by R. S. Lively
“Somebody like me, huh?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Somebody like you. Somebody on the lower rungs of – well – everything. One step up from the gutter, in actuality.”
I run a hand through my hair and let the waves of disbelief wash over me. Darby had told me how arrogant and condescending Mason's become, but seeing it there, live and in the flesh, is a whole different experience. It's breathtaking and about all I can do is laugh.
“Something funny?” he asks.
I shrug. “Just your presumption that you can tell her – and me, by the way – who we can and can't see,” I say. “It's really something.”
“She's my sister,” he says. “And you – you're just another piece of street garbage.”
A wry grin touches my lips. “Yeah, maybe so,” I reply. “Still, it beats being an uptight, pretentious prick with delusions of grandeur like you. You fell into a pile of shit, Mason. If not for your aunt and uncle, you'd probably still be there. With me. And yet, you somehow think you earned your way to the top.”
“I've earned everything I have,” he says. “I've worked my ass off to get to where I am.”
His tone is hard and icy – and entirely defensive. I've obviously hit too close to home and he knows it. Doesn't like being reminded of where he came from. Doesn't like being reminded that he's just a pretender in that rich, elite world he exists in. That he was handed his position in this life through no effort on his part.
“You didn't earn shit, man. You had it handed to you on a silver fuckin' platter,” I say, digging the knife a little deeper. “So, don't stand there and pretend that you're better than me. Because I remember you for what you are. You're just a weak ass kid who got his ass beat at St. Aggie's and cried like a little girl. And I'm the one who saved your ass.”
He looks around my place and I can see he's doing his best to control the anger inside of him. He wants to take a run at me. Wants to throw a punch. I have a feeling though, on some level, he realizes it would be a mistake. He may be fit and strong now, but growing up like I did made me tough in ways he'll never understand. Ways he can never be.
“You know, being a lawyer, helps you make all kinds of connections,” he says. “You get to know cops, prosecuting attorneys, judges – people like that. You get to know and be friends with them. You do favors for each other from time to time.”
“And I care – why?”
He shrugs. “When I found out about you and Darby, I started doing a little light reading on you, Carter. Quite an interesting story you have.”
“Get to the point,” I say. “And then get the fuck out of my place.”
“My point is that there are still plenty of unsolved homicides around the time Pops Ramazzo was running his little crime family,” he says. “And, maybe you don't know, but the statute of limitations on murder never runs out. Could well be worth it for the police to maybe, open up some of those cold cases and take a fresh look at them.”
A pit opens up in my stomach and that old familiar rage wells up within me. It's all I can do to keep from beating the shit out of him right then and there. It's one thing to threaten me, it's something else entirely to threaten Pops.
“You leave Pops out of this,” I say. “He's twice the man you're ever gonna be, you piece of shit.”
Mason shrugs. “Please,” he says. “He's a murdering crook who has somehow managed to escape justice all these years. Maybe time has a way of catching up with a guy like him.”
Rage in my eyes, I take a menacing step toward him and Mason retreats a step. Realizing what he'd done, he stops moving and stands up straight, doing his best to look tough and unintimidated. I can see it in his eyes though – he's terrified of me.
“You go anywhere near Pops, and I'll cut your fuckin' heart out and feed it to you,” I hiss. “You got me, asshole?”
He clears his throat and tries to stand even straighter. “You stay away from Darby, and I won't have to.”
He steps around me, doing his best to avoid touching me, like I'm a leper or something. He reaches for the doorknob and I stop him. He turns to me, a look of triumph in his eyes.
“You know,” I say. “It just occurred to me that you're still the same little kid I found getting his ass beat on the playground that day. You're just a scared little bitch looking for somebody else to save his ass.”
His eyes flash dangerously, but he quickly tamps it down – though I can see the effort it takes. He knows that if it came to blows with me, he'll lose every single time.
“Stay away from her,” he says. “Or Pops goes down. Your choice.”
“You are a real piece of shit, Mason.”
“I win, Carter,” he says. “And I'm always going to win. People like me – that's just what we do. We win. Total and complete victories.”
I let out a snort of derision and stare him down. “Yeah, you should probably go,” I say. “Before the cops have another unsolved homicide on their hands.”
He gives me a greasy smirk. “Stay away from Darby,” he says. “Last warning.”
“Good seeing you, man,” I say. “We should grab a beer and catch up sometime.”
He rolls his eyes and leaves my apartment, slamming the door behind him. I stand there and seethe for a few minutes, doing my best to gather myself. I'm half-tempted to call Darby and tell him what just happened. At least, until an image of Pops floats through my mind.
My heart is heavy and the anger within me surges high like a black tide. I really am caught between a rock and a hard place. The hardest of places. Continue dating a girl I'm really into? Or risk sending a man who's been so good to me to prison?
I call up Darby's contact information, my head and heart a swirl of conflicting emotions. Do I call her? Or, do I not? Do I let Mason win? Or do I tell him to get fucked and roll the dice with Pops’ life?
The rage is building within me, but I know it's an impotent rage. There's nothing I can do. Looking at Darby's name on my contact list, my finger hovers over the button, my body gripped with indecision.
