Page 3 of Pride and Protest
Magical Black mentors meet well-meaning white people
Some distant promise of cash and travel
“Okay,oneassistant writes a good flyer, and now they have permission to trample all over us?” Liza knew this was a lost cause, but she just had to be on record saying this was abadidea. The battle against Netherfield Court was the only thing that was going right. It was the cause the community hadfinallyrallied around her on, and with her recent eviction and looming job loss, she just wanted thisonething to go right.
Granny was already moving toward her overgrown jungle of a patio. “I suppose there are some things Icanshow these youngbloods...” Granny scratched the loose turban, shifting it comically to the side. “I guess I can go. Butjustto the gardening,” she said, plucking a wilted leaf from the money tree she spoke to every morning.
LeDeya and Bev huffed, but Bev was the only one to speak. “Ma, how can you deny these girls the chance to meet men looking their best? Don’t nobody wanna get all dirty gardening! Oh, my nerves!” Bev grabbed the worn fabric of the armchair. Her bracelets clinked and glittered. “You want these kids stuck inthis apartment for the rest of their lives? Grown women and men sleeping two to a bedroom?” Her voice wavered. “You want them just like me. Trapped.”
“These girls gotta get out of here with their minds, child, not their bodies.” Granny huffed.
“When,” Bev howled, “has thateverworked?”
Later, Liza sat alone in a darkened corner with her phone, still a little wounded by Janae siding with Bev, her thumbs tapping at her phone. The blank cursor bounced on her Instagram screen:It’s #TFW Tuesday, hotties, you know what to do. I’ll start us off! #TFW You feel completely alone in a room full of people.
ADVERSITY
From: [email protected]
Subject: Acting CEO duties
The board would like to remind you again that it is currently not within your powers as acting CEO to amend or augment any existing portions of the budget. Rest assured, we are committed to the World Children’s Organization as much as your mother was. But we will hold no further meetings about the budget.
You were absent from three groundbreaking ceremonies, and you also declined a golf invitation from a Virginia State senator very active in DC politics. The board would like to see you out in front for the company. You are a fresh face in development, and the board wants to capitalize on some of the excitement around you.
Best,
R.H.
Dorsey raised his arms to point at another graphic. When he looked down, he was horrified to see the deep half-moons of perspiration under his arms. It was fall in Philadelphia, so he couldn’t blame the weather for the cold sweat drenching his body.
“I’m sorry, young man, what you’re proposing is tantamount to theft,” an older man grumbled.
“A tax on shareholders is what it is,” another man said.
Dorsey ground his teeth. He was always “young man” when the board wanted to put him in his place. He found his sister’s kind brown eyes. She silently mouthed the word “research.”
Dorsey gulped an entire glass of water and exhaled. He was bombing this meeting. He knew it. His sister knew it. And the board knew it.
He pointed to the slide. “Companies with strong social performance also have strong financial performance.”
“A positive association between charitable contributions and profits does not mean that giving serves a legitimate business purpose. Prosperous companies simply have more cash and highly valued shares, which makes it easier to give to charity,” a woman countered. That comment got a lot of approving murmurs. Dorsey’s chest tightened. Charitable giving should not be this controversial, but he had been locked in a battle of wills with the board for far too long, and they smelled blood in the water.
“Not always—” Dorsey began.
“Dorsey, we understand and appreciate you attempting to further your mother’s philanthropic legacy. But an economic recovery is no time to increase spending. We were all shocked by your family’s tragedy. But we must pull this company up, and we can’t get sentimental about Pemberley’s ultimate north star—development,” Hampden, a broom-bristle-mustached man said, his eyes a mix of pity and annoyance.
A cold-eyed woman shifted in her seat at the end of the table. “Do you have anynewbusiness? We’d like a report on the Netherfield properties.”
