At the ripe old age of 11, Angelique is already a tough nut to crack. She’s a routine guest in my office for a myriad of troubles and glares at me darkly through her braids on this particular afternoon, arms cinched over her chest, mouth in a twist.
I have a great many things I need to say to Angelique, but each time I try to engage her, she refuses to speak to me. She rolls her eyes so far into the back of her head, I fear she might pull an optic muscle. She’s not having any of it.