Page 21 of Goalie Lessons

“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 aresohappy 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—”

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