Chapter Nine
Solange
“Next question: Name the three branches of government.”
Inspired by my conversation with Dean this past weekend, I hum the Final Jeopardy! tune as I wait for one of my students to answer.
Someone yells, “Beyoncé, Kelly, and Michelle.”
“True, true,” I say, nodding. “The ladies of Destiny’s Child definitely run the world.” I give them a self-satisfied grin. “See what I did there?”
A collective groan fills the room.
“Queen Bey was solo by the time she put out that song,” another student notes.
Semantics. Plainly, I’m wasting my best material on them. Eighteen-year-old ingrates.
With about fifteen minutes left in class, Dean enters through the back door (heh) and slips into a seat—presumably to observe but actually to send me into a tailspin. Men in suits don’t often catch my attention; Dean in a suit monopolizes it. It’s a three-piece, too. Smiling, he gives me a small wave.
“Right,” I say, tapping the top of my head as I try to stay on topic. “We were talking about branches. Political ones, not trees. Anyone remember the question?”
“Ms. Pereira, are you okay?” Layla, one of my best students, asks. “You seem off all of a sudden.”
The question makes me flinch, which only proves her point. When I refocus on the current crop of candidates in Victory Academy’s GED & Empowerment Class, twenty sets of eyes—a few struggling to remain open—are staring back at me.
Layla scribbles in her notepad, her perfectly arched eyebrows knitted as she waits for me to respond. From the back of the room, Dean looks at me innocently, a hint of amusement evident in the curve of his lips.
“I’m fine, Layla. Thanks for your concern. Everyone, let’s take a five-minute water break and start up again at five thirty for the final bonus round.”
Most of the students shoot up from their seats and rush out of the room. I stop Layla before she can scramble after them.
“Hang on, Ms. Young.”
She drops back onto her chair. “What’s up, Ms. P?”
“Did you get a chance to talk to your mother about my offer to give you some pieces from my business wardrobe?”
Most of the students are participating in a job fair in the fall; Layla expressed concerns about having something appropriate to wear.
Layla nods. “I did, Ms. P. Explained that you weren’t thinking of me as a charity case and had extra clothes from when you were interviewing for grad school. That satisfied her.”
“Good,” I tell her. “And it’s absolutely true. I don’t need those suits, so it would make me happy to give them to someone who could use them for their own job search. I’ll bring them in next class.”
“I appreciate it. Thank you.” She turns around in her seat and looks at Dean; after a few seconds, she twists to face me again, her knotless box braids swinging to a stop as she gives me a sly smile. “I’ll leave you two alone.”
As soon as the door closes, Dean removes his jacket—which does little to lessen the formality of his attire since he’s wearing a vest underneath. “The school’s impressive, Ms. Pereira.”
The way he says my last name. Good Lord.
“There’s a steady buzz in the air,” he continues.
That’s the sound of the vibrator I’ll be using at home later this evening. It’s voice-activated, and you turned it on from here.
Oh my God.
I’m a garbage person.
Stop it, Solange!
He takes a slow turn around the room, giving me a moment to collect myself. “It’s as if everyone’s positive energy is powering the place. Feels bright. Hopeful.”
“It does, and it is,” I say, straightening.
But there’s room for growth, and part of my duties as a Whitman Fellow has been to make (hopefully) innovative suggestions to improve the program. My main one: Rather than continue to focus on short-term goals, Victory should roll out a new curriculum with an emphasis on mentoring and counseling district residents for multiyear success. I’m curious to know whether the school’s board will accept any of my recommendations. And I feel a pang in my chest when I remember that any changes to the curriculum won’t happen on my watch. “I’m going to miss this place. The students, especially.”
“Is there any chance you could stay?” Dean asks. “This seems like a natural extension of your training.”
“You’re right about that. But there isn’t enough money to offer me a permanent position here, and I’m not sure I’d want to stay in DC beyond the summer anyway.” I shrug. “We’ll see.” Wanting to change the subject, I inspect him from head to toe, then ask, “Where’s your cravat and timepiece?”
