Six Strings and Second Chances

Three

Logan

I hear the alarm go off from the hallway, a muffled trill behind Riley's bedroom door. It goes on for a few seconds, then stops. Silence follows.

I finish pouring coffee into a travel mug and glance at the clock. We've got about thirty-five minutes before I have to get her to school. Should be enough time. I tell myself that like I've got any kind of control over how this morning's gonna go.

I knock gently on her door. "Riley? You up?"

No answer.

I wait. Count to ten. Knock again, a little louder this time. "It's time to start getting ready."

Still nothing. I try the knob—it's not locked—and open the door just enough to peek in. She's sitting on her bed, hunched over, hoodie pulled up, arms wrapped around her knees. Her backpack's still on the floor, untouched.

"I'm not going," she mutters, before I can say anything. I step into the room, leaning against the doorframe.

"Yeah, I figured that's where we were at." She doesn't look at me. Just stares at the floor.

"I don't want to."

"I know." I keep my voice calm. No push, no pressure. "You don't have to want to. You just have to try." Her jaw clenches.

"What's the point? I'm not gonna stay there anyway." I sit down in the little desk chair next to her bed.

"What do you mean, not stay?"

"You'll get sick of me like everybody else. I'll get moved again. Or worse. So what's the point of trying to start over with a bunch of kids I don't even know?" She spits it out like it's fact, not fear. Honestly, I don't blame her for thinking that. She's been moved almost every other week this year. Her longest run was a two month stay in a group home; a far cry from safety and security.

"That's a heavy load to carry first thing in the morning," I reply, "But I hear you."

She finally looks up. Her eyes are sharp and guarded, but there's something underneath that—uncertainty, maybe. A flicker of hope she's already trying to smother.

But then she kills it dead.

"I'm not going," she snaps, "I mean it. You can't make me."

"Riley—"

"No!" Her voice climbs, hot and cutting. "I don't care what deal you try to make or what the rules are. I'm not going into some stupid school where they're all gonna stare at the girl with the anger issues and wonder what's wrong with her. I'm not doing it." I rub the back of my neck and take a big breath, hoping she would get the hint and take one too. She doesn't. She stands now, pacing like a cornered animal.

"You think I'm scared of detention? Or a phone call home? Good luck with that. They'll probably give you a medal for trying. You can ground me. I'll still sit right here." She flops back onto her bed like a dare, arms crossed, jaw tight. She's not bluffing. Not posturing. She's digging in with every bit of fight she's got, and she's got quite a bit. I rub my hands over my face, then let them fall to my sides.

"Alright," I say quietly.

She freezes.

"I'm not gonna drag you out the door," I go on. "And I'm not gonna scream or threaten or throw down ultimatums. I am gonna sit here for as long as it takes, and you and me are gonna talk." Her eyes narrow.

"What if I don't say anything?"

"Then I'll wait," I say. "All day if I have to. And if today's a bust, then we try again tomorrow."