by R. R. Banks
“Been a long time,” I say.
He nods. “It has.”
“So, not that I mind seeing old friends, but what brings you by, Mason?” I ask. “Taking a nostalgic little stroll down memory lane?”
“Hardly,” he says, his eyes falling on me, that look of disdain not leaving his face. “I'm here about Darby.”
“Your sister, Darby?” I ask. “How is she doing?”
He looks at me evenly, his eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched so tight, I'm half-afraid he's going to bust a tooth.
“Don't bullshit me, Carter,” he growls. “I know you two have been seeing each other.”
I shrug. “Yeah? And who told you that?”
“Doesn't matter,” he says. “I'm here to tell you that the two of you are done. You're not to see her again.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Wow,” I say. “So, you're her keeper now, are you?”
“I'm her brother,” he says. “And she's a kid.”
“She's eighteen years old,” I reply. “Old enough to make her own decisions.”
Mason's face darkens as he stares at me. “She's naïve,” he says. “She's got a soft heart and is easily conned by snakes like you.”
I feel my eyes widen and my mouth falls open. “Wow, Mason,” I say. “You've got some balls on you, man. Some serious balls. To come into my home, and –”
“Darby doesn't know what's best for her,” he says, cutting me off as if I hadn't even spoken.
“Oh, and I suppose you do?”
“Far more than she does, yes,” he replies. “She's just too young, naïve, and stubborn to understand that. She has a bright future ahead of her and shouldn't be saddled with somebody – somebody like you.”
“Somebody like me, huh?” I ask, unable to keep the anger out of my voice. “And no offense taken, just in case you wondered.”
“I didn't wonder,” he says. “And yeah, somebody like you. Somebody on the lower rungs of everything. One step up from the gutter.”
I run a hand through my hair as waves of disbelief wash over me. Darby told me how arrogant and condescending Mason had become but seeing it 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 who we can and can't see,” I say. “It's really something.”
“She's my sister,” he response. “And you – you're just a piece of street garbage.”
A wry grin touches my lips. “Maybe so,” I reply. “Still 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, because they came in, saved your ass, and handed you a silver spoon, you somehow think you earned your way to the top. I still remember what a little punk you were back then. If not for me, you would've gotten your ass beat on the regular back at St. Aggie's.”
“I've earned everything I have,” he says, seeming to bristle at my suggestion otherwise. “I've worked my ass off to get to where I am.”
His tone is hard and icy – and 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. He hates being reminded that he was handed his position, and given plenty of advantages normal people don't get, in this life through no effort on his part.
“You didn't earn shit, man, and you know it. Somewhere deep in that little reptile brain of yours, you know you're a pretender. Know 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, his jaw clenching and unclenching furiously. 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 can see it. I have a feeling though, on some level, he realizes it would be a mistake.
“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 interestingly enough, there are still a ton of unsolved homicides around Hell's Kitchen, right around the time Pops Ramazzo was running his little crime family out of the neighborhood,” he says. “And, maybe you don't know this little fun fact, but the statute of limitations on murder never runs out. Could well be worth it for the police to open up some of those cold cases and take a fresh look at them. You just never know what they might discover.”
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, asshole,” I say. “He's twice the man you're ever gonna be, you piece of shit.”
Mason shrugs. “Please. He's no saint, and you know it,” he says. “Pops is a murdering crook who has somehow managed to evade 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 – showed me his weakness and fear – 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. As he fucking should be.
“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, doing his best to look like a tough guy. Trying, and failing miserably.
“You stay away from Darby, and I won't have to,” he says. “And we can avoid all of this posturing and unpleasantness.”
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 bitch I found getting his ass beat on the playground that day. You're just a scared little punk looking for somebody else to save his ass. I guess some things never change, huh?”
His eyes flash dangerously, but he quickly tamps it down – though I can see the effort it takes. There's a moment when I think he might take a swing at me. But the moment passes, and I can see it in his face – he knows that if it comes 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 what we do. We win. Total and complete victories. Not that I expect somebody like you to understand that.”
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 in the neighborhood on their hands.”
He gives me a greasy smirk. “Stay away from Darby,” he warns.
“Good seeing you, man,” I say. “We should grab a beer and catch up sometime.”
“Final warning, Carter.”
I give him a smirk. “Yeah, and Merry Christmas to you too,” I said. “Hope Santa brings you that ass kicking you so richly deserve.”
