Page 130 of Outspoken

“Sounds like a cop-out,” Brody comments.

“Shut up,” I say. “It’s not.”

Paige nods at me sympathetically, taking Brody’s hand as they try to open the large wooden doors quietly.

Angel eyes me suspiciously as I sit next to him. He’s in a crisp black button-up with black slacks. His dirty sneakers and messy, greasy hair kind of ruin the look, but at least he’s not in that hoodie.

“Sorry to hear about your, um—” I pause, not sure how he’s related to Marta. “Sorry for your loss.”

“She was my grandma’s sister.”

“Is Lupita your grandma?”

He scratches at a fresh group of pimples on his cheek, eyes downcast as he fiddles with his phone. “No. My grandma lives in Mexico. Marta had a lot of siblings.”

I nod, blanking about what to say next.Why is talking to teenagers so difficult?This might be another example of why I shouldn’t mentor. I have no idea how to talk to anyone under twenty-one. I’ve also cussed around Angel and probably been too open about my problems. Is it okay to tell teens about your problems? Or should I make being an adult seem more glamorous? Offer positive affirmations or something.

My lack of experience with kids is the reason I haven’t heard back about the application I submitted to be a mentor for that charity. Whoever looked at it must have intuitively sensed I’m going to fuck up some kid more than I’ll offer hope and support.

Angel glances at me, waiting.

“So, I almost didn’t recognize you,” I try to tease. “Where’s the gray hoodie?”

He frowns and pulls his vape pen from a pocket, taking a puff of the skunky drug.

I resist the urge to smack it from his hand. “You really have no respect for someone in recovery, do you?”

He twirls the pen in his fingers a few times, staring at it, then he puts it away. “Sorry,” he says. “It calms my anxiety.”

“Oh,” I respond, feeling guilty for not considering if he had an actual reason for weed, though he shouldn’t be smoking it underage. “Do you get anxiety a lot?”

He shrugs. “I guess.”

“Do you ever talk to doctors about it?”

He laughs, giving me a side glance like I’m stupid. “What doctors? I can’t see a doctor. Who would take me? I’m thirteen. I have to go with an adult. No one in my family would take me to a doctor to talk about fucking anxiety.” He laughs again like I’m crazy.

“Why wouldn’t they take you if you told them?”

“My family doesn’t want to hear about that shit. It’s not something you talk about. That’s just how it is in my community. If you have problems with your head, you get over it and stop acting weak.” His gaze becomes vacant as he stares at a bush. “You’re the only one I’ve told, and I shouldn’t have said it.”

His words hang heavy in the air as I remember what it feels like to think no one wants to hear about your problems—to feel isolated and alone. “I don’t know your family well enough to say, but I know Miguel. I’m certain Miguel would take you if you told him.”

“I hate talking to him. He’s annoying.”

“I’ll take you. I know a good doctor.”

He studies my black flats, his mouth a hard frown. “Forget it.”

I stop trying to push him and we sit there in silence. As a heaviness inside me grows, a gentle breeze shifts the bottom of my black dress. I tug it down to cover my knees, really wishing I wasn’t so lost for words. I wish I wasn’t so useless when it came to talking to him.

As an adult, I should have better advice or be able to help in some way. Even though I’m just some random chick and not his family, I recognize parts of myself in him and don’t want to see him step onto the path of addiction he’s facing.

But I can barely help myself sometimes. Why am I expecting to be able to help a teenager?

His attention is completely on his phone while I sit here looking up at birds on tree branches. My knee bounces.Come on. Think of something to say.

Suddenly, Angel groans and hunches further into the bench. Being a tad nosey, I glance at his phone from the corner of my eye.

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