Calmly, Carefully, Completely(42)

He nods his head toward the counselors’ cabins, which is where I’m staying. “Check in with Phil. I think he might be having group with some of the youth, and he might need solid adult presence to help him out.” I nod my head. I have never considered myself a solid adult, but my head swells at the thought that he does.

I look at Reagan and cock my head to the side. I hope I look like an inquisitive puppy. Probably not, though. “Will I see you later?” I ask.

Her dad’s brow arches, and he looks almost…amused?

She nods at me, blushing a little as she looks at her dad from beneath lowered lashes.

I start off toward the ring of chairs in the middle of the counselors’ cabins. Phil stands up and gets a chair for me, putting me across from him on the other side of the ring. “How’s the wrist?” he asks as I settle down and lean forward, dangling my hands between my knees.

“Just strained,” I say. I don’t like that all the attention is suddenly on me.

He grins and winks at me. “Since you just got punched in the face by a girl—” He lets his gaze rake over the group. “—we were just talking about how many of the young men in the program come from homes where domestic violence is the norm.”

“Okay…” I say slowly. I don’t know what he wants me to contribute.

“Would you like to know how many?” he asks. He smiles at me in encouragement.

“I’d love to know,” I reply, because I assume it’s what he wants to hear.

Phil commands the group, “Please raise your hand if you experienced domestic violence in your home.” Six out of ten hands go up. “That might include violence against your mother, your father, your siblings. Or even your grandparents or foster parents.”

Another hand goes up. These boys didn’t have families like mine. Far from it. I was steeped in love and compassion, and they were baked in turmoil and anger. “Wow,” I say. “That’s more than I expected.” I don’t know what Phil wants me to do. So, I just ask questions. “Do your friends know about your situations? Or do you keep them away from your house?”

One of the boys blows out a breath. “I wouldn’t let my friends within a hundred yards of my apartment.”

“Do you go to their houses instead?” I ask.

He nods. “Some. There are others who have families like mine, so we hang out at the park a lot.”

“You do have friends with normal families, right?” I ask.

Tic Tac scoffs. “Fighting is normal,” he says. “If I went to a house and there was no fighting, I’d probably run away scared.”

The boys laugh at him, but I can tell by the way they avoid my gaze that this is true. The problems are their “normal.”

“How many of you want to be different when you grow up?” Four of them raise their hands. “How about when you have kids of your own?” I ask. “Would you want to provide a better life for your kids?” This time, an additional four hands go up.

Phil asks, “So you think that your kids deserve better than you got?” He takes in the group. “What can you do to make sure that happens?”

“Don’t get a bitch pregnant so you have to marry her,” one of them throws out.

“That’s a word you use to describe women?” I ask. I glare at him. I shouldn’t. But he has to know this is not all right.

He shrugs. “That’s what they are.”

“Your mother is a bitch?”

He shrugs again and avoids my eyes.