“You kidding? You’ve been doing this for months. Just in a different context.”
I leaned my head against the rest and stared at the tan headliner. Working with the kids one-on-one was entirely different from leading a class of adults.
A whiff of cinnamon and cloves lured my focus toward a cup of chai he was waving in front of me. I reached for it, eyes widening.
He sat back. “When all else fails . . .”
After putting it in the cup holder to cool off, I’d gotten so lost in my thoughts, I’d forgotten about it. A slow smile tugged the corners of my mouth. I couldn’t fight it. One taste of those sweet Indian spices, and I was ready to testify that the drink was some type of therapeutic tonic. My lashes fluttered.
His grin toppled into a laugh. “Guess all superheroes get their mojo from somewhere.”
The tea almost sprayed through my nose. I gulped down my own laughter and wiped my chin with my sleeve. He always knew how to put me at ease. “Thanks.”
He winked and stretched into the backseat. “One more reminder that you’ve got this.” He set a gift bag on my lap.
My wary glance didn’t faze his smile. I pulled out the tissue paper and froze. Jasmine’s wooden music box stared up at me. I lifted the lid and traced my fingers over the word Dream stenciled inside.
Riley’s thumb brushed over my cheek. “You have a song to share, remember?”
Memories from last year, when he’d loaned me the music box during a time I’d needed it most, climbed from my heart straight for my eyes and ended in a kiss that said everything I couldn’t.
He lifted me back. “Think we better get inside,” he said, voice raspy.
Good idea.
Almost across the street, my cell rang. I stopped on the sidewalk. “Hello?”
“Emma, this is Neal Chandler from the Success Foundation. I got your message.”
So much for my chai’s calming effects. “Yes?” I slanted into the bricks, held my breath. Riley’s face contorted with question. I motioned for him to go in without me, but he flashed me a yeah, right expression.
“I’m calling to let you know I reopened your grant request,” Mr. Chandler said.
The morning’s muddled concerns sputtered out in an exhale. “That’s . . . that’s amazing. Thank you so much for your reconsideration. I promise it’s a worthwhile cause.”
“I have no doubt it is. Your proposal is quite impressive. I’m sorry it was overlooked.”
Overlooked?
Riley angled his head. “What?” he mouthed.
I chewed my lip, curious about Mr. Brake but afraid to stir up anything I didn’t need to.
“Our committee will review your file, and I should have some more information for you in the next few weeks.”
Now I had no choice but to ask. Deep breath. “Mr. Brake isn’t on the committee, is he?”
Riley wove his fingers through mine, probably putting all the pieces together by now.
My heart had to have beat a hundred times, waiting for Mr. Chandler’s delayed response.
“Jim’s no longer with the Success Foundation.” The statement lacked any intonation. Just straight, matter-of-fact business.
How much time had I wasted, not trying to reach them any sooner? “As of when?”
Another weighty pause. “This past week, actually.” Mr. Chandler cleared his throat. “I have a meeting to run to, but I can assure you I’ll be in touch as soon as I have an update.”
“Of course. Thank you for calling. Talk to you soon.” I hung up but didn’t move until the conversation had fully sunk in. This could be the breakthrough we needed. A twinge of reservation warned me not to cling to hope. The look in Riley’s eyes reminded me there was nothing else worth holding on to.
“They reopened our proposal.”
“I gathered. Congratulations.” He squeezed me to his side and led me down the walkway to the office.
My mind was still reeling when we walked in. Darius held open the back door for a few of the girls to pass through.
“Where’s Trey?”
He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Said he had to run an errand. Left about ten minutes ago.”
Which meant I’d have to wait to tell him about the grant possibility until after class. Class. Mr. Chandler’s call had sidetracked me. I stared at the door to the classroom that I’d gone in and out of too many times to count over the last nine months. It felt like a completely different place today.
On the other side of the doorway, my feet stopped at the edge of the packed classroom filled with people I didn’t know.
Riley laced his fingers through mine again. Funny how much difference such a little thing could make. He kissed my cheek. “Just be yourself.”
I still wasn’t quite ready to let go of his hand. “Stay?”
“Already planned on it.” He pointed behind him. “I’ll be in the back.”
And I’d be in the front. The last place I wanted to be.
He directed my gaze toward the podium.
Right. I headed to my post and gripped the sides of a podium seated on top of a table. Riley reclined against the windowsill, blending into the sea of students, all of whom were probably waiting for me to remember I was the teacher.
I set my tea to the side and withdrew my notes from my book bag. The rustling of papers sounded twice as loud as it should have. After enough blinks to simulate a turbo fan, the words on the page came into focus. Next step was finding my voice.
“Miss Matthews?” Ms. Mendierez headed toward me from the front row. “I hope you don’t mind. I told some of my friends about the class.”
Some friends? More like the entire neighborhood.
A distinct line of dignity tightened across her forehead. “We’re tired of things being the way they are.” Her gaze briefly wandered behind her. “We might not be the most educated group, but we came ‘cause we’re ready for things to change.”
