Covers

Chapter Three: Conflict

I peruse the unit notes on my laptop, tapping the end of my pen against my lip. This week, we're learning about conflict de-escalation among feuding parents. This unit is diving deeper and deeper into psychology with every passing moment, and I'm struggling to stay afloat. Psychology is not my best subject. I prefer the much more linear, fact-oriented social services classes, where there are fewer gray areas.

Thank goodness four out of the five professors whose classes I'm taking decided to give me extra credit for volunteering at the Mission, this class included. Considering I'm getting a degree in social work, volunteering with exactly the population I'll one day be employed in the service of, they felt they could pad my grades a bit.

I make a chart to better phrase the causes of conflict between parents and the methods I should use to address them. It takes some doing, as there is no such chart in the text. Just blocks of text.

I hate blocks of text. Put it in a diagram. Please.

I succeed in making my little chart, then spend the rest of class checking over the unit's PowerPoint to make sure I don't miss anything. Professor McClain hovers at my shoulder near the end of class. Her lectures usually only last ten minutes, then she lets us loose to finish assignments and notes while she wanders around to help. The perks of a very specialized class on a very specialized degree path include the fact that I am one of maybe fifteen people in here. She can give us all individual attention.

"I love how you format the information for your own digestion, but this isn't math, Audrey. There aren't formulas to memorize," she tells me kindly.

"I'm not trying to memorize it," I promise her. "I just worry I won't remember any of it if it's not in an easier format."

She pauses. "Would it help you if I formatted parts of the lecture differently?"

I look up at her, daring to hope. "Yes, ma'am."

She rolls her eyes lightly. "No ma'aming me. I'm not old enough," she jokes. Then she studies my little chart. "I'll take that into account when I'm editing the next PowerPoint."

"Thank you, Professor," I say with a smile.

"You're going to change the world, Audrey. I want you to remember me as one of the people who helped you grow the skills you'll use to become the president," she says with a wide grin. Before I can thank her for the compliment or argue that there are many people who would make a better president than me, she has drifted off to the next student.

Class ends. I already had my other two courses for the day, so I'm good to go home. I catch the bus and wave to Mr. Nelson before I find my seat. He chats with me about the fact that his dog just gave birth to puppies. Apparently, pure-bred French Bulldog puppies are quite a moneymaker.

I work on some homework before it's time to go to the Mission for dinner shift. I make myself a to-go cup of coffee and sip it on the bus.

I can't stop myself from thinking about Evan. Wondering about him. What is his story? How did he learn to play to guitar and sing like that? What is he doing in a Mission when his youth and kind heart could earn him a place at a relative's house?

I'm itching to ask him, though I can't help but think my curiosity is pathetic. A handsome stranger shows me respect twice and I can't get him out of my head.

I soothe my wounded pride by telling myself that I just want to get to know him.

I go through my routine at the Mission. Greet Tia. Put away my belongings. Wash my hands. Wave and greet the guests, volunteers and community service workers alike. I notice that Rainy has perfected the art of removing the pans from the wells. I give her a grin and a thumbs-up when I catch her eye.