Page 11 of Between Passion and Revenge, Part One (The Griot Chronicles #1)

SHAE

“ D o you really think I can do this?”

Mari’s voice sounds awe-filled as we look at the screen together, and I move aside one of the yellow legal pads marked up with various scenarios to get her organic beauty brand out of her kitchen and into stores.

“I don’t think so, Mari. I know.” Pointing at the Excel sheet, I tap different numbers for seed capital into the calculator I made with the mPOWER counseling volunteers.

“With $5,000 start-up capital, this has you breaking even in five years, but with $15,000, we can get you there in three,” I say.

We’re the only people in the converted conference room.

The makeshift technology lab has five Dell computers donated by a local paper manufacturer.

While they aren’t fast, nor are they state-of-the-art, they have Microsoft and QuickBooks installed for the clients to use.

“With the grant from Germain Cosmetics and the money from the pitch competition, you can so do this.”

Mari chews on her bottom lip, contemplating the figures on screen with a serious look.

“Yeah,” she says. Doubt laces the word.

“What’s going on, girl?” I ask, leaning back in the old computer chair. The rusty joints squeak beneath my weight.

Mari blows out a breath.

“It’s just that…$5,000 is a helluva lot of money. It’ll take me a year to save up that much working at the hair salon with booth rent and my kids. And $15,000? How the hell am I supposed to come up with that much?”

I grin, tapping my notepad.

“What makes you think you will be bankrolling the startup? Other people are going to give you money to do this. Your investment is your IP and your sweat equity.”

She flips her hair over her shoulder.

“And why would some stuffy corporate type want to give me thousands of dollars? I didn’t even graduate from high school.” She starts to withdraw, pushing away from the desk and spinning in her chair toward her purse.

“Why would they? Why wouldn’t they? Why wouldn’t they invest in a woman who has overcome extraordinary odds, who is entrepreneurial and already running her own business, and who has created an excellent, proven product in one of the fastest segments of the beauty industry?

Let’s take the emotion out of it. By the numbers, it only makes sense. ”

Mari looks down at the floor for a long moment, but when she faces me again, a smile brightens her expression.

“Yeah, you’re right,” she says. “Now to actually get the funding.”

I shrug. “For you? Easy.”

We go over her financials a bit more, and I read through an RFP she’s prepared for a boutique hair salon in Oregon looking to stock Black-owned haircare products specifically formulated for Black hair.

By the time we end the session, it’s late, and my stomach rumbles.

I haven’t eaten since lunch, and it’s now well after seven p.m.

This late at night, there aren’t that many people in the building.

Located in South Loop, the mPOWER office sits between a doughnut shop and a dry cleaner near the Roosevelt station.

It’s never quiet around here, but when I lock the front door after Mari’s exit, there’s a special type of stillness that comes after the energy of the after-work mentor sessions.

Mari is one of about thirty clients in the Women’s Business Builder cohort. Twice a week in the evenings, business leaders, accountants, and lawyers donate their time to the organization and mentor women as they create and launch their businesses.

And in the two years I’ve volunteered with mPOWER, I’ve seen many women make their dreams come true. I know Mari will get there, too.

In the staff break room, I text Yennifer to come grab me on her way home from her evening class and set my phone face down on the oversized Formica-covered island in the center of the breakroom.

With an hour until she’ll arrive, I pull my textbook and laptop out of my bag and settle in on the short-backed barstool to kill the time.

I take a big bite out of a Clif bar when DeAndria, the program director, bounces into the space.

“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 her Scandal era.

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 not everyone is a volunteer,” she says.

Right.

DeAndria sighs, takes a step closer to me until she’s leaning on the island next to my textbook, and says, “Listen. Between you, me, and the wall, I’ve got some changes happening in my life. And if I tell you, you’ve got to promise to keep it to yourself. Okay?”

“You got it,” I reply, already knowing I’m going to tell Yennifer because duh, and also because there’s no one of consequence she would blab to.

“I’ve got a job offer. VP of Programming for a similar org out of Tampa.”

My eyes widen, but I smile, nonetheless. Losing DeAndria would be a big blow to mPOWER. She’s been here for almost ten years, working her way up from a volunteer to program director.

No one cares about mPOWER like she does.

“Congratulations!” I say, and she waves her hand in the air.

“I need a replacement, and I’d love for you to take my place.”

Well, if that isn’t a record scratch.

“Huh? I’m not even out of school yet, and grad school?—”

“I know,” she cuts in. “But can you tell me you want to go? Because every time I talk to you about it, you look a little green.”

My hands fly to my cheeks.

“Green?”

She laughs.

“Okay, not actually green, but you do look stressed even discussing it. I thought maybe you might want to do something different. Am I wrong?”

The middle of my back starts to sweat. Is she wrong?

Daddy’s face flashes before me. First, there’s the image I’ve focused on for the last several years—Daddy smiling broadly, joy radiating from him, when I receive my Harvard acceptance letter. But then it morphs into one of absolute disapproval.

Disapproval because I abandoned the plan in search of…what?

No. Of course DeAndria is wrong. She has to be.

“I don’t know, DeAndria. This feels…why do you think I should take over after you? When are you leaving for the job?”

“Not until late spring for the beginning of their fiscal year, so there’s lots of time to get ready.

But as to why you? You have what’s needed to take mPOWER to new heights—and to help our clients realize and achieve their dreams. You’re talented at this, Shae, and if there’s anyone more deserving or more capable, I’ve yet to meet them. ”

I don’t know why, but her words make me want to cry. There’s no denying that my heart fills in a way I don’t experience doing other things. The thought of trading stock futures doesn’t give me the same buzz that crafting business plans and mapping out actual routes to get there does.

But nonprofit work is often thankless and underpaid, and while I know money isn’t everything, I know it will drive my dad to fits if I were to put in all this work to struggle financially—even if it is for a good cause.

Success makes you undeniable. Money makes you bulletproof.

Could I really give up the security the path I’m on will bring in favor of something like this?

“Harvard has been my plan since I was a kid. I didn’t get in for undergrad, but I’m banking on the work I’ve done to get in for grad school. After that, it’s the New York Stock Exchange or Berkshire Hathaway, or….”

I trail off, because that sick feeling she described smacks me in the face and punches me in the gut at the same time.

“So…yeah,” I conclude.

DeAndria simply nods as I speak and spiral, and she doesn’t push.

I’m grateful as hell when my phone chirps, and flipping it over, I answer it on the second ring.

“Excuse me,” I say to DeAndria, and she taps the counter in acknowledgment and finishes her drink.

“Bitch, I’ve been texting you! Patterson let us out early. Get your ass outside before I get into a tussle with a meter maid.” Yennifer shouts, and a car horn blares from her side of the connection. Thankfully, she pulls the phone away from her face before yelling at someone nearby.

“Ah, sorry! Two seconds,” I rush, ending the call without waiting for her acknowledgment. Stuffing my belongings back into my bag, I sling it over one shoulder and toss my half-eaten energy bar in the trash.

“Congratulations again,” I say, heading for the door.

“Just think about what I said, Shae,” DeAndria replies, chucking her now-empty bottle into the recycling. “And think about what you want in this life.”

What I want? Harvard is what I want.

…right?

“Thank you,” I say, my voice feeling weak. DeAndria smiles in reply.

A knowing smile.

Tilting my head down in acknowledgment, I spin on my heel and sprint for the exit.