Fucking Mason. Fuck that asshole for putting me in this spot.
Without giving myself time to think about it, I hit the delete button, erasing Darby from my phone – and from my life. With an animalistic roar, I hurl the phone against the wall, shattering it into a thousand pieces.
Shattered it just like my heart.
Chapter Four
Darby
Present Day...
“Excellent work, Maria,” I say.
I stroll through my classroom, checking on the progress of my students. Today, I have them working on scenes from the city and many of them are doing really well. Some are just going through the motions, taking my class because they thought it would be easy credits. But, some have a real and natural gift. I stop behind one of my more promising students, Emilio, and admire his work.
Emilio has a unique style and it's clear he sees the world in a unique way – a unique vision that translates so well to a canvas. In a lot of ways, he reminds me of the urban artists whose work I still go and admire. Though, with the gentrification and de-urbanization of many parts of the city, many of those amazing murals are being lost. They're becoming a dying art form, much to my own dismay and heartbreak.
“Emilio,” I say. “That is truly stunning.”
He's working on a painting of an older couple on a bench in Central Park. There is a lot of realism to it, and yet, there is something of a surrealistic flair as well. The painting, as it's taking shape, really is exquisite.
“Exceptional work,” I say.
He smiles wide and I see the color flare in his cheeks. He quickly looks away though, uncomfortable with the weight of my praise. He's a very humble, quiet boy. One who keeps to himself most of the time. But, he's got a real gift. One I'm really trying to encourage and help him develop. I really think if he keeps at it and keeps honing his craft, I'm going to be seeing his work hanging in some of the most prestigious galleries in the not too distant future.
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“Thank you, Miss White,” he says and turns back to his canvas.
I continue walking around the classroom, looking over their shoulders, offering some instruction and critique. I look at the clock and see we only have about five minutes left.
“Okay guys,” I say. “We're almost out of time, so do me a favor and clean up your areas. Just leave your paintings on your easels and I'll put them up when they're dry.”
A low murmuring starts among the students as they set to work cleaning things up. Public school kids get a bad rap, in my opinion. The kids I teach are always polite. Helpful. I've never had a problem with them acting out. Most of them want to learn. They're eager to learn and are unfailingly receptive to instruction.
Honestly, these kids are a source of immense joy to me. Pretty much the only joy I have in my life these days. It's not like I have much of a social life to speak of.
“One more thing before you go,” I call out over the rising voices of the crowd as they shuffle toward the door. “Your two page papers are due tomorrow. Remember, I want to hear about a piece of art you've seen and how it's impacted you personally. Just like your paintings, I want you to draw straight from the heart, guys.”
They grumble and groan, but most all of them are smiling. I know my kids enjoy the work I give them. Well – they enjoy it more than the work they get in other classes, anyway. I try to make my classes fun and engaging. I'm trying to teach them to use their minds, to think about the way they interact with others – as well as the world around them. I'm not just teaching to a test or making them memorize things that will have no bearing on their lives moving forward.
Personally, I believe that art touches our lives in ways that most people don't seem to understand. It can change your relationship to people. It can change your relationship to the world around you. It can help you clarify and understand your emotions in ways you maybe, couldn't have articulated before.
That's my philosophy and that's how I try to teach my kids. I teach them to have a relationship with art. A relationship with their thoughts and emotions. A relationship with the world they interact with on a daily basis.
I teach my kids to think. I hope, to look at life a different way. My teaching style reflects that, and I think the results have all been pretty positive. Yeah, I know people think of me as the hippie-dippy art teacher who has her head in the clouds, but I don't care what most people think. All I care about is having a positive impact and influence in the lives of my kids.
For me, art is a beautiful thing. It's an escape and helps me to focus on something other than all the ugliness that's a staple in the world today. Murder. Drugs. War. Poverty. Politics. Everything is just so crass and superficial. So morbid and dark. Art allows me to channel beauty into my life. It allows me to see the good things in people and in this world – which isn't always easy to do.
The bell rings and the kids all wave to me, their eyes bright, their smiles wide. Yeah, I know what other teachers and some of the parents think of me, but my kids all love me.
I've been voted the most popular teacher in the school three years running, so they can all suck on that, as far as I'm concerned.
~ooo000ooo~
“So, how is life at Jefferson High?” she asks.
I take a sip of my martini and nod. “Wonderful,” I say. “And how is life at Crestwood?”
“Top of the world, babe,” Jade smiles.
We're sitting in a small bar in Chelsea called The Moonshiner. It's a hipster bar done up in an old Prohibition motif. The whole bar is done in dark wood that's been shellacked to hell and back. There are old black and white pictures of Prohibition era figures. An old rusted still sits in one corner, and other artifacts of that era.
It's campy and cheesy – which is probably why the hipsters love it. But, it's also a nice, quiet place you can go to get a drink and have a conversation. Which Jade and I do as often as we can. Given that she's married and has a kid of her own now, we don't get to spend as much time together as we'd like, but we make sure to carve out time for a girl's night out.
