Page 11

Astrid

“Oh my gosh, you must be Astrid!”

I pause at the doorway, surprised when a tall woman with a puff of blonde curls hurls herself at me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and drawing me in for a hug. When I look over her shoulder, eyes connecting with the girl at the front desk, she gives me a sheepish expression and a shrug, like Sorry, she does this to everyone .

“Wow, uh,” I blink, trying to gather my thoughts. “Nice to meet you…?”

She releases me and pulls back, sticking her hand out to me and shaking it robustly.

“Georgia,” she says, smile reaching her eyes, crinkling in the corners. “Supervisor here. We’ve been begging for someone to do what you’re here to do for ages . Nobody realizes what these kids are going through, and how hard it is for our workers and volunteers to manage the mental health side of things.”

“Oh, sure.” I take a step back to regain some personal space. “I’m happy to be here.”

“This is Lucy.” Georgia gestures to the front desk with a flourish. “If you call, she’s the one to answer the phone. Let me show you to your office.”

Gripping my bag tightly in my hands, I follow her. She talks the entire time, pointing out different details of the facility. During the school year, they specialize in after-school programs for working families, and during the summer, they take kids so parents don’t have to interrupt work.

“Low cost or no cost,” she says, glancing at me over her shoulder. “We work really hard to get money into this place. The government is always reducing funding, so it takes a lot from the community to keep us going.”

“Well, I’m glad you have room for my position.”

“Oh.” Georgia puts a hand on my shoulder when we reach a doorway leading into an office. “I lobbied for this one hard. Handled all the fundraising myself. We can only afford you through the summer, but I’m hoping that’s enough time to get the program detailed, educational materials for all the counselors, that sort of thing. We are so happy to have you—and all the way from California!”

My stomach churns as she pulls out a set of keys and unlocks the door to the office.

“That’s right,” I manage to say, letting her lead me inside. It’s not a huge room, but it’s relatively nice, with a simple desk, tall windows facing the playground, and some counter space in the back of the room.

“Feel free to bring in a coffee machine, microwave, whatever.” Georgia waves her hand. “We do have a staff room down the hall—I’ll show it to you after you get settled in—but it’s a bit small. We just want you to be as comfortable as possible.”

“Thank you. I’m excited to get started.”

We stand there quietly for a moment, Georgia with her wide smile, and when I clear my throat, she seems to jolt out of it, clapping and starting for the door.

“Oh,” she says, pausing and turning back. “Before I forget, these are your keys. They’ll get you into the building, any common areas, and this office. You just let me know if there’s any issue with them, okay?”

“Sounds good.” I reach out and take the keys, small and cold in my hand, clinking gently. “Thank you.”

With that, she’s gone, smiling at me one last time before she takes off down the hallway, heels clicking. I let out a breath and sink into the seat, letting the moment wash over me.

I’m here, at this center. Designing a mental health education plan.

What I want to be doing is research, but I can’t deny there’s something calling to me about this job. It might just be because I desperately could have used a little more mental health help when I was younger. That these kids—coming from families who need the low-cost or no-cost options—might need to work through things, learn to cope, handle their anxiety and depression so it doesn’t turn to a fully-fledged beast of its own.

Swallowing through the hockey puck in my throat, I ignore the flood of memories pushing at the locked door in my mind.

I take my laptop from my bag and set it up on the desk, clicking into the document I already started. A six-week educational program, one side for the workers and counselors, another for the kids. While here, I’ll get to know the center better, try to understand the needs of the kids, and form materials that can help them understand what they’re going through and offer them tools to help each other and themselves.

It’s not my intention to get sucked into work, but when I open the document, my hands find the keyboard and I start to type, referring to my research, adjusting the timeline, finding worksheets and creating PowerPoints.

I’m so lost in what I’m doing that two hours go by, and the next time I look up, I realize the playground is flooded with kids. Running, jumping, swinging themselves over the monkey bars. Laughter peals through the air, along with screams and names, and I stand, crossing my arms and coming to the glass, peering out at the kids as they play.