Her conviction crumbled every bit of uneasiness I had into a tight ball that I quickly swallowed. If they had the courage to learn, then I could find the courage to teach. I returned her smile as she made her way back to her seat.
I twisted my necklace. “Thank you all for coming. Welcome to Financial Planning. My name is Emma Matthews. I’m about to graduate from Reed College with a bachelor of science in business.”
I smoothed out the ruffled corners of my papers and the tiny quiver left in my voice. “I don’t pretend to be an expert on the subject, but I’d like to share some principles that I hope will lay a solid foundation for you to build on. So, let’s go ahead and get started.” I set my finance textbook nearby. Just in case.
“How many of you have an IRA, either Simple or Roth?”
Instead of raised hands, a torrent of blank stares followed my question.
“How about an investment portfolio?”
Still, not a single hand lifted. Several people hung their heads and picked at scratches in their desks, dodging my eye contact.
“A savings account?” I was grasping at straws. “Okay. Um . . .” I snatched up my textbook as my mind raced for a different starting point.
From the back of the room, Riley nodded, and somehow I knew.
I let go of my text and, with it, the security I’d been afraid to release. It wasn’t like me to abandon my notes, but Riley was right this morning. Even as informative as classroom instruction could be, sometimes everyday life experiences were the best teachers.
I veered out from behind the podium and sat on the front edge of the table. “Let’s start with a more basic question. How many of you have a vision for what you’d like to do with your life?”
A few timid hands lifted in the air.
“Maybe it’s the dream of starting your own business,” I said. “Or maybe there’s something you’re good at—something you enjoy investing your time in—but you aren’t quite sure how it could be a financial tool.”
An older woman in the front row sat tall and tucked uncooperative s
trands of wiry gray hair back into her bun. “Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve wanted to open me a diner.” Her eyes brimmed with flickers of a long-held dream. “I’d call it, Mama’s Café.”
“Mrs. Jackson makes the best hushpuppies in the city,” a man a few rows back piped in.
The woman slumped in her seat and waved off his comment. “But I don’t know nothing about running no business.”
“That’s okay. Business can be learned.” I walked along the first row, searching each face as I passed. “But without vision, you won’t have anything to prevent you from giving up.”
Another hand rose halfway in the air. A young woman gestured to the girl sitting beside her, who didn’t appear to be much older than I was. “Miss Parker doesn’t have an education past high school,” she said, “but she loves to read. Goes through four or five books a week—anything she can get her hands on. I know she’s embarrassed, but I’ve seen her writing something. I think she wants to be an author.”
The girl’s head shot up from her lap. “I don’t have the credentials to be an author.” She hugged her notebook to her stomach. “An agent would only laugh at me.”
I knew that look of self-doubt. Was well acquainted with the power of insecurities.
I squatted to her eye level. “Your courage to dream is your credential.” My gaze flittered toward Riley. “A world of knowledge listed on a resume doesn’t amount to much without heart and character.”
Her smile almost outshined his. Nothing like having your own life lessons hit you square in the chest.
I returned to the front table. “I can teach you practical steps on how to manage finances, but never lose sight of where it all begins.” I scanned the room. “Believing in yourself is what’ll make the difference between wishing things were different and seeing them change.”
My heart was about to break through my ribcage. The words flowed with such confidence, it felt like someone else were talking through me. As if I were merely a part of the audience.
I called Riley up and asked him to tell his own story of daring to believe in his dream of becoming a recording artist. One by one, we went around the classroom and each shared a tucked-away aspiration. Running a daycare center, managing a construction crew, teaching dance lessons. For some, it was the first time acknowledging it publically. For a few, it was the first time even identifying it to themselves.
And even though each goal was attainable, a crisis of confidence tainted almost everyone the same way doubt had plagued Dee’s eyes the day he first showed me his drawings.
A lack of talent or ability didn’t hold them back. A lack of hope did.
We’d be kidding ourselves if we expected that to change overnight. It’d take perseverance. Along with the one thing we were running out of. Time.
I didn’t think my heart could break over the center closing any more than it already had. But seeing Ms. Mendierez’s face light up from the front row as she mouthed “thank you,” left me completely undone.
How could we start this class without being able to finish? Would the little time we had together be enough? I hedged back the thought and ended the class before the lump trekking up my throat became audible.
Chairs screeched backward. Conversations picked up. And I simply stood there, searching for answers I didn’t have.
The group of students gradually dissolved until the last stragglers exited, leaving Riley and me alone. He sauntered up beside me. “My brave fiancée.”
“I’m not sure stumbling my way through a class counts as—”
A yell from outside tunneled through the walls.
Riley and I exchanged one glance and launched out the door.
A woman’s angry sobs caught me short before rounding the bend. I’d seen too much loss mar that street corner to handle any more. I inched around, Riley by my side.
Trey and a woman from the class held Ms. Mendierez up by the arms in front of some kind of oversized poster tacked onto the building above a chalk outline of a body on the ground where someone had strewn layers of garbage and debris across the sidewalk.
Swallowing, I edged closer and risked a look at the wall. Vivid memories from the night Dee died rebounded off the poster into my gut—the stench of must and blood, the sirens against the whispers. The same loss of balance gripped me now.
