Page 16 of The One Who Got Away

“I don’t know where they get all that energy, but I’d like a handful of it,” I chuckled.

“You and me both,” she huffed, scooting her chair closer. The stern look she’d given the boys was a distant memory when a smile spread across her friendly face. “What can I do for you, sweetheart?”

“I have a meeting with Principal Waters,” I explained, adjusting the strap of my briefcase. “I’m with Backpacks for Change?”

The friendliness on her face transformed into gratitude almost instantly. I was out of sorts as she moved with a speed and agility that seemed impossible for her age and wrapped her arms on me.

All I’d said was ‘I’m with Backpacks for Change’ and she was hugging me like we were already friends.

When we separated, my chest tightened when I saw tears glistening in her brown eyes.

“That your organization is helping our school, our kids...we are just so grateful,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “A lot of these kids are used to disappointment and people giving up on them. They deserve something good.”

I put a hand on her shoulder and nodded. “Damn straight.” My hand shot to my mouth when I realized I’d just cussed in front of an elder, a woman that was reminding me more and more of my grandmother. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled, my face mimicking the color of my briefcase.

She didn’t say a word, stalking back to her desk. I heard a drawer zip open and when she returned to view, she perched a jar filled with coins on the ledge.

“Usually cussing costs you, but you’re new here, so I’ll let it slide.”

Freaking out a little, I swung my briefcase onto my thigh and rummaged through the front pocket for some change, but her laugh drew my attention back to her.

“You’re fine, darlin’,” she chuckled. “Around here, you’ve gotta keep your wits about you, have a hell of a sense of humor, and cuss when the occasion calls for it.” She tucked the jar out of sight and turned her attention to the computer on the desk. “Let me get you all signed up, then I’ll walk you over to the conference room. I’m Mrs. Lenoir.” Her fingertips flew across the keyboard.

“I’m Catherine Wilkes,” I said softly, still getting comfortable. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.” The printer behind her hummed and spit out my nametag. She handed it over and pulled a cardigan over her shoulders. “Right this way.”

I took in the energy of the school and tried to not be too Pollyanna just because the work and the classes we passed with their doors still open looked so cheery and inviting. I knew beneath all that, weaved in between the smiles, finger painting, stories, and teachers who did their best, kids fell through the cracks. That’s where Backpacks for Change came in. We were dedicated to doing more than supplementing kids in need with access to school supplies, clothing, and even backpacks. We wanted to help bridge the gap and inspire and educate through immersive after-school programs, workshops, and field trips. We wanted to invest in the kids who needed it the most.

After a second hug from Mrs. Lenoir, I took the few moments of having the conference room to myself to unload my briefcase, passing out glossy folders filled with glossy information. I poured myself a glass of water, avoiding the coffee because the caffeine would make me even more jittery. A few minutes before nine, the principal, a few representatives from the teaching staff, and the school board filed in. Each introduced themselves to me with an air of importance that made me cringe on the inside, but I shook every hand politely and waited for them to help themselves to coffee and doughnuts and conversation. I didn’t clear my throat or raise my voice over the chatter when the clock ticked past 9 AM. I didn’t say a word until a teacher, Ms. Clinton, pointed at the digital display and announced it was ten minutes past nine and we should get started. They settled in their comfy seats with their piping hot cups of whatever and turned their attention to me.

“We’re all pretty lucky, aren’t we?” I began, folding my hands on top of the podium. “That we get to come into this safe, secure conference room, with its shiny, clean whiteboard and the fully stocked bar in the corner.”

That got some uncomfortable chuckles.

“And we can be where we’re supposed to be, ready to do what we’re supposed to do, eleven minutes past when we’re supposed to get started...and there are no consequences,” I continued, ignoring the raised eyebrows and pursed lips. “The kids that my organization want to help? One misstep can cost their lives.” I paused to let that sink in. “They don’t always go home to clean tables. They may even go home to empty cupboards and wake up and go to school with empty stomachs. We all have so much, and we’re letting the most vulnerable among us go without. My organization is trying to change that.”

I guided them through the folder and watched as their annoyance, their embarrassment changed into something else. Things were grim, but all hope wasn’t lost.

When I finished the presentation, I shook hands all around the table and even got a few hugs, everyone excited about how Backpacks for Change could help their students.

I gathered my things and pointed toward the exit, feeling like I was on the right path, ready to do good work. To really make an impact.

I turned a corner and a deep, authoritative voice made me stop in my tracks. If it were female, I’d probably keep going, shrugging it off as a teacher having a moment with a student. But I paused and listened.

“Tell me what happened.”

I bit my lip when I heard a sniffle and the unsure, high-pitched voice of a young boy followed.

“Kevin Hartman told everyone that I wear the same underwear every day.” The boy’s voice cracked on the last word and I wanted to swoop in, scoop him up, and take him to a place far away where no bullies existed and you could have ice cream, with sprinkles, until your teeth rotted.

The boy sniffled again, this one longer, and I pictured him pulling his sleeve across his nose. “So I hit him.”

“And it felt good, right?” the deep voice followed.

I frowned, in part because teaching a kid that violence is the answer is actually a problematic approach. And...there was something about that voice...

The boy must have been nodding enthusiastically, because the man laughed and an invisible hand wrapped around my throat and squeezed.

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