That’s when my eyes lock on a familiar head of copper hair bobbing along the fringes of the schoolyard, heading straight for the corner.

Calliope.

Why in the world is she here? I look around the rest of the playground, trying to find her sister, remembering how Calliope hadn’t let Athena from her sight as they played at the pool party at Sloane’s. But Athena must be lost in the crowd.

“Astrid?”

I startle and turn around to see Georgia at the door, that cheery smile still locked on her face.

“Oops,” she says, laughing and fluttering a hand to her chest. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Some of the other staff members will be taking lunch now, if you want to check out the break room with me? We could also do a loop around the playground if you want to meet some of the kids?”

“Sure.” I pause, glance at my laptop, where my work is still pulled up, then grab my keys from the desk and follow her out. She leads me down the hallway, introduces me to some of the other staff members—counselors and teachers, volunteers and some teenagers doing internships—then shows me the rest of the place. An indoor play area for bad weather days. An auditorium where they’ll perform a show at the end of the summer. Classrooms and art areas for them to do crafts.

“In the future,” Georgia says, “I’d love to get certified as a summer school. Be able to give some of the older kids credits so they can catch up, or even pull ahead and make room for those college dual credits they’re offering now.”

I’m listening, fascinated by this world, when we reach the door leading to the playground.

“Oh no,” Georgia says, raising the pink watch on her wrist up so she can peer at it. “Looks like we missed recess. We’ll have to—”

“Georgia?”

An anxious teen pushes open the door, looking relieved to find an adult. Wildly, she gestures back in the direction of the playground. Her face is flushed, her chest heaving.

“What’s wrong?”

The smile falls from Georgia’s face, and she grows serious so quickly, it’s impressive. She straightens, head turning like she might find the problem before the teen explains it to her.

“There’s a girl, she’s in the jungle gym—in one of those tubes—but she won’t come out. Everyone else is back at their activities. I don’t think she’s stuck, but—”

“Where is she?” Georgia is already pushing out, and the authoritative tone she’s using now is so different from the bright, sunshiny one she used on me that my brain takes a moment to parse that this is the same woman.

I follow Georgia, who follows the teen, and we make our way across the playground, eventually coming across the little jungle gym with a yellow tube stretching from one side to the other. It smells of warm plastic, painted metal, and the wood chips beneath my feet take me right back to being a kid, racing through the playground, thinking of cooties and playing tag.

Georgia steps forward and knocks on the tube gently. “Hello?” she calls, and while we can see the shadowed figure in the tube, it doesn’t answer. Georgia waits a moment, then calls again, “Hello. My name is Georgia. It’s time to come inside.”

“No, thank you,” the voice from the tube is muffled, small and girlish, but propped up by disdain. We can see her shifting, and from this angle, I can imagine she has her arms crossed, her elbows tucked in close to her body.

“Who is it?” Georgia whispers to the teen, who whispers back, “I think her name is Callie?”

I blink, look over at my office window, realize this is the corner of the playground I saw Calliope moving toward earlier.

“Calliope?” I ask, stepping forward, which seems to surprise Georgia. She’s quiet, though, watching as—instead of talking through the tube—I climb up the latticed stairs on my hands and knees, feeling the texture of the metal pressing into my skin.

“Don’t call me that,” she says, her last word hiccupping in surprise when she looks over and sees me on my hands and knees, my badge hanging around my neck as I look at her.

“Hey,” I say, trying to give her what I hope is an unoffensive smile. “What should I call you then?”

She hesitates. “Callie.”

“Okay, Callie. Mind if I join you?”

The shock on her face is clear, but she shakes her head and scoots over. I take a deep breath and fold myself into the tube, which is hot and smells, somehow, like skinned knees. I’m already sweating—and feeling rather claustrophobic—but this feels important.

I know what it’s like to be the girl in the tube, and remember that all I wanted was for someone to come in after me.

“Hey,” I say, letting my head fall against my shoulder. It’s the most comfortable way to look at her. Jokingly, I hold out my hand to her, like she’s an adult. “I’m Astrid. Not sure if we met, but I was at the barbecue last weekend.”

