecting a Winning Outfit handouts, Wren approached.

  “Hey, girl,” Molly practically sang. “Thanks for your participation tonight. I appreciated your answers.”

  Wren’s entire countenance changed. A noticeable difference. Even from where I stood near the back of the room. “I liked your class.”

  “And I lik
ed that you came. Even though I know you kinda had to,” Molly said in a conspiratorial way that caused Wren’s mouth to curve into a half grin. It was the best attempt at a smile I’d seen from her in . . . well, since the last time she had a visit with her brother.

  It was obvious why Molly might appeal to Wren; Molly was the type of person people wanted on their team. The kind of advocate a young, impressionable girl would give anything to have believe in her. The two of them were an ironic blend of opposites, to be sure. Where Wren was timid and owned little of earthly value, Molly was enthusiastic, and based on her personal belongings, lacked for nothing. Even still, the common ground between them was notable, as was the absence of Wren’s usual monosyllabic responses in conversation.

  “Will you be back next Tuesday?” Wren asked, to which Molly’s eyes flickered to mine before she simply said, “I sure hope so.”

  Last week I’d doubted Molly had even the smallest potential at relatability. I’d suspected our young ladies would feel too threatened by her high-dollar lifestyle and stylish clothing to engage deeper with her. I’d even questioned if Molly would be able to engage with them. But in the same way I’d chosen to believe my residents were more than the scars they wore from their pasts, I was also starting to believe that Molly was more than the flashy fairy tale she presented to the world. It was a revelation at odds with a sense of caution I still couldn’t shake.

  As Wren said good-bye and ducked out the door to the hallway, Molly glided over to her laptop and began fiddling with cords as if she’d forgotten all about my presence in the room.

  “I’m curious,” I said, unwilling to play her game, “how often do you use that digital dressing room?”

  Molly made one of those humming sounds in her throat as if my interruption had pulled her out of a deeply meditative state. Hardly. “That was the first.”

  “As in, you’d never used it before tonight?”

  A slight know-it-all smile emerged on her mouth. And I had just started to like 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 ha
nd paused on the signature line of the confidentiality agreement.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No,” she said, but I waited for a follow-up response, because her face indicated her answer was only a precursor to many more words to come. Three taps of her pen later, my intuition proved correct.

  “I can understand the reasons you don’t want social media used on the premises,” she said, “especially for the privacy protection issues you’ve mentioned before. And I can also respect that you don’t want The Bridge’s location tagged or mapped.” She paused, and I braced for impact. “But it’s not all bad—social media, I mean. I actually think it could do a world of good for a place like this, if used responsibly, of course. There are people searching for a humanitarian cause just like this one to partner with.” She pulled in her bottom lip, and I redirected my gaze to the blank signature line once more. To my surprise, she signed her name, swooping the arches on each M even more dramatically than on the earlier pages. “I’ll abide by these rules, Silas, but I’d also like to show you some of the positive aspects that having a social media presence can offer.”

  “You do realize you haven’t even had your first mentor meeting yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that you’re suggesting I change a rule I’ve never once compromised on for any of the residents who have come begging me to reconsider it for one reason or another.”

  “Again, yes. But I’m not asking for the policy to be changed entirely, just adapted a wee bit.”

  I doubted Molly’s idea of a wee bit was anything close to mine. I sighed through my nose and rubbed at my temples. The ink had barely finished drying, and I was already feeling a stress headache coming on.

  “I won’t change my mind on this policy.”

  “Okay,” she said. But once again, I could tell that particular okay was only the start of something, not the ending of it. I was just beginning to learn the tiny nuances and fluctuations in her tone. Much of what Molly said or did seemed to hold a broader meaning.