“Mamacita, he still blames himself for what happened tome.” Marisol ran an impressive set of neon-hued acrylic nails over the shiny pink skin covering her face and neck. She’d had a ton of surgeries, but the left side of her mouth still tilted permanently downward a teensy bit, her most obvious scar.
“The fire was an accident,” I said instinctively, something we’d all been telling Deck for as long as I could remember.
“Exactamente. And what happened with you was on Chi-chi, not our boys. Not to mention Johnny, Cruz, and Eliazar being responsible for their own decisions. But Deck is stubborn.”
The picture became clearer. Therapy had helped me move on with my life but hadn’t fully healed me. Only time could do that. Walking away from the neighborhood, from Everett, had created a protective layer. I’d insulated myself from everyone who knew, anyone who could remind me. Deck literally went to prison over Chi-chi. He hadn’t been able to walk away or relegate it to some deep corner of his mind.
“I think it’s good you’re finally talking to Deck,” Marisol said. “Even though it’s because something terrible happened to Johnny. And I have a plan to get you two togeth—”
She never finished her thought because Rosa came back with an armful of files. We ended our conversation, but Marisol gave me the knowing look of someone who reserved the right to revisit the subject later.
I spent the morning and mostof the afternoon going through the numbers. Rosa hadn’t been exaggerating. The books were kept meticulously, but that didn’t mean the news was great. Once I dug in, I realized there was an overreliance on government funding that was drying up, as well as gifts from foundations that had become significantly less generous over the years.
The Center had historically held a huge spring fundraising drive, but it didn’t seem to have happened this year. They’d also missed a few newsletter mailings, which brought in small donations and kept the individual donor list fresh. They were in the final year of a major three-year grant, so that money wouldneed to be replaced with something in the next fiscal year. And there weren’t any major gifts on the horizon because Rosa hadn’t been doing her handshaking and meeting new donors routine. A gala took place every year before Christmas. I’d need to check with Rosa’s fundraiser, Ana, to make sure that the event was still on track.
The Center had enough money to make it through to the end of the year, but beyond that, the outlook was bleak.
I considered making a substantial donation myself. I could probably provide enough funding to get the Center through the next year or two, but that wouldn’t be a long-term solution. Since getting bought out of JBC, I would be considered wealthy by many standards, but not to the extent that I could fund the Center indefinitely or establish a meaningful endowment.
Rubbing my temples, I thought about what to tell Rosa. The situation was critical, but I had to believe it wasn’t so dire that things couldn’t be salvaged. We just needed to find a new income source that would be stable in the long term. Plus, no more skipping newsletters and fundraising drives. Those went a long way toward keeping the Center sustainable.
I found her in the kitchen preparing for snack time. When I'd attended, many of the kids who came didn’t eat very well at home, so Rosa always provided a “snack” that was more like a full meal. She pulled four sheets of baked ziti out of the ovens.
“Rosa?”
She wiped her hands on her apron after putting the trays on hot pads.
“¿Qué te pareció, mija?”
“Honestly, I think there’s a lot of work to be done, but it’s not a lost cause.” Rosa brightened, coming over to give me a hug as I continued. “But I think you’re gonna need more help. I know you want to be with Lupe, and of course you should be, but if thisship is going to get back on course, we can’t keep letting the hole get bigger.”
The corners of her eyes glistened. “I can’t afford more help,nena.”
I put my arm around her. “It’s okay, Rosa. That’s why you’re going to let me come work here for a while as a volunteer. I’ll be the extra pair of hands you need to support fundraising or programs or whatever, and you can do what you need to do for Lupe.”
Rosa’s internal struggle played out across her features. I knew her pride, but in the end, she’d do what was best for the Center.
“Please don’t think of it as charity,” I said. “I owe you a ton, and this is something I can do. The timing is right, and I know I can help.” She still looked unconvinced, so I declared unapologetically, “You can’t afford to turn me down, Rosa. Not if you want to save the Hope Center.”
That did it. She nodded as a few of the tears she’d been holding back finally fell. “Gracías, mija.”
Chapter eighteen
Cori
After a lengthy conversation, Rosa and I concluded that she would pay me a nominal consulting fee. It would likely come out to pennies per hour worked, but if it made her feel better to give me something, I could live with that.
Around two o’clock, the staff arrived to set up for the day. I gave Chuck a big hug when I saw he was still around. The rest of the team was mainly comprised of college students, although a few said they’d been there for years. There were also half a dozen volunteers. Marisol told me most of those folks came once or twice a week to lead specialty programs.
The local middle and high schools dismissed their students first, so teens started pouring into the building just before three o’clock.
I experienced déjà vu as the groups came in, laughing and messing around. The clothes and hair were different, but it was essentially the same as when I was a teenager. After spending all day at school worrying about whether I’d accidentally piss offthe wrong person or get messed with because I had straight A’s, I would come to the Center and finally be able to breathe. I saw that same relief on many of these kids’ faces, especially the ones who immediately sat down at the table area and started doing their homework.
Half the teens went into the gym, and I heard the staff calling fouls and reminding them to watch their language. I laughed. Some things never changed.
Several dozen kids followed volunteers into learning labs for classes in knitting, guitar playing, and working on a digital drawing program in the computer lab. A few others flopped down on the couch in front of the TV, which remained off. Video games wouldn’t be allowed for another hour. As they kept rolling in, depositing backpacks and coats in the cubbies along the wall, I stood by the desk. Being unfamiliar, I got a few suspicious glances, but no one spoke to me. I remembered that wariness.
Across the room, Rosa slipped into a chair next to a youth who appeared to be simply staring into space. The teen’s nondescript jeans, T-shirt, and short, greasy brown hair were unremarkable, but the misery written across their facial features was stark.
