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“Can you stop that?” Her eyes dart up. A flare of frustration tightens her mouth. “I need more time to explain myself.”
“Then start by explaining what you did wrong yesterday.”
Her shoulders tense. She laces her fingers together. “I fought with a reporter.”
I gaze past the blinds and into the rest of the office. “Phyllis Wu. Head of our IT Department. Her son has a rare genetic heart condition that requires him to carry around a machine. She was scheduled to go with him to the doctor when the foundation’s website began to receive so many complaints that it crashed. She refused to leave and insisted on fixing the website because no one else could handle the matter.”
Dejonae sinks into a chair. Her face creases in distress.
“Evangeline Warren. She is five years old. She recently lost her hearing but before that, she loved music. Her mother is working two jobs to support the family after her husband left her and returned to his country. Evangeline was set to join the foundation in our second phase. Her mother cried over the phone when she asked how much the fee was and we said it was free. But yesterday, Evangeline’s mother called and said she would no longer allow her daughter to attend the foundation. She would rather Evangeline never learn music than to put her in a dangerous place.”
Dejonae digs her fingers into the arm of the chair.
“People are petitioning for the foundation to be shut down. They say it must be a front for money laundering because deaf children do not need to learn music. They are asking for the government to get involved.” I keep my expression blank.
Silence falls like a toxic rain.
I move toward her. “The day I first showed you the music room, you told me that accessibility is always an after-thought. Do you remember that?”
She nods.
“This means the accessibility wedohave, we have only because it was fought for.” I press my hand against the arm of the chair and hunker over her. “Knowing that, how could you be so irresponsible?”
Her eyes shift swiftly to mine. Pride and remorse are at war inside her. It causes her bottom lip to tremble.
I straighten and keep my voice level. “Do you still think this is a small issue? That you were wronged? Misunderstood? That it should only concern you and the reporter? If you made a mistake and handed in your resignation as punishment, do you think you will be the only one to suffer the consequences?” I shake my head. “While you were writing that letter, did you think about the people who are being punished alongside you? All of the instructors’ efforts, the team that pulled an all-nighter, the children whose parents are wary of sending them here—if you run away, do you think it solves their problems?”
Her head twists around so she is facing the window.
“You have three minutes left.”
She slowly turns back to me.
I look down, clenching my jaw. “I told you before. I don’t care about what people think of me and my reasons for choosing you. I care about who you really are. Were you always someone who would run in the face of pressure?”
“Someone needs to take the flak for this.” She gives me a long look. “We both know that people aren’t going to go easy on you if I stay. And I don’t think you really want another complication right now.”
I square my shoulders. “I don’t care what you think, but I’m certain about one thing. The Sazuki Foundation is going to change the way that deaf students interact with music. I recruited you because you can help us reach that goal.”
She scrubs a finger over her dark forehead.
I reach out to touch her shoulder and pull back before I make contact. “People will find reasons to hate you, pity you and look down on you because of your age and inexperience. And others might coddle you, go easy on you and take your side because of your looks, your race or your gender. But I won’t do either of those things. The Sazuki Foundation is my legacy. Once you contribute to that legacy, it doesn’t matter if you’re a man or a woman. If you’re black or white. If you’re ugly or beautiful. We’re on the same side.”
There’s a knock on the door.
“Sazuki,” Akira’s voice seeps through, “why is this locked?” The door knob rattles. “Traffic is terrible. If you plan to get to the meeting on time, we have to leave now.”
I check my watch.
Two seconds.
One.
The alarm chimes.
“Your eight minutes are up. If you have no answer for me, you can leave the resignation letter on the desk. I will speak to your school so this does not affect your graduation project.”
I take a step toward the door.
