“Excuse me, sir?”
I look up and see an older woman hustling toward me. She's got gray hair pulled back into a severe bun, dark eyes, and an overbearing demeanor. Must be administration.
“Good afternoon,” I say. “Carter Bishop.”
“Evelyn Matthews,” she says. “Principal Evelyn Matthews. Mind telling me what's going on here?”
She motions toward the man behind me with the pallet full of art supplies.
“Well, I understand that the art program here at Jefferson has come under some severe budget cuts. As a result, I've heard that basic, necessary supplies have run out,” I say. “I work with the Ravere Group –”
“I don't care who you work with,” she snaps. “You can't just bring this in here. You don't have proper authorization.”
She stands up a little straighter, obviously challenging me to some sort of dick measuring contest. If there's one thing I've learned about middle management and administrator types, it's that they don't like having anybody else on their turf. They're overly protective of their little fiefdoms, and Principal Evelyn Matthews appears to be reinforcing that stereotype.
I give her a wry grin. “Oh, but I do,” I say. “Have proper authorization, that is.”
I slip the sheet of paper out of my inside jacket pocket and hand it over to her. It's a letter from the district superintendent. When I'd called him and told him that I wanted to privately fund the art program at Jefferson, he'd been more than thrilled. He's a big believer in the arts programs, and hates seeing them get slashed down to nothing. Of course, it doesn't hurt that he invests with me, and I've made him enough money that he can now retire and live comfortably anytime he wants.
“As you can see,” I say. “Your boss was very enthusiastic and appreciative of my interest and contribution.”
She frowns, obviously upset about not being in the loop on this decision. Fucking administrators. She obviously doesn't like not having control over every single thing that happens in her fiefdom. Too bad. I prefer getting shit done to dealing with middle-management, bureaucratic-bullshit types, who need to have their finger in every pie to feel relevant and important.
“I wasn't told about this,” she says.
I shrug. “Then I suggest you take it up with your boss,” I say. “And, I'd also like to point out that the agreement I reached with Superintendent Gray explicitly names Darby White as administrator of the supplies I'm donating. Nothing is to be done with them without her direct authorization.”
“This is not how it works, Mr. Bishop,” she says, her voice carrying a hard edge to it, obviously determined to stand her ground, and defend her turf.
I give her a smirk. “Afraid it is. See the letter. Also, I'll send you the signed agreement for you to keep on hand, if you'd like,” I say. “Maybe, you can frame it and hang it in your office.”
She glowers at me, her face darkening with anger. I've only known the woman for ninety seconds and I already really don't like her. I can't imagine what it would be like to have to work for her. Honestly, given the fact that Darby is wealthy in her own right and doesn't need to deal with irritating middle-management types like Principal Evelyn Matthews, I don't know why she does it.
But, when I hear Darby's voice, and the sound of her students laughing, I think I start to understand why. If only a little bit.
“I have twenty pallets of supplies to start things off,” I say.
“Twenty – we don't have that kind of storage space,” she says, a note of triumph in her voice. “You'll have to return them.”
“I anticipated that,” I say. “Which is why I’ve rented an off-site storage facility. The extra supplies will be kept there.”
Matthews is fuming, which only serves to amuse me. There really is nothing wrong with what I'm doing. In fact, she should be grateful that I'm helping fund a program that helps the students in her school. Obviously, the only thing she can see though, is that somebody is treading on her little piece of turf, and it pisses her off.
“What's going on?”
I turn and see Darby standing in the doorway of her classroom, an uncertain and somewhat scared, look on her face. Matthews looks at her, flashing her a scowl, as if this is somehow her fault. I have a feeling the principal doesn't like Darby for reasons outside of what I'm doing.
“It seems that Mr. Bishop has chosen to become a benefactor for your little program,” Matthews says.
The fact that she seeks to diminish what Darby does by calling it her “little program,” infuriates me to no end.
“You know, maybe, just maybe, if you actually took the time to appreciate what Ms. White is doing here, and see the positive impact she's having on the lives of her students, the morale around the school would improve,” I say, my voice cold. “Maybe, if you took an active interest in the lives of the kids that go here, people would like you better.”
“Just who do you think you are?” Matthews growls.
“I'm the guy who can have your job with the snap of a finger,” I say, my gaze locked onto hers.
Matthews' eyes narrow, and she looks like she's about to argue further, but decides to fall silent instead. She looks away from me, obviously knowing she's been beaten.
Darby watches the whole exchange with wide eyes, her mouth hanging open. I get the impression that people don't usually speak to Matthews like that. They probably should though. The woman needs to be taken down a peg or twelve.
Her eyes slowly turn to the pallet behind me, and a smile crosses her face, and she clamps her hands over her mouth. Her eyes shimmer with tears and her cheeks flush with color.
“Oh my God,” she says, her voice muffled from behind her hands. “I don't even know what to say.”
Matthews lets out a derisive snort. “I'd say he's wasting his money.”
I round on the principal and give her a scowl. “It's my money to waste, is it not?”
The older woman fixes me with a steely gaze and raises her chin defiantly. She's a tough old bird, I’ll give her that. I can't help but respect it, even if I think she's repugnant as a person.
