If Only For One Night

by Victoria Christopher Murray

“Uh….” Camille peeked her head into my office. “Are you even here mentally because I’ve been knocking and knocking….”

  “Oh, sorry.” I motioned for her to come in. “I'm here - physically and mentally,” I said as I tried to shake all thoughts of Blu and my answer to his question away.

  "Well, you might say that you’re here,” Camille said as she stepped inside, then sat down in one of the two over-sized chairs in front of my desk. “But your mind is definitely someplace else."

  I sighed, thinking once again of the response that I truly wanted to give to Blu, the response that was opposite what I planned to give to him.

  “Angelique!”

  I blinked.

  “The way you’re zoning out, I almost hate to ask you — what’s going on?”

  This time when I shook my head, I hoped that my brain would rattle around and knock some sense into me. Because the last thing I needed to be doing at work today was thinking of Blu. I couldn’t afford this time — not when I had to finalize the details for the Black Girl Magic weekend that was coming up in two weeks.

  I said to Camille, “I’m really sorry. I do have a lot going on right now, including wrapping up everything for the big weekend.”

  “Well, before you do anything else,” Camille paused for just a moment, “I hate to be the bearer of this bad news….”

  My professional antenna shot right up and everything I should have seen before, I saw now. I saw the way Camille sat on the edge of her seat instead of leaning in her usual laid-back fashion. I saw the way her lips were pinched and her body sat so stiff and her eyes — what was that in her eyes? Worry? No, it was more than worry, it was kinda sorta like a low-grade fear.

  Taking all of that in, I tensed because I knew my assistant was not prone to any kind of dramatics. Whatever was going on was serious. “What is it?”

  I wasn’t sure if Camille was moving in slow motion or if it was my brain. Her arm edged up, up, up until the folder that she held finally made it into my hand. It took everything within me to hold back from snatching it from her and tearing it open myself. But before I could rip the pages out, Camille belted, “JT Financials…they won’t be funding the Black Girl Magic Weekend."

  The only reason I hesitated was because I couldn’t get my brain to make sense of the words Camille had just spoken. But then, her expression explained what her words had not made totally clear, and I fell back in my seat feeling like I’d been bludgeoned with a sledgehammer to my stomach. “Are you kidding me?"

  "I wish." Worry lines consumed her face.

  “How can they do this?”

  She shook her head as my eyes scanned the two page letter. She said, “And my question is how can they do this and say that it is effective immediately.”

  "I know! They can’t drop our funding now. We have two hundred girls coming to the Westin in eleven days. They’re staying at the hotel, we’re taking them shopping in the Galleria, we have all these workshops set up for them. And oh, they have to eat, especially at the gala.” I went through the itinerary as if Camille hadn’t been the key person to help me put this program together. “It’s next weekend,” I said as though telling her what she already knew would make a difference.

  She let me go on and on before she said, “I know.”

  “Without this funding, I won’t be able to make the final payments…and then, I’ll lose all the deposits. What am I supposed to do now?”

  She shook her head. “I’m so sorry, but like the letter said, JT Financials is bankrupt. Or at least, they’ve filed for bankruptcy and so….”

  She left it there but she didn’t need to say anymore. I wanted my modest office to be quiet anyway, so that I could figure out what to do. Our budget was small (compared to other foundations) for what I wanted to do with these teenagers that I referred to as ‘my girls’. There were two hundred of them who were part of my foundation, chosen from my church and six different high schools.

  I’d come up with the idea of Black Girl Magic after working with my pastor at Wheeler Avenue. Preston and I had been married for just a month when Hurricane Katrina sent almost a quarter of a million people to Houston and our pastor had asked members of Wheeler to open up their hearts, their homes, their wallets to help the evacuees. There wasn’t much that Preston and I could do at the time, but I suggested to Pastor Lawson that I could lead a church group for any teens who’d been displaced and missed being home in New Orleans. I was thinking about the many times I’d felt out of place as I traveled around the country for gymnastics, training away from home during the summers and competing during the school year. It was my personal experience that let me know there was a need for a support group like that.