He slips his hands inside his pockets, causing the fabric of his trousers to stretch across his thighs—not that it’s noteworthy or anything—then he gives me a half smile. “I left them in the horse-drawn carriage outside. My footman will make sure they’re not disturbed.”
Since the students are filing back in, I try to contain my laughter, but there’s no use. “You seem more at ease than usual today. What’s different?”
He straightens, his expression sobering. “Honestly? I think the stuff about Ella was weighing on me. Getting it out in the open is a big relief. I wanted you to know where I was coming from, and I appreciate that you didn’t peg me as a bad guy.”
Dean’s far from a bad guy; he’s just set in his ways. How he chooses his life partner has nothing to do with me. “You’re fine. We’re fine.” I gesture to the class. “Let me wrap up so we can go charm the pants off Kimberly Bailey.”
“Deal,” he says, his eyes shining. “And if I haven’t already said it a billion times, I can’t thank you enough for helping me get out of this mess.”
He’s a sweet man, and my being his plus-one isn’t a bother. Truth is, I want to help him get his happily-ever-after, even if the “after” simply means he secures the promotion of his dreams.
* * *
Dean should be paying me for this bullshit. Seriously.
His colleague Peter Barnum holds court at our table, his expansive gestures awkward and distracting as he explains how he convinced his wife to date him. “So then Molly says, ‘Why should I go out with you?’ Knowing I’d saved the best for last, I hit her with the ultimate mic drop.”
“Which was?” Kimberly Bailey asks, her expression mildly curious.
“Harvard,” Peter replies, pretending to drop a mic on the table.
Molly, who’s a dead ringer for Anne Hathaway circa The Devil Wears Prada, gives us an apologetic expression. I groan. Dean taps my foot under the table. I want to hiss at him so bad. If I had known that Peter’s molecular makeup consists entirely of asshole chromosomes, I would have made additional demands before agreeing to be Dean’s fake girlfriend. Not even the opportunity to dine at Rasika, where even the president probably needs a reservation, can make up for having to interact with the blowhard across the table (the naan’s spectacular, though).
Barnum’s last name is fitting, too, because the man is a circus clown. Molly, who’s lovely, must have agreed to marry him under duress; it’s the only explanation for this pairing.
I chance a glance at Kimberly and her partner, Nia. Now this is an adorable, well-matched couple: two gorgeous Black women who couldn’t be more different in looks and personality but finish each other’s sentences. Kimberly is tall, her skin dark and rich, and she’s just as sarcastic as I am. Nia’s petite and fair, her hair an artful arrangement of honey and red-toned locs swept up into a high ponytail, and she bounces as she speaks, as if she’s bursting to share her observations because she’s worried that she’ll forget them. What’s even more precious? Despite their long-standing relationship, they somehow manage to look like they’re still in its honeymoon phase.
I’m not sure the firm partners were thinking clearly when they put together this welcoming committee. Oh yes, it makes perfect sense for two white men to give a Black woman insight into what it’s like to work at a mostly white law firm. Epic fail, if you ask me. Still, despite the optics, Kimberly and her partner seem to be taking it in stride.
“How about you two?” Peter asks, interrupting my thoughts and directing everyone’s attention to Dean and me. “Tell us about the moment you fell in love.” He leans forward and addresses Kimberly. “There’s a bit of a scandal to the story.” His beady eyes glitter with malicious intent. “Can’t wait to hear how that all went down.”
I hate Peter. Okay, hate’s a strong word. I dislike him very, very, very much. Thankfully, Dean and I prepared for this question on the way over, and as we agreed then, I take the lead now. Leaning ever so slightly toward Dean, I clasp my hands together and take a deep breath. “It happened over time, actually. We’d been roommates for a while, having met through mutual family and friends who knew I was looking for a flexible rooming situation. And because I was always coming and going, we were comfortable simply existing in the same space. Best part? We didn’t even share the same bathroom.”
It still blows my mind that Dean has two bathrooms in his unit. What I wouldn’t give not to share one with Brandon. He treats my period like a string of garlic hanging around my neck, and some days I just want to fling menstrual products everywhere so he can understand how much he doesn’t see because I’m a considerate (and relatively neat) person.