Jade is my oldest and dearest friend and I can't imagine my life without her. She surprised me when she went into teaching. Honestly, I'd always thought she wanted to be a housewife and a socialite. But, long ago, she said that I inspired her and followed me into the profession. And she loves it. She took to it like a duck to water and I couldn't be happier or more proud of her.
Of course, Jade being Jade, she had to shoot for the stars and the loftiest perch she could find. She just wouldn't be Jade if she didn't. Which is how she ended up at the Crestwood Academy, teaching the elite and future leaders of America.
Personally, I had enough of the rich kids and their sense of entitlement when I was growing up. The last thing I want to do is immerse myself back into that fetid swamp again. In my experience, rich kids don't appreciate – well – much of anything. And they certainly don't feel they need to work hard to better themselves. Most of them think they're the cream of the crop and that everybody should fall at their feet.
I honestly don't think the kids at Crestwood would respond to my style of teaching quite the same way my kids do. Nor would they get as much out of my classes as my kids seem to get. I'm teaching more than art in my class. I'm teaching about life. And most of the spoiled kids of the wealthy elite think they've already got it all figured out and that they've already got life by the balls.
Given that I grew up in privilege, I should probably be like them. Hell, my own brother sure adapted to that way of life and way of thinking pretty quickly. But, it was never for me. I remember living that middle-class life – and actually, enjoying it more.
“When are you coming to teach at Crestwood?” Jade asks.
“The better question is,” I say and smile, “when are you going to stop asking me that?”
“Probably when you say yes.”
I take another sip of my drink and smile. “Not gonna happen,” I say. “I love my kids.”
“You'll have new kids to love.”
“They won't love me back like my kids do.”
“Just think about how much better you'll be supplied at Crestwood though,” she says. “I hear they're cutting funding for the arts programs in public schools again. How long is it going to be before you're teaching art without art supplies?”
That much is true, and I don't have a witty comeback for it. It seems like every year, the damn policymakers who handle the budget for public schools cut more and more money out of the arts programs. Oh, there's still money for things like the sports programs, but when it comes to something like the arts, the purse strings are getting tighter and tighter.
“That's why it's important that I stay where I'm at,” I say. “Why I keep fighting to preserve what little we have left. My kids need me. If I pulled up stakes and abandoned them for a rich, fancy school, I don't know that I could forgive myself.”
Jade smiles. “That's my girl,” she says and sighs. “Always the champion for the downtrodden and oppressed.”
I shrug. “Somebody has to be a voice for them.”
“Well, if it ever gets to be too much, or they just decide to wipe out the programs altogether – which is looking like a real possibility – promise me you'll think about Crestwood?” she begs. “I know I can score you an interview and, of course, I'll talk you up big time. I just think it would be so amazing to teach with my bestie.”
I take her hand and give it a squeeze. “I will,” I say. “I promise.”
As fun as it would be to teach in the same school as my bestie, Crestwood really is the last place I want to be. But, if the budget cuts continue, I may not have any choice. There's a chance I could lose my job if they eliminate the programs altogether.
And given how little value our policymakers place on the arts, there's a real chance they could vote to eliminate the programs.
“Anyway, cheerier topic,” Jade says. “How did your date go with – that one guy?”
“Jer
emy,” I say. “His name is Jeremy.”
She nods. “Jeremy. Right,” she says. “And he's the banker guy, right?”
I laugh. Jade's memory is somewhat lacking at times. Either that or, she's hoping all my dates fail because she's been pressing me to go out with a guy she's been trying to set me up with for months.
“He actually runs an art gallery,” I say.
“Oh, right,” she says, a little smile on her face. “Of course, he does.”
“And, for your information, it went well enough, I suppose,” I say. “But, there's really not a lot of chemistry there. He's a nice guy, I just don't feel that spark.”
“Oh, that's too bad,” she says. “Have I ever told you about Neville?”
I laugh and shake my head as I take a sip of my drink. And, there it is. The sales pitch.
“Yes,” I say. “You've told me about him about a thousand times already.”
“Oh, have I?”
I finish my drink and set the glass down. The waitress comes by and collects our empty glasses and sets down a fresh round. We've been coming here long enough that the waitresses all know our routine.
“Come on, Darbs,” she says. “Neville is a great guy. He's handsome, he's successful, has a killer body, and oh yeah, he's filthy stinking rich. He's the whole package, Darbs.”
“So, why don't you date him?” I ask.
She laughs. “If Aaron would allow it, I would,” she says and then puts on a faux-thoughtful look. “Hmmm... maybe I should look into starting a harem of my own.”
“There you go,” I say and raise my glass. “Good idea.”
The truth of the matter is that my love life is an absolute dumpster fire. I haven't had a serious boyfriend in years, and between then and now, I have a string of – well – nothing. A few dates here and there. I've not had anything progress past the second date in, I don't even know how long.
Most of the guys I meet are nice. They're just not for me. They all seem to be lacking something. Some essential quality that really lights me up and makes me want to be with them. It's not their fault, I guess I'm just too picky. But, I know what I want, and I won't settle for less than that.