“Then we gotta go!”
Kassim is definitely “the responsible one” in every situation. He rushes past me, not even breaking stride when he scoops up the breakfast I left out for him. He waves to Hendrix and Deja, but doesn’t pause on his way to the garage.
“Guess we’ll be going too,” Hendrix says, picking up her Hermès bag, a gift from one of those fancy awards shows.
“You be good, Day.” I grab the handle of the cooler and start toward the door, dragging it behind me.
“Yes, Mom.” The usual exasperation colors her voice, but it can’t disguise the undercurrent of excitement. She’s been talking about this hair challenge thing for a week, and as much as I disagree that social media hair guru is a wise career choice, I don’t want her disappointed.
I give Hendrix a quick kiss on the cheek. “I owe you one.”
“We got an open tab,” she says, kissing my cheek in return. “You know that.”
She and Deja follow me into the garage, then continue down the driveway to where Hendrix’s Mercedes G-Class is parked on the street. By the time I back out and the garage door lowers, they’re gone.
We arrive at the field just in time. The team is circled up and the coach is starting his pep talk. I place the cooler at the end of the bench and set my folding chair with the other parents on the sidelines. By the end of the second half, the action picks up and Kassim is running the ball down the field.
“Go, Seem!” I stand, aiming my phone just in time to record him scoring the winning goal.
All the parents high-five while our kids shake hands with the other team.
“Mom, did you see me score?” Kassim asks, grinning between gulps of Gatorade, sweat beading his brow and dampening his jersey.
“I did.” I hold up my phone. “And I got it all right here.”
“We can show Dad!”
“I’ll send it to him in a little bit.” I check the time on my phone. “But we need to go if we want to make it to Dr. Cabbot’s office on time.”
The excitement drains from Kassim’s face, replaced by something close to dread, and I regret bringing it up.
“Oh, yeah,” he mumbles. “I almost forgot. Therapy.”
“Therapy” sounds like “firing squad” when he says it.
I grab the cooler and wheel it to the car. Still unusually subdued considering his victory, Kassim carries his duffel bag and takes the back seat. I don’t ask him why or pressure him to sit up front like he usually does. If anyone understands those first-time session jitters, it’s me.
When we pull up to Dr. Cabbot’s office, I park and turn to look at Kassim.
“Hey.” I wait for him to meet my eyes. “I know you’re nervous—”
“I’m not nervous.” He slides his glance away. “I don’t think we’ll have anything to talk about. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“I talk to someone all the time. Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”
Wide brown eyes snap to mine. “No. There’s nothing wrong with you, Mom. I…I just meant…I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize, baby.” I reach back, place my hand on his knee. “Sometimes we have a lot of feelings we don’t know what to do with. Ya know?”
He hesitates, but then nods, pulling at a thread on his shorts.
“Dr. Abrams says feelings come out one way or another. Like if we’re mad, sometimes we take it out on other people. We may snap at the barista at Starbucks or yell at our kids or kick our dog.”
“If somebody kicks Otis,” Kassim says with a tiny twitch of his lips, “he’ll kick them back.”
“You’re probably right. Otis is not the one to mess with. My point is, sometimes when we don’t understand our feelings, we point them in the wrong direction. Or if they do stay inside, they start to make us feel bad. We want you to understand some of what you might be feeling about Aunt Byrd, about Henry, about anything that’s been on your mind.”
“So I don’t kick Otis?” His small smile is still somewhat uneasy, but at least he seems a little more relaxed.