by Chase Connor
There was a silence on his end, and a split second later, I knew he was trying to find a political way to tell me that I was a moron.
“We don’t want your money, Cooper.” He said. “We want your name, face, and blessing. We’ll take care of the financial part.”
“You got it.” I shrugged. “Will, uh, will we help kids of color and LGBTQ-plus kids? Because, I mean, that’s—”
“We will.” He stopped me. “And we would like to consult with you on applications before the first batch of kids is awarded the scholarships.”
“I still don’t understand why.” My eyes were still trying to wage war against me.
For several moments, Carter was silent on his end of the phone as I held my cellphone to my ear, wondering how events had lined up to this moment. I had been given a gift I hadn’t earned, found Nathaniel on a beach, met his father, Carter Powell, then ran into him at the seafood restaurant on vacation and mentioned my foundation idea in passing. Now we were on the phone discussing the fact that the foundation was going to be a real thing. Carter Powell—and other business people he knew—were just going to help kids get a better education because I had suggested it. And not just any kids. Kids like me. Kids who didn’t have built-in privilege.
“Can I be quite blunt with you, Cooper Weissman?”
I couldn’t help but love the way he used my full name when addressing me.
“Of course,” I answered. “I mean, I think so.”
“There’s nothing I can say that is going to make you fully believe that my intentions are completely altruistic—as you’ve pointed out.” He said. “I’m a straight white man offering to make one of your dreams come true. So…the best advice I can give you is that when something in life goes right, just enjoy it. Because we both know that’s not always the case. Especially for a young man who is black and gay.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, even though it was tinged with bitterness.
“Fair enough.”
“But,” He added, “I do hope that one day you will realize how much seeing your speech on YouTube inspired me. Even if you didn’t know someone had their cellphone out and was going to upload it later. You said what needed to be said even though you assumed only the people who were in charge and in the room—and had no intention of listening—were the only ones hearing it. That took a pair of balls a lot of us don’t have, Cooper Weissman.”
“That’s my Dad’s doing.”
“Go watch the video.” He said. “I think you might see what I saw. You’ll understand why I want to help you help others.”
“Okay.”
“All right.” He replied. “Look, we’ve got work to do on our end before an official announcement can be made. It probably won’t be for at least a month. But text me your email address, and I’ll add you to our correspondence group so you can keep abreast of each step of the process. Please don’t get too involved unless you see something that really concerns you—you’re relatively new to all of this. Take it as a learning opportunity. If you see something that concerns you, text or call me immediately, okay? Otherwise just read and absorb. Prepare yourself for how things work so that when college is over, you can jump in and help out on the board. Sound good?”
“Yes, sir.” I nodded to myself. “Carter. Yes. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome, Cooper Weissman. Enjoy the rest of your summer.”
“Thank you.”
Carter hung up, and I shot off a text with my email address. For a few moments, I just held the phone, unable to process everything going on in my mind. Minutes ticked by as I tried to process all of my thoughts and feelings, wondering if I was going to make whooping sounds and dance around the kitchen or cry like a baby over how wonderful I felt. When my phone was finally locked and on the table in its previous place, and I was staring off at nothing, a “ding” came from my phone, alerting me to an incoming email. Without having to check, though I opened it immediately, I knew it would be an email from the group Carter had mentioned. Sure enough, when I opened the email, I was treated to a long outline of what steps needed to be completed, who was in charge of which parts of the project, on and on. I barely could force myself to read more than a sentence at the time since I was seeing a dream of mine coming to life before my very eyes on my phone.
The “@’s” after many of the email addresses were followed by prominent and well-known company names. National grocery stores, department stores, financial companies, banks…I couldn’t believe my eyes as I saw who Carter Powell had been referring to as his “business contacts.” This man had reached out to dozens of the wealthiest people in America—some of the most affluent people who owned some of the most lucrative businesses in America—and simply asked them to trust him with their money. To help make a good education more accessible for more kids without privilege. I had read through the email five times when I heard the kitchen door open and my dad’s footsteps.
“Hey, spoiled fruit of my—”
Before he could finish his statement, I had jumped from my chair at the table and dashed into his arms. Dad made an “oof” sound as my body collapsed into his, and I began crying fat tears against his neck. Of course, this only caused him concern, but I did my best to tell him that everything was okay as I sobbed against his neck. I somehow conveyed that I was happy and just needed a minute before I could explain, so he rubbed my back and patted my head as I released the built-up happiness in my body.
My time at Dextrus had not just been a privilege for me. It was going to turn into an opportunity for more kids like me. I couldn’t have been happier if someone had handed me a billion dollars in cash.
“And you’re sure he’s not some weirdo?” Dad asked as he sipped his coffee and read the email an additional time with me. “Some old pervert looking to get a young, handsome boy like you—a young man like you?”
“Dad.” I frowned at him, though I wasn’t unamused. “Gross. But no. He’s on the up-and-up. You know who he is. You’ve seen him in the papers and websites and stuff.”
Dad chuckled.
“I know, son.” He reached up to pat my head. “I’m just not used to people doing the right thing for the sake of doing the right thing.”
