Changes

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The consistent sound of the pencil kept ricocheting on the top of a glossy classroom desk. Six by six rows perfectly aligned like a line of soldiers in ranks for a battle. All the desks were perfectly placid and smooth until you got to the sixth row at the sixth seat across. There at that very last seat, in the darkest spot sat a young woman. Her posture slouched. Her upper lip curled into a slight sneer. Her hazel eyes showed a storm of anger and frustration that illuminated a smooth, rich face. Her hair was braided and to the side. Crossing and uncrossing her legs, the pencil kept a consistent pace.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Hues of red and blacks made up her wardrobe, and her sneakers were polished and clean – brand new as the day she bought them. Manicured hands kept the pencil moving against the desk like a conductor keeping a symphonic orchestra in time with the metronome.

Tap. Tap. T-

“Hello, Ms.Somers,” a voice echoed across the barren room. The voice washed over her as she turned to see a young woman leaning against the doorframe. The only way out, her freedom to leave this cell was blocked by a small, meek woman wearing a plain navy pantsuit. Heels clicked across the tile, the time of arrival was soon upon sixteen-year-old Irene Somers. Her face was hard as the woman sat across from her. A small, timid smile looked up at Irene, sincere eyes trying to catch the glance of the troubled girl.

“I can leave in five minutes, Mrs. Jones,” Irene spat out as she desperately looked to the door.

“Then all I need is five minutes,” was the steady response as Amy Jones clasped her hands together and placed them on top of her suit.

Silence filled the room; where words were usually needed, Amy Jones thought that the best way to help someone was for them to speak first and then listen. This technique for most social workers was difficult. Numerous times had she saw co-workers come in and out of the office tired and upset, so desperately in want of change.

Nevertheless, through her few years of working, she knew that social workers, parents, boyfriends, children, or even higher places do not have the ability to change them. Those being these kids – like Irene Jones – who were hurt in more ways that make one uncomfortable to describe. There was one truth that Amy knew: you could not change someone, only they could change themselves.

So, where did that leave the two women? In a suspended moment of time is what it felt like. Neither said a word, each staring at each other.
You could hear more than just a pin drop; what you could hear was Irene’s long eyelashes sweeping across her face as she blinked and Amy lick her lips, desperate for moisture. After what seemed like an eternity, finally a voice spoke:

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Irene bit out, as if she was already fighting for something more than a way out. Her hands gripped her jeans, and her eyes stared at the junction of the grout in the tile. “She was making fun of my brother. James didn’t do nothing to her. And she just sat there and made fun of his clothes and his messed up teeth.”

Amy just listened. Countless times, she found herself in this situation. Irene always seemed to want to speak her mind, but her pride was overwhelming. It seemed that family, respect, and honor were the only things prioritized in this young woman’s life. Therefore, Amy did what she did every time before, she nodded and kept listening.

Gulping the salvia, Irene just shook her head as if she was remembering what happened in detail. Her heart was inflamed with anger and justification for her actions. She could vividly remember her tiny hand whipping across the skin of another girl’s face. Her motives only on defending her younger brother from such teasing and harassment.

“Nobody understands. None of them do.” Gritting her teeth, she began to tap her pencil the more angry she got. “They think they know me and James, but they don’t understand. We have no money to buy new things. It’s not James’s fault for what he wears. Ma tells us she’ll buy us new clothes, but every month the electricity bill needs to be paid, or she needs to go buy groceries for us. It’s not James’ fault. It’s not his fault at all.”

By now, Amy was scooting slowly towards Irene. Seeing this rough and loud girl begin to shrivel up in insecurity and doubt was too much for even her. Irene put her face in her hands, the pencil rolling underneath the desk, no longer tapping. Irene was trapped in a struggle to save face and to finally let she go.

“I just wanted James to live a life not like mine. Not nothing like mine. He doesn’t deserve to go through what I did. The world is tough, and the only way to survive is to be tougher than what is thrown at you. But James doesn’t need that. He needs a normal life. And when someone brings him down, I don’t want to see him hurt. I love him. What’s wrong with that?” By now, Irene was unable to help her tears; they fell quickly and silently in the room as she began to cry. Her tears were like pearls gently rolling of her cheeks. So delicate was this girl and Amy couldn’t help herself but wrap her arms around Irene.

So many times, had Amy seen this girl close up? But for once, she was finally opening her fears and insecurities to someone else.

As she held the young girl in her arms, she knew that this moment wouldn’t last forever. So she held her tongue for words would only worsen the situation. Holding Irene in that moment was the best thing that anyone could do.
And as they walked out the door, hand in hand, Amy saw Irene smile weakly at her from the corner of her eye. She knew change was inevitable at this moment.