7. Peaks and Valleys

PEAKS AND VALLEYS

In addition to working for no money at Shady Glen, the boy was also required to see the social worker once a week. So that Friday morning, instead of taking the bus here, he drove with his aunt downtown to the social worker's office for his first meeting. Neither he nor his aunt were happy about it.

"I get paid by the hour. I'm not on salary like he is. Does he have any idea how much these meetings cost real people?" his aunt grumped as they crawled through rush-hour traffic. "Ten dollars for an hour! I hope they validate," she grumped again at the parking garage.

His aunt talked a lot about money, how much the boy was costing her, the hassle of filling out the paperwork to get some of the money reimbursed. It made him feel like the equivalent of one of those red-marked overdue bills he and his mom used to get.

"Good to see you, come on in," the social worker said with a smile, as if this were a visit for fun instead of a court-mandated appointment. He gave the boy's aunt more paperwork to fill out and gestured for her to sit in the waiting room, which only made her grouchier yet.

Unlike the judge's chambers, where everything had been so hulking it had made the boy feel like an ant, the social worker's office seemed more like a room in a house than a place a grown-up might work. There wasn't even a desk, just a small round table with chairs in one corner and a large, soft-looking brown couch in another. One wall was covered with posters chirping inspirational quotes— The only way to guarantee failure is never to try —similar to the sticky notes his mom sometimes tacked to the bathroom mirror. The other wall had a giant rainbow-colored papier-maché hand, its pointer finger sticking straight out and beneath it the words You Belong scrawled in loopy neon letters.

The social worker sat at the table, so the boy chose a seat on the couch, as far away as he could get.

"I'm having some tea. Would you like any? Or hot chocolate. It's the dehydrated kind, but it has marshmallows." The social worker gestured to a small stand on which stood a still-steaming electric kettle, alongside teabags and Swiss Miss packets.

"Hot chocolate? It's like ninety degrees out." He wasn't sure why he said that, because he really did like hot chocolate.

"I know. But I read that drinking hot beverages in hot weather helps with the heat."

The boy had read that too. In science class. It was because drinking hot stuff made your brain produce more sweat, and when that evaporated, it cooled you down.

"How was your first week?" the social worker asked.

"How do you think it was?" the boy shot back.

"If I knew, I wouldn't be asking you."

"Hmph," he replied.

"How about this. Tell me one good thing and one bad thing that happened."

Peaks and valleys. It was a game one of his favorite teachers used to play with the class. Best part of your day, worst part of your day.

"The good thing is that I get to leave at six," he said. Good being relative here. Because when he left Shady Glen, he went to his aunt's house, his lumpy couch in the den, bland chicken dinners. Not much of a peak. More like a molehill.

"Okay, that makes sense," the social worker said. "What about the worst thing?"

Oh, that was easy. "Maya-Jade."

"Who's Maya-Jade again?" he asked.

"I already told you," he retorted. "She's the one who's in charge of me. And she's a kid. And she's bossy and mean and spoiled and is making me clean with bleach, and you said Shady Glen is not a punishment but that sure feels like a punishment."

As he spoke, he felt his anger rising. He knew that this was supposed to be part of the problem, his "anger issues," and he should do calming things like breathing in for five and out for five. But the truth was, hating Maya-Jade made him feel so much better than breathing did.

That's the thing about hate. It can sometimes feel like a blanket against the cold, a salve against a wound. When you don't have love, it can feel like a decent substitute.

But you already know that.

"It sounds like it's been a rough first week," the social worker said. "Just so you know, Mrs. Winston said that after your bumpy start you're doing well."

It was like a tug-of-war and he was the rope. Pulling one side was his anger and resentment of Maya-Jade, of everything, and pulling the other side the small, comforting swell of warmth the words doing well had kindled within him.

It wasn't a fair fight, not yet. The angry side still won.

"Whatever," he said.

The social worker steepled his fingers and fixed the boy with a stare. It felt like a beam of sun, hot and penetrating. The boy turned away, examining the photographs on the shelf. There was the social worker in paint-splattered coveralls, smiling with a bunch of kids. One with a big dog—a Great Dane, the boy thought. Another with the two daughters the boy had spied in the car, and a woman—the mom, the boy guessed—smiling as they stood outside a camping tent. And then there was another photo of the social worker in a tuxedo at what looked like some kind of fancy party, his arm slung around a pretty woman with dark hair. She looked strangely familiar.

"Who's that in the picture with you?" He pointed to the tuxedo picture.

When he saw the picture, the social worker smiled too. "That's my best friend."

The boy didn't think grown-ups had best friends. His mom never had. They moved too much. And anyway, she told the boy, he was her best friend.

"What's her name?"

"How about you tell me about your friends."

"I don't have any."

"Maybe not here, but other places you lived."

There had been friends once. Rachel in first grade and Miles in the second half of second grade and Jackson in third. All of them swore to keep in touch when he moved, but they never did. After a while he didn't see the point in making new friends.

He glanced back at the picture. She was so familiar.

"I know her," the boy said. "Is she, like, famous?"

"Tell you what. Let's talk about you first and then we can talk about me. Have you gotten to know any of the residents?"

The boy shuddered. "No. Gross."

"Gross?"

The boy mentioned the diapers, the baby dolls. The social worker chuckled.

"It's not funny!" the boy said.

"I know it's not," the social worker said, pausing to slurp his tea. The bottom of his mustache got wet. "You know, my father lived in Shady Glen. It was how I met Etta, Mrs. Winston. At first the place gave me the willies. It took some getting used to for both of us. But he was happy there. And getting old, it happens to us all." He paused. "If we're lucky."

The boy could not imagine what was lucky about having to use a walker or losing your hair or your sight or your marbles or having to live in a place like Shady Glen. Well, except for getting lasagna. That part was lucky.

"Whatever," the boy said. He could hear, out in the waiting room, his aunt aggressively turning the pages of a magazine. The longer he stayed in here, the worse it would be out there. "Can I go?"

He waited for the social worker to say the hour wasn't up, but instead he opened his palms and said, "If you like."

"Is this some sort of trick?"

"Why would it be a trick?"

"I leave before the hour's up and then you call the judge and they send me to juvie."

The social worker's face darkened; his gray-green eyes glistened as if the boy had physically hurt him. "I understand it's hard for you to trust me, but I'm here for you, to help you. Whether you leave early or not, my door is always open."

Nice words, but the boy had learned a thing or two about social workers and guidance counselors. They told you to trust them. They promised you that they were on your side.

And then they went and took away your mom.