Chapter Eleven
Dean
Solange: TGIF - ready for tonight? i’m excited!
Me: Happy Friday! Yeah, I’m ready. Going to send around the waiver to everyone in a few minutes. May as well fill it out before we get there. Don’t forget closed-toe shoes.
Me: Still there?
Solange: sorry! i fell asleep while you were capitalizing and adding periods
Me: Cute. Later, “babe.”
Solange: ugh, watch it. tchau.
I’m grinning like a fool when Henderson appears at my office door. Danger, danger. Happiness isn’t allowed here. I straighten in my seat and throw on my poker face.
“Chapman,” he says. “Just checking in on your campaign to recruit Kimberly Bailey. How’s it going?”
“So far, so good, sir. They seem to already know a lot about the firm, and they’ve been asking lots of questions.”
“That’s great to hear,” he forces out.
Anything pleasant takes considerable effort for Henderson.
“What else do you have lined up?” he asks.
“We’re stepping outside of the box and taking them axe throwing tonight. They loved the idea.”
His brows snap together. “I think it’s safe to say your generation is headed in a different direction than mine. Maybe that isn’t such a bad thing after all.” As though he’s unsure how to use his long-dormant face muscles, he slowly curves his lips into his best approximation of a smile. “You certainly seem to be doing okay.”
It’s the closest Henderson has ever come to paying me a compliment, and rather than lap it up the way I thought I would, I’m reminded of Solange’s point the day I asked her to be my pretend girlfriend: Shouldn’t working your ass off for eight years suffice? It should. But it doesn’t. And the moment I’m no longer useful to him, Henderson will revert to his old self again.
“Was there anything else, sir?”
Henderson’s uncharacteristically jovial expression slips. “Nothing else, Chapman. Keep me updated on any developments.”
“Will do.”
A few minutes later, Peter Barnum darkens my door. Apparently, I’m meeting with all the assholes today.
“Hey, got a minute?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say, minimizing the tabs on my computer because Peter’s a crafty gunner who’s always trying to advance his own interest and an open tab is potential ammo.
He flops onto a guest chair and leans forward, his grin too wide for my comfort. “I’ve been thinking: We need to elevate our efforts with Kimberly Bailey. Axe throwing isn’t going to cut it. Ba-dum-bump.”
I stare at him. “Is there more?”
“Well, with that in mind, I snagged us an invitation to an exclusive party in Adams Morgan on Saturday night.”
“Who’s throwing it?”
“A law school buddy of mine.”
Oh, hell no. I’m picturing stupid-ass togas. And beer kegs. And red plastic cups strewn around a poorly lit room. Just imagining Kimberly and Nia walking across a sticky floor is making me cringe on the inside. “I’m not so sure about this, Peter. What’s the crowd going to be like? Because I’m not taking Kimberly and Nia to an all-white frat party.”
He shakes his head. “No, no, it won’t be anything like that. I asked that very question because I had the same concerns and was assured it’s going to be a sophisticated and diverse crowd.”
Huh. That’s surprisingly post-Neanderthal for Peter. Maybe he isn’t as bad as I’ve made him out to be. “Okay, sounds fine to me.”
“Great, great,” he says, rubbing his hands. “I’ll send you the details. There’s just one thing: If you don’t mind, I’d like you to send out the invitation to the group. See, the law school buddy is actually an old girlfriend, and I don’t want Molly to get worked up about it.”
Never mind. He’s definitely a Neanderthal. “I don’t know, Peter. That seems shady.”
“It’s not, trust me. Just send out the invite. I’m sure it’ll come up when we’re there, but until then, I’d rather not subject myself to the third degree. Word is, my buddy’s going to announce her engagement at the party, so there really is no reason for Molly to be concerned.”
Okay, that sounds harmless enough. “Fine. Send me the details and I’ll invite everyone.”
“Perfect,” he says, jumping up. “I’ll owe you one.”
Given that it’s coming from Peter, I’m not expecting that IOU to be worth much.
Not long after leaving my office, Peter conveniently texts me an invite that I can pass along to the women. How considerate of you, Peter. I reformat it, deleting his hokey “Hey, Party People” greeting and composing my own. Kimberly accepts on her and Nia’s behalf within minutes. Solange responds an hour later:
I’ll go but I’m NOT wrapping myself in a bedsheet or taking Jell-O shots
I bark out a laugh. A single text from Solange and my day is already improved, assholes be damned.