  The church group was small, only seven teens. When I met those young girls, and they spoke openly about the life that they’d left behind — friends, family, their school and church — my heart broke for them. Their pain was in their voices as they talked about how it felt to be starting over and because of their displacement most sounded as if they couldn’t imagine much of a future, as if they didn’t want to put their hopes in something that, once again, wind or rain could sweep away. They suffered from a psychological trauma that for many would never be addressed and I didn’t want that to happen to these young ladies.

  That was when I decided that instead of sitting back, I would step up and mentor these girls beyond the one or two sessions I had first imagined. I wanted to show them how they were the master of the lives that God had given to them and their future could be anything they wanted it to be, not based upon their circumstances.

  Sheryl came in to work with me and the girls and together we were able to raise their spirits and give them hope.

  Over time, the seven girls grew to twenty, and that was when I knew I had a program. There were so many organizations who focused on at-risk teens, and then, of course, the upper-middle and upper class teens had Jack and Jill and programs within the national sororities. But I wanted to start a foundation for the forgotten girls in between — the ones whose parents worked two and three jobs so they weren’t on any kind of public assistance, but who would never receive the personal invitation into some of the other programs.

  It was four years later when I started the foundation to help expose teens to the opportunities before them in the world. I wanted to let them know college was an option and they didn't need to rule it out because as so many of them felt, they ‘didn't want to put an extra burden on their parents.'

  The program (which I named before Black Girl Magic became a trending thing) was a once-a-month Saturday and Sunday gathering. On the Saturday, I took them to four-star restaurants for the experience of sitting down in that environment, to upscale spas, art fairs and the Shakespeare festival. And then on Sunday, we came together for workshops and to discuss their experiences. We ended the day with a rap-session where the girls talked about whatever was going on in their lives — from parental issues to boyfriend challenges and all the teen angst in between.

  I had such dreams for these girls because ninety-four percent of them who graduated out of Black Girl Magic went on to college. My desire was to take that percentage to one hundred and provide all the financial and emotional support the girls needed through their college years, too.

  But before I could achieve that goal, I had to get through next weekend, which was the first time we were making our weekend meetings a full-blown conference. For a year, the girls had looked forward to this. I’d secured the funding, made the plans and was as excited as the girls.

  And now it looked like this was coming to a crashing, disappointing end. I’d had three sponsors and I’d done something that I never had before: I made the final arrangements without having all of the committed funds in the bank. Now, I had to find alternative funding. Someone else would have to give me the twenty-five thousand dollars that JT Financials had committed to us.

  I held my head in my hands as if that would be enough to stave off the headache that was sure to come. An
d not just a physical one. Cancelling this event was sure to cause pain to so many.

  “I can’t believe this is happening.” I fought to hold back the moistness struggling to break free from my eyes.

  For the eight years that I’d had this program, I worked hard to manage it well. I kept the operational budget low: only Camille and I were full-time staffers, and we shared an office suite with another company, not in the high-rent downtown district, but near Kirby because I wanted to be professional, but keep my overhead low. I held fundraisers for the day-to-day expenses for Black Girl Magic, but enlisted the support of sponsors for special events. We hadn’t done anything as special as this for so many of the girls and it had to be my excitement that encouraged me to move forward without having the money in the bank. It wasn’t like I was reckless — JT Financials had been on board for a year and this wasn't their first time sponsoring an event. They hadn’t expressed any kind of concern to me about being able to deliver and I’d certainly heard no rumblings of their demise.

  Camille broke through my reflections. “Is there any other way?”

  I shook my head. “Where can I get that kind of money, especially on this short notice?” I just sat there, my mind a complete blank except for the words that kept rolling around in my head — I cannot cancel this event.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” Camille asked as she stood. “Anyone I can call? Anything you can think of?”

  I wanted to ask her to please be quiet. She was asking questions that I was already struggling to answer. But there was no reason to be upset with her. So all I did was shake my head, thank her and then, with my silence, I dismissed her.

  Blinking was my defense, until I was alone. And then, I just let the tears roll out. I knew that wasn’t a professional response. Usually when something like this happened, I sprang into action — I believed in turning my fear into my fight. But I was overwhelmed by the amount of money I needed and in such a short period of time. If I didn’t fix this, I would have two hundred very disappointed young girls who already had enough of that in their lives.