“I suppose it is,” she sneers.
“It's kind of sad,” I say.
“What's sad?”
“That you can't see the joy art brings to the world,” I say. “That you're so bitter that you can't see the joy Ms. White here brings to her students. She's trying to bring a little happiness and beauty into this world – into this school. You’d think that would make you happy.”
“I may have no choice but to accept your charity for this unnecessary program,” Matthews huffs. “But, I certainly don't have to stand here and accept your disrespectful attitude, Mr. Bishop. You are to leave my school grounds immediately.”
“Actually,” I say and chuckle, “if you read the final paragraph of the Superintendent's letter, you'll see that as the benefactor of this program, I am entitled to be on school grounds, if only to ensure that the supplies I'm donating are being put to the proper use.”
“This is outrageous,” she huffs.
I shrug. “Take it up with your boss,” I say. “But, I doubt it's going to do any good. He and I have a pretty good relationship. Which means, you should probably get used to seeing me around.”
Matthews looks stricken, but quickly composes herself, giving me a deep, hateful scowl. I just stand there and smile politely at her. Without another word, she turns and huffs off down the hall.
I turn to Darby, who is doing her best to hide the smile on her face. She grabs me by the arm and quickly pulls me into her classroom, and shuts the door. Once we're inside, she bursts into laughter. She's laughing so hard, she doubles over. I look around the room and see all her students standing frozen, looking back at us, curious expressions on their faces. I give them all a small wave.
“Not to worry, she's not having a nervous breakdown or anything,” I say. “I just told her a really funny joke.”
“You're Carter Bishop,” I hear one girl say. “You're in the tabloi
ds more often than the Kardashians.”
“And yet, I've never put out a sex tape,” I say. “Let that be a lesson to you all that –”
Darby punches me in the arm. “Carter,” she hisses, but can't keep the smile off her face.
The classroom erupts into laughter all around us. Darby can't help but shake her head and join in. Eventually, the laughter fades away, but the eyes of the students remain fixed on me, their expressions curious. Clasping my hands behind my back, I walk around the room. Some of their work is incredible, and blows me away. There is some real talent in Darby's classroom, and I can't help but see her artistic influence in some of their work.
“You kids are amazing,” I say. “There is some genuinely amazing work being done in here. You should all be proud of yourselves.”
“Mr. Bishop here is part of the Ravere Group,” Darby says. “I've told you all about them, have I not?”
The students all nod their heads and I see the light of excitement in their eyes. Some of them, I can tell, have dreams about going through the program. And I think a few of them have a real shot.
“Over the next few months, I plan on getting to know you all,” I say. “And evaluating your work. Of course, Ms. White is more of an authority than I am on the merits of art, so I will be leaning heavily on her for input. But, I want to advance some of you to a candidacy into the Ravere Group's program.”
There are scattered gasps and quiet exclamations around the room. I can see why Darby is so attached to her kids. Even just this small, miniscule ray of hope I'm shining into the room is giving them a life and energy that can't be denied. It makes me feel good to be able to do that.
“Anyway,” I say. “As budding young artists, I know that you need proper tools and supplies to put your best foot forward. So, it was with that in mind, that I have reached an agreement with your school district to make sure you all have what you need to be successful.”
I step to the doorway and motion for the man to come forward. It's a tight squeeze, but he's able to work the pallet through the wide doorway, rolling it to a stop next to Darby's desk. There are gasps from the students as they eyeball the mountain of supplies in front of them.
“Obviously, not being an expert in art, I don't know everything you all need,” I say. “Which is why it's going to be important for you all to communicate with Ms. White. Tell her what you need to be successful, and I'll make sure you have whatever you need.”
There's a ripple of excitement that runs through the students and I can tell they want to get to the boxes and see what's inside.
“One last thing,” I say. “Competition to get into the Ravere program is tough. I'm not going to lie, it's highly competitive. So, when I tell you to make sure you're putting your best foot forward, you need to take me seriously. Make sure you're putting all of your heart and soul into your work.”
I give Darby a small smile and step aside as the kids immediately rush over to the pallet. Darby wades into the pack, trying to keep it controlled and orderly. Good luck with that. I laugh and feel warm inside as I see genuine happiness and excitement on the faces of the students.
It's like Christmas has come early, and I'm playing the role of Santa Claus. It's a strange feeling really. As I watch the kids gushing over the supplies, chattering away with each other excitedly, I can honestly say, this is the first positive experience I've ever associated with Christmas. It feels strange, and yet, it feels really good.
“Hey.”
I turn and see a tall kid with russet-colored skin and a mop of shaggy, dark hair staring back at me.
“Hey yourself,” I say.
“Emilio,” he says.
“Nice to meet you, Emilio.”
“You Ms. W's boyfriend?”
I look at Darby, relishing the wide, genuine smile on her face. She's talking excitedly with the students, and is busy passing out materials.
“I honestly don't know what you'd call us at this point,” I say.
He nods. “You want to be though, right?”
I look at him and I can tell, by the look in his eye, that he's got a fierce crush on Darby. Not that I can blame the kid.
“Is it that obvious?” I ask.