Solange
“Ms. Pereira, hang on a minute!”
Merda. Caught. Just a few steps more, and I would have made it to my classroom. I spin around and watch the head of Victory Academy stride toward me. He’s in his forties, I think, swaths of premature gray near his temples blending nicely with his dirty-blond hair. And he’s never not in a suit. Which immediately makes me think of Dean. Indeed, this is how I picture my fake boyfriend looking in a decade or so.
“Dr. Cabrini—”
He waves away my greeting. “You’ve been here for eight months. Please call me Greg.”
“Greg it is, then. It’s good to see you.”
“Nice sneakers.”
I glance down at my Chucks. “I’m going axe throwing this evening.”
He tilts his head as though he’s never heard of the activity until now. “Right.” Then he raises an eyebrow, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. “Have you been avoiding me?”
“Not really, no. It’s just . . . I’m organizing a series of career days for my classes, so I’ve been super busy.”
He curves his mouth into a knowing grin. “And avoiding me.”
I drop my shoulders. “Is this about the lunch the other day? Because I cleaned up the room afterward. I’m happy to—”
“It’s not about the lunch, Ms. Pereira. You can put that out of your mind. Your fellowship ends soon, so I wanted to get your feedback. Do you have a few minutes to chat?”
“Oh, sure. Absolutely.”
We walk the short distance to his office, and I take a seat in front of his desk. He strikes a few lines on a Post-it Note, as if he’s tracking his to-do list, and sits back in his chair. “So the end of your fellowship is fast approaching, and I just wanted to express my appreciation for your contributions. I also wanted to ask about your experience here. Has it been a positive one?”
“It has. The students are sponges, and the classroom is just so full of life. At first, I didn’t know how the year would go. They seemed wary of my intentions. And some of them haven’t received the support from teachers they deserved. But once they started warming to me, we got into a good rhythm. I’m hopeful they’ll secure internships soon. With Victory’s guidance, of course.”
“Yes, about that,” he says, reaching for a file and opening it in front of him. “The board read your recommendations. They’d like to implement several, and they hate that our budget constraints prevent them from offering you a permanent position.”
I’d never tell Dr. Cabrini this, but I’m relieved the board can’t offer me a job. It makes my decision to leave DC infinitely easier. Sometimes having choices just means you’ll make the wrong ones. “It’s okay, Greg. I have something lined up.”
“Well, not so fast,” he says. “I passed on your recommendations to Ms. Dotty for her input since she’s our most senior staff member. She was very impressed. Said your suggestions would breathe new life into the program, and I agree.”
That’s lovely. Really. But what is the point of all this?
“You see, Ms. Dotty’s been considering retirement for some time, and apparently reading your vision for the program convinced her that now is the perfect time for her to step aside.”
“Oh God, why? Ms. Dotty’s an institution.”
“That she is. But here’s the thing: People who become institutions bring something larger than themselves to the places they touch. Ms. Dotty is no different. And she’s of the opinion that what Victory needs is your energy. She’d like us to have the opportunity to snag you while we have the chance.”
I swallow hard. If this is going where I think it’s going, I’ll scream—internally. “Meaning . . . ?”
“Meaning if she retires now, we’ll have enough space in the budget to offer you a position. And we’d task you with helping us overhaul the curriculum.”
“Goodness, I’m flattered, Greg. I never imagined this would be a possibility.” Truly.
“Well, we’re excited to bring you into the fold. I’ll need time to work out the details, but I can send you the particulars of the position next week.”
“When would I need to decide?”
“Ideally, by the middle of next month. That way, we can get our ducks in a row in time for the fall semester.”
One the one hand, wow. On the other hand, ugh. This is the kind of decision that could change my future. It’s not one to be considered lightly. Yet with so little time to decide, that’s precisely what I’ll be doing. “Thank you. I’m honored that so many people have this much faith in me.”
“And we’d be honored to have you. So please think it over while I finalize the specifics with the board.”
I rise from my chair, then shake his hand. “Will do, Greg.” Before I leave, I have to ask: “My mother didn’t contact you or anything, did she? About making me a job offer?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “No, not at all.”
“Right, right. Of course not.” I shake my head.
Still, she’s going to be delighted by this news. That makes one of us, at least.