  So I had to come up with a plan — who else? What else? I didn’t have the money — I had put so much of my own into Black Girls Magic, which was fine because I believed in this so much. And as it was, even with the twenty-five thousand, I was going to have to put in a couple of thousand, probably close to five, because of the updated budget I did last week. So my bank account wasn’t an option.

  I could probably ask Sheryl, and even maybe Cassidy. Both were members of my board and I was sure that both had at least that much money saved. But the problem was, even if they did, neither of them were in the position to give twenty-five thousand dollars. Because that was what they would be doing. This wouldn’t be a loan, the foundation had no way of repaying that money.

  Leaning back in my chair, I closed my eyes for what I hoped would be no longer than a minute. There had to be something that I could do, something that I was missing. Then, when I opened my eyes, my glance settled on the single photo on my desk — me and Preston on our wedding day, facing each other, holding both hands just moments before the pastor told Preston that he could kiss his bride. That was the day when Preston promised to love, honor and, most of all, cherish me.

  I grabbed my phone and before I could change my mind, I tapped on Preston’s name. I wasn’t surprised when he didn’t answer. But I figured if I called right back, he’d see the urgency in my reaching out to him. But even my second attempt ended up with my call going to voicemail.

  I had no doubt that he was at work — that’s where he always was. So I blocked my number and called the direct line to his office. This time, the phone rang only once.

  “Preston Mason.”

  I resisted the urge to snap at him and instead said, “Honey, did I catch you at a bad time?”

  "Hey, babe," Preston said, though there was no sweetness in his tone. His words were short, choppy, full of urgency, but not for me. “In the middle of something. What's up?"

  But that didn’t deter me because right now, I really needed my husband. "I just...um...I just needed to talk to you. I’m really in a bad place right now.”

  “Why?” The urgency in his tone was gone, replaced with the concern that no matter what, Preston seemed to have for me. “What's wrong?"

  “It's my foundation and the upcoming weekend that I have planned. One of the sponsors bailed on us. Bankruptcy. And now, we’re short twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  “Whoa. Who?”

  “JT Financials.”

  He sighed as if my words were no surprise.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I’d heard that they were having challenges.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?” That snapping reflex that I was trying to hold back came out. “You’re on the board, Preston. This is something that you should have told me.”

  “Uh…no. Because I don’t make moves on rumors. And secondly, I didn’t know they were one of your sponsors.”

  “You would have known if you came to board meetings,” I said. “You would have known if you listened when I tried to tell you about the weekend any number of….”

  “Look, babe, I’m really sorry about you losing them, but I really have to….”

  “Wait!” I slowed my roll. Why was I talking to Preston about missing board meetings and never listening to me when I needed something else from him. “I’m sorry,” I spoke quickly. “I know you’re busy, so I’ll just come right out — do you think Wake Forest could….”

  He cut me off, already knowing my question and already having his answer. “Babe, I can’t make that kind of decision. I couldn’t give you the money even if I wanted to. This is a partnership. The money we have doesn’t belong to me.”

  “I understand. But this is an emergency and you told me that Wake Forest wanted to do some charity st—“

  “Can we talk about this tonight?” His words were back to being short, choppy, filled with urgency, not for me. “I really have to go.”

  I gripped my cell phone tighter as if that would keep Preston on the phone longer. “What time will you be home?”

  “Not sure. Pretty late. Don’t wait up for me tonight, but we can definitely brainstorm about this sometime this week.”

  Had he listened to me at all? Didn’t he realize that I didn’t have any time? By the time I said, “Fine, Preston,” he had already hung up.

  I held my phone, just staring at the screen until it faded to black. A slow sob built in my chest and rose up, through my throat. But right before it escaped through my lips, my phone chimed.

  I glanced at it, hoping it was a text from Preston, hoping that he had changed his mind.

  But it was a Word With Friends notification: Your move.

  I tapped the open and saw the bubble alerting me that I had a message from Blue:

  Beat that.