Someone had blown up a grainy picture of Dee’s broken body in my arms on the street, blood seeping through his clothes. Dark, bold text topped the image: CLOSE THE CENTER BEFORE YOU END UP LIKE THIS.
How could anyone’s callousness stretch this far?
Ms. Mendierez broke free and crumbled to the sidewalk. “Who’d do this?”
After visiting Tito, I honestly wasn’t sure anymore. But that didn’t stop tremors of fury from coursing through me. I’d go to the city. Talk to whomever I needed to. Someone had to stop this.
“Mr. Williams?”
We all turned toward Mr. Glyndon as he approached. He swiped off his hat and took in the scene, looking all around as if scouting for the nearest escape route.
Trey met him on the sidewalk. “Mr. Glyndon, what are you doing here?”
He fiddled with his hat. “Got an email. Said to meet you here at three.”
“An email from who?”
“I assumed it was you.” The skin around the bridge of Mr. Glyndon’s nose wrinkled. He backed up. “I shouldn’t be here.”
Trey reached for him. “Wait—”
A news van zipped up to the curb right in front of us. A microphone and camera were in our faces before we had time to blink. “Mr. Glyndon, can you tell us what’s going on here?” a woman with entirely too much makeup on asked.
Sweat beaded across his red forehead. “I . . . I don’t understand. How did you know . . .? I shouldn’t . . .”
Someone must have tipped them off.
Miss Ruby Lips flung the microphone back. “Is it true this is your rental property? What do you have to say about the statement someone’s trying to make today?” She motioned for the cameraman to sweep a wide shot across the wall and sidewalk where Ms. Mendierez still sat on her knees.
Mr. Glyndon’s gaze flitted in every direction and landed past the camera. His face paled. Clutching his hat, he backed up again. I traced his line of sight and caught a sliver of that same BMW pulling away.
I turned in front of Mr. Glyndon and blocked the camera with my back. “Please. This needs to end. Whatever someone’s got on you isn’t worth what it’s costing these families.”
A stream of sweat coursed down his cheek. He blinked away from me toward Trey. “I’m sorry. I . . . I can’t.”
The reporter butted her microphone in between us. If he wouldn’t man up, I would. I turned and pointed to the scene. “The only statement this person made is that he’s nothing more than a common thug who resorts to vandalism and threats to get his way. But we’re not going anywhere.”
A couple of our younger kids, who’d apparently been eavesdropping, slinked around the corner and raced right into Trey’s and my legs. I picked up Teneecia. She swirled a red Blow Pop in her mouth. After one peek at the camera, she turned and flung her arms around me.
“This isn’t just a rental property.” I stroked her hair. “It’s a second home for kids who are counting on us to keep it open. We’re in the process of raising the necessary funds as we speak. We’re even planning a service day next week. Something the kids can be involved in.”
I resituated Teneecia on my hip. “By helping out, they’ll be gaining a real sense of responsibility and investment—things we’re teaching them every day in our programs. Not to mention the chance to experience how they can use their own resources to make a difference.” I darted a pointed glance at Mr. Glyndon. “We could all use a little more of that.”
The lights from the camera glared over his glistening forehead. “And Mr. Glyndon, what’s your take on this organization? Will you be supporting it?”
A series of swallows passed. “Yes. Of course.” Backing him
into a corner in front of the media seemed to have oiled up his jaw with the one thing he always caved under. Pressure. “We were discussing the extension on rent before you arrived.”
Sure we were. At this point, I’d let him worry about detangling himself from his growing web of lies. Between the money we could raise from the service day and the second chance the Success Foundation was giving us, hopefully we’d have him out of our hair for a solid year.
I shrank out of the spotlight while he floundered for a way out of his own. The reporters could have him. The center was the only thing I was concerned about. Teneecia coasted off my hip, and I helped Ms. Mendierez up from the ground. We tore down the poster, crumbled the intended harm into a tight wad that belonged with the rest of the trash at our feet, and stood our ground on the one thing we were all learning to fight for. Hope.
chapter twenty
Reconstruction
A week and a half wasn’t long enough to mend the sting that poster had left, but we were pressing forward. Focusing on our service event was a huge help.
Darius towered above me, scraping paint off the basketball pole with a little too much enthusiasm. I flicked a paint chip off my cheek for the hundredth time that morning. “How about we switch places again.”
Teetering on my toes, I made a valiant attempt to transition from squatting to standing without falling on my face. Darius’s laughter followed him all the way to the ground.
“Hey, you try standing up after sitting like that for an hour, and we’ll see who’s still laughing.”
“’Cept I ain’t old.” He did a series of squats like he was a professional weight lifter or something.
I chiseled away, making sure at least half of my chips conveniently fell spot on his head.
At least he provided some entertainment. Same as the rest of the kids buzzing around the center today seemed to be doing.
Brandon hauled a push broom across the court with two girls chasing after him, carrying dustpans. Every few minutes, little squeals rang in response to the cold overspray accidentally coming from the carwash station. Mr. Jenkins from our finance class was busy getting an industrial sized grill fired up.
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