He rolls his eyes and leaves m
y apartment, slamming the door behind him so hard it makes the frame rattle. I stand there and seethe for a few minutes, doing my best to gather myself. I'm half-tempted to call Darby and tell her what just happened. I grab my phone, and start to make the call, only to hang up again.
I open the line again and am determined to tell her what a piece of shit her brother is – 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 Darby? Or risk sending a man who's been so good to me to prison?
I call up Darby's contact information again, 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 a roar filled with rage and anguish, I hurl the phone against the wall, shattering it into a thousand pieces.
Just like my heart.
4
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 recreating scenes from the city and many of them are doing very 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 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 really is exquisite, and I can't help but be impressed. It's not often I have a student with so much natural talent.
“Exceptional work,” I say.
He smiles wide and I see the color flare in his cheeks. He quickly looks away, uncomfortable with my praise. He's a very humble, quiet boy. One who keeps to himself most of the time. He's got a real gift. One I'm trying hard to encourage and help him develop. I 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 city – if not the world – in the not too distant future.
“Thank you, Miss White,” he says and turns back to his canvas.
I continue walking around the classroom, offering instructions and critiques. I look at the clock and see we only have about five minutes of class 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. These 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, or being rude, or disrespectful. I mean, yeah, I've seen kids like that in school, I'm not naïve or blind. I just believe most of them just want to learn.
These kids are a source of 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, so I take my happiness and joy where I can get it.
“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. And don't forget to start thinking about your project for finals. I want your presentations done before we leave for Christmas break.”
They grumble and groan, but most 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 significance in their lives moving forward.
I teach my kids to think critically and to look at life a different way. My teaching style reflects that, and I think the results have been very positive. Yeah, I know people think of me as the hippie-dippy art teacher who has her head in the clouds, and a head full of rainbows, but I don't care what they think. All I care about is having a positive impact on the lives of my kids.
For me, art is a way to channel all my thoughts and emotions. It 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 so divisive 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, and that's really all that matters. I'm here for my students, and not for anybody else.
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.
* * *
“So, how is life at Jefferson High?” she asks.
I take a sip of my martini and nod. “Wonderful. Couldn't be better,” 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 furnished in dark wood that’s been shellacked to hell and back. There are old black and white pictures of Prohibition era figures all over the walls. An old rusted still sits in one corner, along with 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 without having to shout over people to be heard. Jade and I try to get out as often as we can, but finding the time can be tough. 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 every now and then. It's vital to maintaining my sanity.
Jade is my oldest and dearest friend, and I can't imagine my life without her. She surprised me when she went into teaching like I did. Growing up, she tolerated school, but never seemed to like it the same way I did. For her, school was a place to meet hot guys, and do dumb, silly, teenage things, rather than to actually learn something. Not that she's stupid – far from it. But, she never took school all that seriously.
Honestly, I'd always thought she wanted to be a housewife, and a socialite. The kind of woman who married well, and spent her days sitting on boards of philanthropic charities, and what not. Which was why it shocked me when she said that I had inspired her and ended up following me into the profession. And she loves it. I couldn't be happier or prouder of her.
Of course, Jade being Jade, she had to shoot for the stars and the loftiest perch she could find. She wouldn't be Jade if she didn't. Which is how she ended up at the Crestwood Academy, teaching the elite. To her, Crestwood is the pinnacle of education. I can only see it as a warehouse for spoiled, enti
tled kids, who were probably going to turn out like my own brother.
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 kind of atmosphere 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, or take getting an education seriously.
Of course, it could be my bitter experience with my brother that's caused me to adopt such a harsh, cynical view.
I honestly don't think the kids at Crestwood would respond to my style of teaching quite the same way my kids do. 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 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 rather quickly. But that was never for me. I remember living that middle-class life – and enjoying it more.
“So, 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 retort. “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 art programs in public schools again. How long is it going to be before you're teaching art without art supplies? Or even worse, how long is it going to be before they decide they don't have the budget for an art teacher anymore?”
That much is true, and I don't have a witty comeback for it.
There is that worry in my head that one of these days, I'm going to be called in and told that arts programs are superfluous, and that the school can no longer afford them – or me. I'm pretty sure that's going to come to pass eventually, and I know I'd be smart to start planning for it. When that does happen, I might have no other choice than to teach at a place like Crestwood.
