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“You’re here late. I thought I was the only one keeping these kinds of hours,” she says with a light chuckle. I like DeAndria. She’s about ten years my senior and a transplant from California. She reminds me of Kerry Washington in herScandalera. Her clothes are always professional and sharp, and I’m sure she could manage a country-wide crisis while navigating Capitol Hill in four-inch stilettos.

Tonight, she’s ditched her heels in favor of some slip-on tennis shoes, and she’s lost the blazer she usually wears, showcasing her crisp rose gold button-down top and cashmere slacks.

Chewing the granola, I put my hand in front of my lips to prevent wayward crumbs from flying out of my mouth and say, “Mari couldn’t make it to this week’s lab, so I made a plan to catch up with her for an hour today once she got off work.”

“Gotcha,” DeAndria says, grabbing a bottle of water from the small refrigerator mounted into the wall. When she leans her hip against the counter and takes a long swig, I know she wants to talk.

“Senior year, huh? Harvard still the goal?” She smiles when she asks this, and I know she is genuinely curious about my plans. I’ve talked about my Harvard aspirations before, but mainly, it’s my parents who bombarded DeAndria with my educational history and future achievements when they met at a function for The South Side Initiative and mPOWER.

Now, if only the question about where I’ll be this time next year didn’t send me into an anxiety spiral.

“Yeah,” I say, the snack bar seeming to stick in my throat. “That’s the plan.”

That’s always been the plan.

DeAndria nods slowly, taking another long sip.

“Do you like it here?” she asks, and I look at her, confused.

“Of course. I love it here. Helping our clients succeed is the highlight of my time since I started volunteering.” My phone buzzes with a text, but I ignore it.

“That’s good,” DeAndria says, but then she pauses as if she’s considering whether to put out her next thought. After a tense moment, she says, “Have you thought of alternative plans?”

My phone buzzes again.

“Alternative plans? Like what?” I pull the sides of the wrapper up around my bar and set it on my textbook.

“Do you remember Dani and Shakira Jackson? She was here about two cohorts back,” she replies.

“Yes, of course I remember Dani.” Dani ran a cleaning company with her sister, Shakira, that specialized in cleaning services for the sick and elderly. Their mother died from an infection while undergoing chemo for breast cancer, so Dani and Shakira built a company to offer discount cleanings for those in need.

“Dani emailed me last week to let me know they just won a $50,000 pitch competition and they partnered with the largest home health company in the area to provide cleaning services via attendant care service hours.”

My mouth drops open, and I clap with excitement.

“That’s amazing! I just knew that angle would work!” I’m so happy for them. The idea to partner with home healthcare companies came to us in one of our strategy sessions, and after some research, I was able to plan a workaround that would allow Dani and Shakira to offer services with no cost to the patient via Medicaid and state funds.

“Yep,” DeAndria says, grinning. “And they said they wouldn’t be where they are now without you.”

“Me?” I ask. “Nah, they did all the work. I just gave them some ideas.”

DeAndria shrugs. “Maybe. But ideas are everything, are they not? You’ve got a gift, Shae. You can see new perspectives that foster growth, and beyond that, you connect with these women. That’s so much more than many of the other volunteers can say. Hell, too many of the corporate volunteers don’t even want to be here.”

I can’t help the scowl that comes to my face when I think of the one banker assigned to work the vendor expo a few weeks back. He barely set up his display, scattering a few wrinkled brochures on the bare table, and sat on his phone for the entire hour, refusing to answer questions or interact.

“Yeah,” I reply.

There’s another beat of silence.

“Have you thought of doing this after school?”

“You mean volunteering at mPOWER?” I mean, I wish I could, but once those student loan bills kick in, I’m gonna need to have a real paying job.

“Not as a volunteer, but as an employee.”

The look I give her makes her burst out laughing.

“Okay, I know we’re small, but noteveryoneis a volunteer,” she says.