“I hear that.” I nodded. “But you have to promise to keep this a secret until it’s a real thing, okay?”
“My word.” He agreed.
“Thanks.”
“That’s serendipity right there, son.” Dad shook his head, incredulous. “Finding his son, running into him later at the restaurant.”
“Right?”
My eyes continued to scan the email. I had read it at least five times before Dad had come home. We had read it once more together. Now I was rereading it solo.
“I’m always proud of you, Cooper.” Dad scooted back in his chair so Jumper could hop into his lap. “But this time just takes the damn cake.”
I laughed at that as I reached over to scratched Jumper’s ears as Dad rubbed his back.
“And I’m glad I’ll have company while you’re gone.” He cooed down at our cat.
“I’m glad you’ll have Jumper,” I said. “And Cheryl.”
Dad smiled, still looking down at Jumper and rubbing his back.
“Dad?”
“Yes, son?”
“Alex and I…I think we broke up.”
He sighed.
“I thought something might be going on.” He replied. “Haven’t seen the dickhead around in a week. But what do you mean you think you broke up?”
“We haven’t, like, said those words,” I explained quietly, finally setting my phone down. “But we said some really awful things to each other on the trip. We, uh, we only slept in the same bed the first night.”
“Jeesh.” Dad cringed. “That’s definitely a sign that there’s trouble in River City.”
“With a capital ‘T’.” I agreed.
Dad chuckled.
“You’re not going to lecture me about the shared bed situation?”
Dad looked a
t me like I was dense.
“Fair enough,” I said.
“What caused the rift?”
“He was just antagonistic about everything.” I groaned. “I mean, ever since my valedictorian speech—oh, that’s uh, on YouTube now, apparently.”
Dad snorted, a grin forming on his face.
“And, uh, yeah.” I shrugged. “You know how Headmaster Johnson is…Alex is going to take his father’s side on everything.”
“They didn’t like the black kid pointing out that Dextrus is full of white, rich douchebags like them?”
“I mean, in layman’s terms.”
“Well, they’ll just have to suck that one up, son.” He said. “You can’t do much about the truth other than be a dick about it. As has been proved.”
“You’re not mad at me?” I asked quietly.
“Mad at you?”
“Do you think the school board will retaliate against you?” I felt a lump of what could only be fear in my gut.
“I’d like to see ‘em try, Cooper.” My dad looked at me, fire in his eyes. “Bill Johnson is afraid of losing his job. He’s rich and has a swanky office and a cushy job. He’s got a long way to fall, son. So, he’s afraid of telling them to go fuck themselves. I’m a lowly literature teacher. I can find another damn job if it comes to that. So…let them start a fight. I’ve been bored for a long time. And I’d love a reason to tell the board to go fuck themselves.”
I laughed.
“Language, young man.” I teased.
“Cooper,” Dad pointed at my phone, “look at what you’ve done just by saying what needed to be said. I don’t give a damn who gets upset about it. In a few years, there will be ten underprivileged kids empowered to repeat your message. Each year, that number will grow. I’ve never been more damn proud of you than I am right now. And the bar was pretty damn high, son.”
“Do you mean it?”
“Fucking right, I do.” Dad grabbed my face and pulled me down so he could kiss the top of my head.
The sudden movement made Jumper leap away and dash across the kitchen floor for the living room, making Dad and I burst out in laughter. We hugged each other as we laughed and reveled in that moment together, glad that something had gone incredibly well for the Weissman family for once.
“Dad?” I said as he pulled away from me to reach for his coffee again.
“What now?” He rolled his eyes comically.
“I was thinking,” I chewed at my lip, “that I still have those five-hundred dollars that Mrs. Robinson had given me.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think if I gave it to you that you could buy all of the books—and then some—from your diverse reading list for students to borrow next year? I know asking the library to do that would be impossible, but they can’t keep you from having books on hand to loan out to students, right?”
For the space of several breaths, Dad just stared at me over the rim of his coffee mug. When he finally managed to take a sip, then set his cup down, he reached out to place his hand on the back of my neck.
“Cooper,” He stared deeply into my eyes, “sometimes I think your mom never left us because you didn’t get all this goodness from me.”
Heat slid up my neck and settled in my cheeks.
“Your mother would have been so proud.” He said.
Then we were hugging again.
“But I think we should buy those books and take them to the public high school and donate them to the library there,” Dad said. “Dextrus could afford those books if they wanted. The kids’ who go to Dextrus can get their parents to buy them any book they want anytime they want. The public high school is always stretched on budget.”
I pulled back and looked at my dad.
“Even better.” I laughed.
I began making a checklist in my head of things I wanted to do. Including watching the YouTube video of my speech. I needed to know what I had done so that I could replicate it in the future so that people would be compelled to give money to the foundation.