“Dude, I can practically see the cartoon hearts floating over your head.”
I laugh and opt to avoid pointing out the cartoon hearts floating over his own head. I like this kid. He's got spunk – and excellent taste in women.
“Yeah, I imagine you can.”
“One thing though,” he says, his voice and expression turning serious. “You hurt her, I'll kick your ass. You feel me?”
I really like this kid.
“Yeah, I feel you, man.”
Darby comes over, and Emilio's face flushes before he scampers away, and joins his classmates at the pallet. She looks from the kids, then to me, a warm smile on her face. She's absolutely radiant, and my breath catches in my throat simply looking at her. There has never been a more beautiful woman in my eyes, and I know there never will be. Darby is everything to me.
“Emilio there has a pretty serious crush,” I say.
She smiles. “He's a good kid,” she replies. “Very talented artist.”
“Said he'll kick my ass if I hurt you.”
“You should probably believe him,” she says, that small smile making her eyes sparkle.
“Oh, I absolutely do.”
“And here I thought you hated the holidays,” she says.
“I do.”
“Yeah, you've told me. Many, many times,” she replies. “And yet, here you are playing Santa to all these kids.”
“It's just a few art supplies,” I reply.
“It's a bit more than that,” she says. “And I think you know it.”
I shrug. “I admire what you do, Darby,” I say. “And I don't want to see classes like yours disappear. The world needs more, not less, beauty in it. You taught me that.”
She gives me a long, even look. “So, this isn't just a ploy to get in my pants again?”
“Absolutely not. This is all sincere,” I say. “But, if you're suddenly feeling so grateful that you can't help but tear your clothes off, and –”
“Hey,” she says, and laughs. “Not here. And even though I'm profoundly grateful, this isn't the way into my pants.”
“I know that,” I say. “Like I told you, I believe in what you're doing. That's the only reason I did it. I honestly expect nothing in return.”
“Just spreading a little Christmas cheer, huh?”
I shrug. “Yeah, something like that, I suppose.”
“Huh,” she replies. “Will wonders never cease?”
I stare into her eyes, holding her gaze tight. “I certainly hope not.”
* * *
“I don't know what to say, Carter,” she says.
“You don't have to say anything,” I reply.
We're walking across the parking lot to my car after school has let out for the day. She agreed to a late lunch date with me, so we could talk.
“Why?” she asks. “Why do this?”
“Do I need a reason?”
“Honestly, tell me. Is this some scheme you've cooked up to get back into my good graces?” she asks. “I'd rather have the truth now, than find out later.”
“Seriously, Darby, what kind of an asshole do you think I am?” I ask. “Do you really think I'd leverage the happiness of kids to get back into your good graces?”
She thinks about it for a moment. “Hm… Probably not.”
“Probably not?” I ask. “Gee, thanks for that vote of confidence in my character and integrity.”
“I'm just being up front with you,” she says. “If this is some ploy –”
“It’s really not,” I reply. “But yes, I did do this for you, in a way. But I did it because I see how devoted you are to your students. And there is some major league talent in that room. I wasn't kidding when I said I wanted to advance a candidacy to Ravere for some of them.”
W
e stop at the edge of the parking lot. Roger stands next to the car, waiting for us. She turns to me, her eyes fixed on mine, a sheepish look on her face.
“I – I was going to call you –” she starts.
I wave her off. “Don't worry about it,” I say. “I know you're conflicted. I know there's a lot going on in your head and in your heart. There is in mine too. I just hoped that after the other night, that maybe – maybe, that connection between us was starting to be re-established. I know I felt it. Big time.”
“I felt it too, Carter,” she says softly. “And that's why it scares the hell out of me. That's why I ran.”
“Why does it scare you?” I ask.
She gives me a look that says the answer should be more than obvious. “Really?”
I chuckle and look down at the ground for a moment. “Yeah, that’s a stupid question,” I say. “Listen though, I'm not going anywhere. I fucked up back then, Darby. I hurt you and I'm an asshole for it. I'm not hiding from it. I only want a chance to set things right with you. There's been a big Darby-shaped hole in my heart for the last decade, and I want to fill it.”
She rolls her eyes and laughs. “Judging by what the tabloids say, you've been filling plenty of holes over the last ten years.”
I laugh. “I can't believe you read that shit.”
“I don't,” she says. “It's hard to avoid hearing things in this day and age though.”
“Yeah, well, don't believe everything you read on Twitter.”
She laughs as I escort her to the car.
“Nice to see you again, Ms. White,” Roger says.
“Nice to see you again as well, Roger.”
We slide into the car and Roger shuts us in, sliding behind the wheel a moment later.
“Where to, Mr. Bishop?”
I look at Darby and smile. “How about Dino's?”
Her smile is all I need to see to know I picked the right place.
“Dino's it is.”
Roger pilots us through the city and drops us off in front of Dino's Deli. It's been an institution in Hell's Kitchen for as long as I can remember. It's a place I loved growing up – and one of the only places I think has survived the hipster tsunami that's changed the hell out of the neighborhood. Back in the day, Darby and I shared a few meals there, but I don't think she's been back since.
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