of just a summer program would solve much of this problem, but that calls for money. Something we don’t have.”
He was right, and they all knew it. Keeping A Fresh Start open for at least two to three hours in the afternoon, during those hours between when kids were let out of school and when their parents arrived home from work, was a critical component to retaining the kids they’d managed to keep from last summer.
The program, which currently helped more than fifty children from around the neighborhood, relied on donations and creative budgeting to get by. But their anemic bank account barely had enough funds to cover their expenses for the next ten weeks. Stretching that to cover an entire year of programming?
“We have to figure out a way to make this happen,” April said, her voice solemn. “Last summer Demarco Jackson was one of my most promising violinists. I was concerned when I didn’t see him during our first week back. I found out from one of his schoolmates today that Demarco was picked up for truancy four times during the school year, and just got out of juvenile detention for a street fight he was involved in. Thankfully, it didn’t turn more violent than a fistfight, but it could have gotten out of hand and led to something much more deadly.”
April looked into the faces of each of her colleagues.
“I refuse to lose any of these kids to the streets,” she continued with renewed determination. “We have something good going here. We need to make sure it continues to thrive.”
“You’re preaching to the choir,” Nicole said. “We all know the benefit A Fresh Start brings to the Ninth Ward. But that doesn’t solve the money problem.”
“That’s why we’re here this evening, right?” April said. “We need to figure out how to come up with the 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.
