Passion's Song. Farrah Rochon
Wilks, who dedicated much of his free time to volunteering with her at A Fresh Start, the teen summer program where she worked in New Orleans’s Lower Ninth Ward, looked up from where he sat on the floor, his back against the sofa.
“I’m not so sure alcohol is the smartest idea,” Simeon said. He tossed the documents he’d been skimming onto his lap. “But what the hell do I know? Bring me a beer.”
“I’ll take a glass of wine and I don’t even drink,” the program’s director, LaDonna Miller, said.
“I’ll be right back,” April told them. “The pizza should be here any minute.”
As if on cue, the doorbell rang.
“I’ll take care of the pizza,” Simeon said, rising from the floor with catlike agility and proving April just in her envy of the under-thirty crowd. She’d actually heard her thirty-five-year-old knees creak when she’d gotten out of bed that morning.
She stepped into the kitchen of the double shotgun house she’d bought when she returned to New Orleans two years ago. It was on the small side, but exactly the right size for her. Despite her urge to pull every bottle from the wine rack, April settled on a single bottle of pinot noir. Tonight was about coming up with solutions, not acquiring hangovers. They all needed to keep clear heads.
She slid two wine stems from the under-the-counter rack, grabbed a bottle of Abita lager from the fridge and lifted extra napkins from the stack she kept on the counter. Just as she started to make her way back to the living room, her phone vibrated in her pocket, signaling an incoming text.
She quickly unloaded the burden from her arms so she could check her phone. She’d been expecting to hear from her agent regarding a payment dispute with the production company she’d worked with back in March.
After traveling the globe for the past ten years as a concert cellist, April had decided she was done with being on the road. She’d found a way to earn a living while still indulging her love of music. Staying in one place had taken some adjustment, but April enjoyed the work she did now, providing music—usually remotely—for movies and television. This current dispute was for a concerto she’d provided for a luxury car brand’s commercial.
However, the text she found when she pulled her phone from her pocket wasn’t from Carlos Munoz, her agent. It was from Damien Alexander.
April’s heart did a rodeo-style gallop within her chest.
Because her heart was a sappy dreamer that ignored insignificant things such as reality.
Damien’s text was simple: Hi. Need to speak with you. Can we meet tomorrow?
April texted back: Hi, stranger. Sure. Meet me at AFS. Building across from Saint Katherine’s Church.
His reply came seconds later. Thanks. Be there at 11 a.m.
April stared at the phone for several long, agonizing moments as she tried to decide if she should reply with a simple thanks or see you then. Would it make her look too eager? Would he think it was rude if she didn’t reply at all?
“Oh, for crying out loud,” April said under her breath.
She shoved the phone back into her pocket and picked up the things she’d set on the counter. Then she made her way back into her living room, where her colleagues were gathered.
Nicole Russell, who taught dance at A Fresh Start, sat on the floor next to Simeon.
“Hey, when did you get here?” April asked. “I thought you had a gig somewhere in Mandeville?”
“I came in with the pizza. My gig was canceled,” Nicole said.
“Aw, I’m sorry,” April said. “I know you were looking forward to it. Let me get another wineglass.”
Nicole held up a soda bottle. “Thanks, but I’m good.”
April placed the wine bottle and glasses next to the pizza box that lay open on the ash oak coffee table she’d picked up at a yard sale. After distributing the drinks, she picked up her slice of pizza and nodded to the whiteboard she’d propped against the back of the chair she’d brought in from the kitchen.
“Okay, let’s hear it,” April said. “How do we save A Fresh Start?”
“A Fresh Start doesn’t need to be saved, does it?” Nicole asked. “The program is still in good shape.”
“If it were in such good shape, we wouldn’t be here tonight,” LaDonna pointed out. Their director had called for tonight’s meeting following their first week of operation for this summer’s program. A Fresh Start might not have been in danger of closing as it had been in years past, but the program was definitely in need of help.
“We lost more than two dozen kids from last year,” April said. “It would be one thing if we’d lost them to other summer programs, but Simeon went on a fact-finding mission yesterday and discovered that’s not the case. Right?” April asked him.
He nodded. “Most of them were just hanging out at home, or around the neighborhood.”
“Why didn’t you grab them and make them come back to the center?” Nicole asked.
“Because that would be kidnapping,” Simeon said around a mouthful of pepperoni.
“We can’t force kids to attend A Fresh Start,” April said. “Nor can we make their parents bring them. But we all know the more we keep them occupied and off the streets this summer, the better chance those kids have of staying out of trouble. We have to do something about this retention problem. We can’t keep losing kids during the school year.”
“I think we all know what the best solution is for keeping kids throughout the school year,” LaDonna said with a resigned sigh.
Yes, they all knew. The problem was that expanding A Fresh Start into a year-round program would require more resources than they had at their disposal.
They were lucky enough to have volunteers who viewed the youth program as an essential part of their lives and not just a feel-good hobby they could drop without a moment’s notice. They were a small group, but they were dedicated. However, manpower was only one part of the equation.
“Haven’t we beaten this dead horse enough already?” Simeon said. “We all know that turning A Fresh Start into a year-round program instead of just a summer program would solve much of this problem, but that calls for money. Something we don’t have.”
He was right, and they all knew it. Keeping A Fresh Start open for at least two to three hours in the afternoon, during those hours between when kids were let out of school and when their parents arrived home from work, was a critical component to retaining the kids they’d managed to keep from last summer.
The program, which currently helped more than fifty children from around the neighborhood, relied on donations and creative budgeting to get by. But their anemic bank account barely had enough funds to cover their expenses for the next ten weeks. Stretching that to cover an entire year of programming?
“We have to figure out a way to make this happen,” April said, her voice solemn. “Last summer Demarco Jackson was one of my most promising violinists. I was concerned when I didn’t see him during our first week back. I found out from one of his schoolmates today that Demarco was picked up for truancy four times during the school year, and just got out of juvenile detention for a street fight he was involved in. Thankfully, it didn’t turn more violent than a fistfight, but it could have gotten out of hand and led to something much more deadly.”
April looked into the faces of each of her colleagues.
“I refuse to lose any of these kids to the streets,” she continued with renewed determination. “We have something good going here. We need to make sure it continues to thrive.”
“You’re preaching to the choir,” Nicole said. “We all know the benefit A Fresh Start brings to the Ninth Ward. But that