The principal cringed but nodded, glancing around before saying, “We’re a Catholic school, we didn’t want her to abort it. We told her to stay home till after the baby was born, then restart. However, her mother came here and made quite a fuss. We just left her to herself; she’s only making it harder for her daughter. I feel for the mother though, she’s a single mother what else—”
“Where is this Penélope?” I asked, interrupting their need for useless gossip.
She had to think before looking down at her watch. “I believe it’s lunch period for most of her grade.”
“Brilliant, we’ll get to see the cafeteria as well. I’d love to see how that healthy choice initiative your husband signed is working, Fatimah,” I said, looking to Principal Pomar and waiting. She looked to rest of them and I wondered why; they weren’t the largest donors to the school. I was. “Is there a problem?”
“Of course not, right this way. We’ve just had the whole kitchen menu…”
I stopped paying attention at that point as we walked through the hall. Each of the monthly meetings for The Callahan Foundation served a dual purpose, as we also discussed our family business, charity which didn’t benefit us had a very clear objective. Nari, Helen, and I often went to different schools, parks, hospitals, and various other organizations for the public to, as my cousin Darcy would say, “toss gold coins.”
I’m sure Ivy, once she got settled, would pick her charities to shower money on as well. The objective was to make people feel grateful to us, or at the very least, not detest us. People had tendency to hate the rich, especially the generational rich, and that hate turned to violence if they suffered long. It was what brought about the Reign of Terror.
To prevent anarchy, toss gold. My aunt Cora had taught us that when we were young, and we all still lived by it now.
“Here we are,” Principal Pomar said as we stood at the upper level, looking down at the students who all laughed, ate, and drank among themselves.
I wondered how it was possible for high school to never change. Even at my boarding school for girls it had been the same. Everyone broke into cliques; the pretty and popular, then the anti-popular kids who thought they were so cool because they smoked cheap cigarettes and listened to older music. Then of course, there were the traditional athletes, nerds, and the geeks. Yes, those were separate groups. I knew, thanks to Helen, that nerds were intelligent and industrious, while geeks, apparently, were random people who cared immensely about random things no one else gave two shits about. Penélope Muñoz was not among any of them. She sat all the way at the back with her nose in a book, eating a homemade sandwich. I knew it was her right away; her stomach was a dead giveaway.
“I’ll be right back,” I said to them, walking to the side steps.
“Ms. Callahan
?” They called after me but I ignored them and walked down by myself.
It didn’t take long for the boys to notice and stop talking to gawk. I wanted to smack a few of the jocks who thought it was funny to flex and blow kisses at me.
“Isn’t that Donatella Callahan?” a girl to the right of me whispered. “She’s so freaking pretty.”
“With that much money, we could all be pretty,” another of them mumbled and I wanted to stop and tell her not enough money in the world could change her ugly little mouth. I restrained myself, knowing her greedy parents would claim I’d bullied her and caused mental distress in hopes of getting a pay day.
Instead of replying, I ignored them, allowing them to talk and think what they wanted. Their lives were going to be insignificant to me, as always.
Knock. Knock. I beat my knuckles in front of her brown paper lunch bag. With mustard on the side of her lips, Penélope stared at me wide-eyed.
“Can I sit?”
Frowning, she took out her earbuds. “I guess I don’t own the table.”
As I sat across from her, she sat up a little straighter.
“I saw your drawing.” She didn’t seem to hear me; she was too focused on everyone else.
“On second thought, maybe you shouldn’t sit here. Everyone is staring at you,” she quietly spoke, then leaned in.
“Are you sure it’s not the mustard on your chin they’re staring at?” I asked her and she rushed for a napkin, wiping her face.
“Of freaking course.” She laughed sadly to herself. Dropping the napkin on the table before looking to me. “Let me guess, you’re one of those PTA moms who want to help me make the right choice?”
“I should smack you across the face. Do I look old enough to be the mother of a high-school student?”
She tilted her head to the side. “Honestly, I can’t tell anymore with the Botox they keep injecting into their faces. But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt since your face still moves when you talk.”
I laughed. Like actually laughed. “You remind me of a less pretty, more pitiful, underprivileged, poor version of me.”
“Fuck you. Is that supposed to be a compliment?” She made a face. “That’s horrible.”
I shrugged smiling. “I said it because I was sure you could take it. Besides, any version of me is better than a version of anyone else.”