“Want to try?” Dean asks softly, sliding his plate of palak chaat closer to me.
“Yes, please,” I say. I’ve been eyeing his crispy spinach appetizer since it arrived at the table, so I’m delighted that faking a relationship means I get to sample his food too.
Dean wipes his mouth with a cloth napkin and clears his throat. “See, I met Ella about six months ago and thought I’d found the one. But Solange was never convinced we were right together, and I ignored the warning signs. Solange said I deserved more. That I should be head-over-heels in love. I thought she was being way too romantic for her own good. We talked a lot in the run-up to the wedding. Solange forced me to do a ton of soul-searching. But I’m a stubborn guy, so I just charged forward with my plans because I have a hard time doing anything else.”
Poor Dean. He’s so earnest as he says this, I can’t help thinking that he’s noticeably skilled at telling this tale because it’s mostly true. Just swap out my name for Max’s, and I bet it absolutely is.
“The gag is that Ella was in love with someone else,” Peter blurts out, clearly impatient to get to the juicy parts.
“Oh no,” Nia says, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. “That’s awful.”
“You don’t have to share this with us,” Kimberly says to Dean. “If you want to keep it a private matter, you’re more than welcome to.”
Knowing that Peter’s a jerk with no sense of what’s appropriate in a social setting, Dean and I planned for this too.
Dean looks over at me, his eyes glowing with affection. Well, someone’s a quick study. “It’s okay. The short story is she stopped the wedding just in time. And in the aftermath”—he gently takes my hand and strokes it with his thumb—“I realized the person who truly mattered more than anyone else in the world is Solange.”
What. A. Faker. I’m proud of him, though. And slightly off-center as he caresses me. We may need another safe phrase—the kind that’ll protect me from enjoying his touches so much.
“Aww, that’s too sweet,” Nia says, her hands pressed to her cheeks. “Inject it into my veins and keep it coming.”
Molly nods along. “You two are the poster children for improbable but satisfying romances the world over.”
“That’s enough about us,” Dean says to Kimberly and Nia. He gracefully moves his hand away from mine. “We’re here to answer your questions. About DC. About the firm. Whatever.”
Kimberly and Nia share a tender glance, then Kimberly says, “Well, as you can imagine, this is a big move for us. Nia and I found a good groove in Atlanta, but it’s the right time for her to take advantage of artist-in-residence programs in DC.”
Nia jumps in, deftly steering the conversation to her own interests for a moment. “The opportunities in this area are an embarrassment of riches. The arts funding here is heftier than what’s available elsewhere. So I see myself staying for a while.”
“We see ourselves staying awhile,” Kimberly interjects, her mouth curving into a half smile as she surveys Nia’s face. “And honestly, I’m not averse to starting over somewhere else, so long as I don’t take a big hit on seniority.”
“I think it’s safe to say that won’t be an issue at our firm,” Peter observes.
Kimberly tilts her head at him. “Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”
“Um,” Peter says, swallowing hard and visibly fumbling for his next words. “It’s just . . . you’re an outstanding candidate, and your reputation precedes you.”
“Well, let’s hope that’s the case,” Kimberly says to the men. “In the meantime, I’m interested to hear what’s kept you both at the firm this long.”
“The money,” Peter says, chuckling.
“Oh, hush,” Molly says.
“What?” he asks, his gaze bouncing around the table. “I’m kidding, of course.”
“For me,” Dean says, “it’s the quality of the work. We have one of the best communications practices in the city. I’ve learned a lot about media law from the partners, and they give me high-level responsibilities on major cases. You won’t push papers or spend hours reviewing thousands of documents looking for the smoking gun. By the time you’re a senior associate, you’re working on substantive issues and regularly consulting with the firm’s clients.”
He’s handling himself well, but I didn’t study the Dean Dossier forward and backward to play the role of a potted plant. I’m fielding this one, too. “What’s even more impressive is that the firm lets Dean work on pro bono cases. Even though he has no time to spare, he supervises a team of students at Georgetown who represent low-income DC residents in landlord-tenant cases.”
“That’s fantastic,” Nia says. “Kimberly’s been doing pro bono predatory lending cases for years.”
