Passion's Song. Farrah Rochon
funding we need.”
She took a healthy sip from her wineglass, then slid off the sofa and walked over to the whiteboard. Uncapping a dry-erase marker, she scrawled FUND-RAISING across the top and turned to her colleagues.
“Okay,” April said. “Let me have it.”
Her request was met with blank expressions and deafening silence.
April tipped her head back and sighed at the ceiling. “Come on, you guys,” she said. “This cannot be that hard. Just throw out some ideas.”
She wrote bake sale on the whiteboard.
“Really?” came Nicole’s laconic drawl. “You think selling cakes and cookies is going to give us the kind of money we need to turn A Fresh Start into a year-round program?”
“No,” April said. “But this is how you brainstorm. Start with the most obvious and just throw things out there until something sticks.”
“The most obvious is acquiring more benefactors,” Nicole said.
“We’ve hit up our usual donors too much already,” Simeon pointed out. “We have to make this happen ourselves.”
As April captured several of the ideas she, Simeon and Nicole discussed with her dry-erase marker, she noticed LaDonna thumbing through documents in the worn leather messenger bag she always carried around.
“Hello, Ms. Director,” April directed toward LaDonna. “You mind giving a little input?”
Without saying a word, LaDonna slipped a sheaf of papers from the messenger bag and rose from her spot on the couch. She walked over to the whiteboard, picked up the eraser and swiped it back and forth across the list April had written.
Before April could shout the girl, what you doing? that was on the tip of her tongue, LaDonna held up the documents.
“This is all the funding we need,” their director said.
“Is that like a secret code to winning the lottery?” Nicole asked with a laugh.
“And now we all know why you’re a dancer and not a comedian,” LaDonna said. “It’s a new grant being offered by the state, in conjunction with a federal program through the Department of Education. It’s specifically targeted to after-school, weekend and summer programs in impoverished areas.”
“That’s us,” Simeon said.
“It’s also highly selective. If we can prove that A Fresh Start is worthy of a grant, we won’t have to worry about piecemealing our budget together with bake sales or online crowd-funding campaigns.”
April lifted the document from LaDonna’s fingers and flipped through it. “So, how do we go about getting the grant?”
“We make sure we can check off every single criterion listed here, and then we come up with our own set of criteria so that A Fresh Start can stand out.”
April could only stare in amazement as she skimmed over the items the grant would provide. This was it. It was everything they needed.
“Why haven’t you mentioned this to us before?” she asked LaDonna.
“Because I thought I could do it on my own.” The director held a finger up to April. “Don’t say anything. I’m here sharing it with you all now, okay?” She released a sigh. “I’m learning to ask for help, so stop judging me and let’s work on getting this grant.”
“Fine, I’ll judge you later,” April said. “Forget everything else. Including the alcohol,” she said to Simeon as he drained his beer bottle. “We need to stay focused so that we can come up with the best way to earn this grant.”
They had to. There was too much at stake for them to fail.
* * *
Damien Alexander winced as his tire bounced in the unavoidable pothole. It was even deeper than he’d gauged, and caused dirty water to splash all the way up to the driver’s side window of his freshly washed Mercedes M-Class.
“Dammit,” he cursed under his breath.
He swerved again, trying to avoid another crater, but it was nearly impossible in this part of the city. He remembered New Orleans winning the dubious title of the most potholes in a major city a few years ago. It was a wonder it didn’t win every single year.
Damien took a right onto Lamanche, driving several blocks down the street that was less than a mile from the house where he grew up in the Lower Ninth Ward.
Damn, but he didn’t want to be here. He’d rather be anywhere else but here.
When April returned his text with instructions to meet up with her at A Fresh Start, he’d wanted to reply with a counteroffer. But asking her to drive out to downtown New Orleans or closer to where he lived uptown wasn’t fair, especially when he was the one who needed a favor from her.
Still, Damien resented having to come into this part of the city. The memories this place evoked were not happy ones.
The indiscriminate tan brick building across from Saint Katherine’s Catholic Church came into view. The church must have something going on because every parking spot was filled.
Damien made the block, trying to find street parking, but came up empty. As he rounded the building again, he spotted a car pulling out about three spots from the entrance. He parallel parked the Mercedes on the street, engaging the alarm system before taking off for the building.
The boisterous clamor of several dozen teen voices hit him as soon as he opened the doors to the single-story structure that housed A Fresh Start. April had previously explained that the building was once a small Catholic school affiliated with the church. When the school closed years ago, the building then became the church’s offices and community center, but its congregation had dwindled to the point where the extra space was unnecessary. The parish of Saint Katherine’s had generously offered the community-based summer program use of the building at an affordable rent.
There had been nothing like A Fresh Start when Damien had been a young boy running roughshod through the streets of this neighborhood. He hoped these kids appreciated the sacrifice and hard work of April and the other volunteers who ran the program.
He walked down the single corridor, peering into the various rooms where everything from a cooking demonstration to arts and crafts was being held. The hauntingly sweet notes of string instruments guided him toward the rear of the building. He stopped at the open doorway of a room with about a dozen students, each holding some kind of instrument.
April Knight crouched next to a girl who sat with a cello positioned between her spaced knees. The large, slightly scarred instrument dwarfed her, but the teen didn’t seem intimidated. She looked on intently as, with her signature calmness, April corrected whatever misstep the girl had just made on the piece they were practicing. She instructed her on how to glide the bow along the taut strings. The result was a fluid, mesmerizing note that resonated throughout the space.
Once she was done assisting the room’s lone cello player, April returned to the front of the room. When she turned and spotted him, her face lit up with a smile. Several of the students—those who were not engrossed in reading their sheet music—turned to see who had captured their teacher’s attention. April held up a hand and mouthed five minutes.
Damien nodded. Leaning a shoulder along the doorjamb, he folded his arms across his chest, crossed his ankles and studied the woman standing at the helm of the class. It had been months since he’d seen her, not since running into her at a Christmas party that one of his clients had invited him to at a loft in the Warehouse District. That had been what? Six months ago?
He’d arrived late, and April had been on her way out. Their encounter had been nothing more than a quick hug and profuse thanks from April for the donation Damien had given to A Fresh Start. They both promised each other that they would meet for coffee so they could catch up, but whenever he’d thought about calling her over the