A month flew by, as months tend to do when you’re on summer break between school years, and I still hadn’t talked to Alex. Logan and I had spent plenty of time together, doing all of the things high school graduates do before fall sends them off to wherever the wind is supposed to carry them. A.J. sometimes joined in on our festivities, but he often let the two of us have some time to be best friends. I did him the same courtesy and made sure that I didn’t horn in on his and Logan’s alone time, either. Ultimately, I felt kind of guilty at occupying any of Logan’s time. It was his last summer to spend quality time with A.J., and I was taking some of that away from them. They both assured me that it was cool, but I just couldn’t quite make myself believe it. Regardless, we all hung out as much as we could, texted most of the day, and talked on the phone when the mood struck us. Dad and I spent a lot of time together, eating meals, going to Lake Champlain, inviting Cheryl along for most of it—and just enjoying our last summer together. At least, the last summer of my childhood.
The rest of the time I spent studying anything I could get about UCLA and reading the copious emails exchanged between the foundation investors. My education in how the business side of a foundation works was quick and intense, but I loved every second of it. Each time I read an email from the foundation contributors, I studied every single word, every little step, texted questions and thoughts to Carter Powell. I did everything I could to learn as much as I could. Because in four years, I was determined to become part of the foundation board and help carry on its legacy. At first, I had to admit, I was worried that things wouldn’t even get out of the planning stage. Carter assured me multiple times that things start slowly because you want to get them right, but once the ball gets rolling, it picks up speed at an alarming rate.
He had been absolutely right. After a month, the foundation was full steam ahead. Not that the foundation as up and running, but all of the planning had been done so real actions could start taking place. I knew that things were about to come to fruition when I got a text from Carter one evening before bedtime.
“Hello?” I had answered the phone before the first ring had ended.
“So,” Carter got right down to business like he always did, “we’re going to announce our intentions with the foundation at the leadership luncheon at my company tomorrow.”
“That’s—that’s freaking amazing.” I smiled widely.
“There are more steps, of course.” He continued. “Legal paperwork, tax filings, blah blah blah blah. But we would like to know what you want to call the foundation, Cooper Weissman. We want you to name it since it was your idea.”
Chewing at my lip, it dawned on me how stupid I was. That was something I should have been thinking about, though there was no way I would have known it would be asked of me.
Within seconds, though, an idea came to me.
“I would like to call it the Valentina Robinson Scholarship,” I replied quickly. “Or something similar.”
“Who…who’s Valentina Robinson?”
“Um,” I was nervous, “she’s the lady who works at Dextrus in the courtyard serving lunches. She’s the woman who went around and collected money from other employees in the courtyard to give me the five-hundred dollars. That’s—that’s how I got the money. Dad and I don’t have hundreds of dollars just lying around.”
A long paused greeted my ear.
“I see.”
“Yeah.”
Another pause.
“What have you done with the five-hundred dollars, Cooper Weissman?”
“Um,” I was chewing at my lip nervously again, “Dad and I went and bought a whole bunch of books by authors of color, with characters of color, LGBTQ-plus characters and authors…we donated them to the local high school’s library.”
“Okay,” Carter said, simply. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Awesome.” I breathed out in relief. “Thanks, Carter.”
“You bet.” He replied qu
ickly. “Okay. The luncheon is Monday at one o’clock. I’ll make sure you are sent the link to view the live feed an hour before. I hope you’ll watch along.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“After the luncheon, the video of my speech will be uploaded to the company website, along with your speech clipped in.” He added. “It will find its way to YouTube and news sites. Expect to be seen on CNN, MSN…you get the idea.”
I swallowed hard, nerves wracking my gut for a second before steeling myself for what that meant.
“Good,” I stated, simply.
“And expect a call from my PR folks.” He said. “I want you to have at least minimal training.”
“Training?
“Obviously, you’ll eventually have to talk to reporters. And it’s best you do it immediately and effectively. That way they won’t hound you.”
“Got it.” I felt nauseated but resolved.
“Talk soon.”
Then he hung up.
A week later, I was glued to my laptop, refreshing Google Chrome every few seconds, waiting for the live feed of the luncheon to start. It had been fifty-five minutes since I had received an email from Carter’s assistant with instructions about how to watch the speech Carter would give to open the luncheon. I knew because I had been counting down the minutes, excited to finally hear that the foundation was a done deal. That we were on our way to providing better education opportunities to underprivileged students. I was also nervous because Dad and Cheryl had run to our favorite burger joint in town to pick up copious amounts of French fries to stuff our faces with while we watched. They were in danger of arriving after the speech started and missing the first part—or missing it entirely.
My eyes flicked back and forth between my refreshing browser and the clock on my phone. I kept tapping my phone to wake it up to see the time. Three minutes before one o’clock, the video feed went live, and I could see that the camera was pointed at a podium—where, apparently, Carter would give his speech—and I could see two seats on either side where some attendees would be seated. Probably important attendees. Some of the businessmen helping to bankroll the foundation. I could hear sounds of people at the luncheon, who were off-camera, talking loudly and carrying on, waiting for Carter to give his speech. My heart was in my throat, wondering if Dad and Cheryl would make it back in time. Just as I saw Carter move into view of the camera feed and approach the podium, Dad and Cheryl crept in the backdoor. I gestured emphatically for them to be quiet as my eyes locked onto Carter’s image on the screen.