“So you know how gratifying it can be,” Dean says to Kimberly. “Between us, if I could devote a substantial percentage of my caseload as a partner to pro bono work, I’d take that deal in a heartbeat.”
“You would?” I ask, unable to hide the shock in my voice. Recovering quickly, I tack on: “I mean, you never mentioned that to me before.”
“The partners would never go for it, though, so there was never any reason to. But yeah, I would.”
My jaw goes slack as I try to process this information, which, as I intend to point out to Dean later, was conspicuously absent from his dossier. If there’s one trait about Dean that rankles, it’s his preoccupation with becoming a law firm partner, which I thought stemmed from a need to achieve a certain perceived status. Learning that his pro bono work isn’t a résumé-building exercise but rather a sign of his commitment to helping others is enlightening. “So when you’re working in the office over the weekend, it’s because you’re—”
“Catching up on pro bono work, yeah,” Dean says.
“And the client call the morning of your wedding?”
He nods. “Also pro bono work.”
Peter swings his narrow-eyed gaze between Dean and me. Then he leans forward and steeples his fingers. “I’m curious about something, Solange. What do Dean’s parents think of you two as an item?”
Kimberly and Nia don’t even try to hide their surprised expressions—if I were them, I’d be wondering what the hell is going on too—and Molly drops her chin as if she wants no part of her husband’s asinine behavior. Beside me, Dean goes unnaturally still.
Oh, so Peter’s going there, is he? Well, let’s do this, buddy. “It’s just his mom, Melissa, and she’s cautiously optimistic.”
He nods a few times as he considers me, a fake smile plastered on his face. “Good, good. That’s great to hear.” Undaunted, he flattens his lips into a conspiratorial grin, as if he’s inviting me to be an accomplice to Dean’s downfall. “Now, you and Dean may be close friends, but I think I’ve known him even longer than you have. Did he ever tell you he almost flunked out of Michigan?”
I furrow my brow and scratch my temple. This attempt at feigning confusion may be over the top, but I’m having fun with it, so Dean will just have to bear with me. “Wait. That can’t be. He went to Penn for undergrad and law school. Graduated with honors too. Are you sure you know him as well as you think you do?”
I smile into my hand, the heady scent of victory and Peter’s shriveling balls wafting in the air. Kimberly and Nia share an amused glance; they seem to be enjoying the verbal volleying just as much as I am. Can’t say that’s the case with Dean, though. He’s dropped out of the conversation altogether, and when I meet his gaze, a muscle in his jaw twitches.
I lean into him and whisper my next words: “Relax your sphincter. We’ve got this.”
Dean drops his head, but I can see that his shoulders are shaking. That’s better.
We continue to chat through the rest of the meal—mostly about the highs and lows of our respective careers. Unfortunately, whenever Dean has Kimberly and Nia’s attention, Peter tries to usurp it.
“Would you say camaraderie is one of Olney & Henderson’s strengths?” Kimberly asks, her tone playful and plainly meant to allude to Peter’s ridiculous behavior.
“Generally, yes,” Dean says, looking exasperated. “But we can’t always pick our colleagues.”
Nia snorts. “That’s certainly obvious.”
Peter, just as clueless as Dean said he would be, chooses that moment to tempt our guests with the prospect of another torturous outing in his company. “Kimberly and Nia, there’s so much to explore here, and you should consider us your tour operators. What would you like us to arrange? A baseball game at Nationals Park? A visit to the White House? A show at the Kennedy Center?”
“I’m not sure that’ll be necessary. I think we’ve gotten a good sense of Olney & Henderson’s people tonight.”
God, I hope not. If so, she’s definitely not accepting a position with the firm.
Dean leans over and whispers in my ear. “Peter’s being weird. We’re losing them.”
Again with the breath against my neck. It’s so damn distracting. But also: I’d rather eat Miracle Whip in place of mayo for the rest of my life than let Peter sabotage Dean’s aspirations. And that’s saying a whole hell of a lot.
Before I can think it through, I exclaim: “I have an even better idea! Ever been axe throwing?”
Dean drops his head. But this time, his shoulders aren’t shaking.