Callie stares at it for a moment, then reaches out and takes it. Her hand is small, soft, and somehow cold to the touch.

“I’m Callie,” she repeats. “ Not Calliope.”

“Okay.” I glance around the tunnel. I’m itching to get out of this tube and implore her to come with me, but something on her face tells me that would be the wrong move. So instead, I relax like this is exactly where I want to spend my time.

“I’m new here, too,” I say. “From California. West Coast, kind of like you.”

“It’s so… wet here,” she says, lifting her fingers to her face and pressing against her cheekbones. “It makes my face hurt.”

I tilt my head at her, thinking of the allergy pills I’ve been taking since I got here. “You know what, Callie? The plants here are different than they are out west. I’d bet your body is still trying to get used to them. Have you had a stuffy nose?”

She nods.

“Makes sense.” I lift my fingers to my own face to mirror hers. “These are your sinuses, and they’ll react if you have allergies. We can talk to your guardian about getting you some medicine. That should make it feel better.”

To my surprise, Callie looks down at the tube under her legs, and tears spring to her eyes.

“Okay,” she says, her voice warbling.

The seconds slink past, and I don’t have to think about what to say to her. It just comes naturally, like I’m talking to Sloane. “Things have been pretty hard, huh?”

Her eyes are glassy when they meet mine, her chin quivering with the effort of holding back her tears.

“Yeah,” she says, using her shoulder to wipe away the first tear that breaks free. “I—I just want to make sure my sister is okay, you know?”

I nod, even though I’m an only child. “You’re a good big sister.”

“My dad—” Callie pauses, sucks in a big breath of air, and lets the words all tumble out, “My dad always said It’s you and Thena against the world . I’m her big sister. And I can’t—”

She cuts off, and I work hard to keep tears from coming to my own eyes. Callie is the big sister, but she can’t be older than thirteen. Feeling like she needs to take care of someone when she doesn’t yet know how to take care of herself.

“Well, for what it’s worth,” I offer, “I think you’re doing an excellent job.”

Silence settles again, and she looks up at the top of the tube. “Sometimes, I just wish…”

She trails off, and I study her, watching as she twirls her thumbs around, the pads gently brushing nail before circling again.

Without thinking, I say, “Callie?”

She looks up, meeting my eyes. “Yeah?”

“Everyone’s experience is different, but I want you to know that you’re not alone, okay? I was a little older than you when it happened, but I lost my mom and dad too.”

Her eyes widen, the thought just seeming to occur to her that this could be a shared experience.

Like always, when I think of my parents, a collection of images flashes through my mind—my dad and his obsession with golf. My mother’s lemon pie, her collection of Precious Moments figurines in a tall, glass case.

“How old were you?” Callie asks, drawing me from the memories.

I speak through the growing ball of tension. “Seventeen.”

Her expression shifts, and I imagine she’s thinking That’s so old . That’s what I would have thought at her age. Now, when I see teenagers, seventeen-year-olds, picking out their graduation dresses in shopping malls, I want to burst into fresh tears.

“Do you still miss them?” she asks, biting her bottom lip.

I laugh, but it’s a bit wet. “Every day.”

A long moment stretches between us, and I feel a bead of sweat run down my spine, gathering under my arms. Callie sucks in a breath, seems to pull herself together, roughly wiping at her eyes again and pushing herself up, her sneakers squeaking against the tube.

“It’s so hot in here,” she laughs, starting to scoot out. “Let’s go inside.”

We climb out of the tube, and the teenager comes to her side, giving her a little bottle of water and walking her into the building. Georgia hangs back, watching as I unfold myself from the tube, reverse my way down the steps, and finally come to stand next to her.

That bright smile is back on her face.

“Astrid,” she gushes, taking me by the shoulders. I get the sense that she is a very tactile person. “You are going to do great things for this place. I just know it.”

That should fill me with confidence. Instead, my eyes drift to the door, shutting behind the teen and Callie, and another emotion takes over.

Pure, unadulterated concern for that girl.