“What do you mean?” Link asked.
“It’s difficult to convince a family dealing with issues like homelessness and starvation that their child should be in preschool. Even when it’s cheaper than daycare. Back in 2012, when the state passed the initiative for public charter schools, we saw our golden opportunity. Becoming a charter school would secure steady funding so we could start offering three meals a day, instead of one, and increase the number of full scholarship children we could accept.”
“But the restrictions of the government slowed down your progress,” Emily guessed, proving her intelligence.
“Exactly. Our priorities didn’t align, so we returned to the private sector and changed our business model. We’re a lot more proactive about obtaining donations now, and we’re meeting our goals. We provide three meals, plus snacks, five days a week. We’re closed for two months during the summer, but still offer free lunches three days a week. One in every five children in this state doesn’t get enough to eat, but in this neighborhood the stats are a lot higher. Devastatingly so. Most of our preschoolers can’t rely on meals outside of our walls, and summer can be a hungry time around here. We’re hoping to increase those lunches to five days a week this summer.”
There was a rap on my office door frame, and a petite woman with graying blonde hair poked her head in. “Excuse me, Mercy, I heard you had guests and thought you all could use a snack.” The smell of chocolaty goodness drifted into my office as she extended a platter of cookies and stepped in.
Elizabeth Welch was a widow whose only child had enlisted in the military shortly after her husband had died. She was lonely, bored, and looking for someone to nurture when I met her, and I knew she’d be a perfect fit for the school. I never expected her to become such a close friend, but now I don’t know what I’d do without her.
“Thank you, Beth. Emily, Link, Blade, Beth is our cook and she’s phenomenal. Her cookies are to die for.”
Beth flashed me her sweet, motherly smile before focusing it on our guests. She held out the cookie platter and they all three dug in before finally sitting. “Mercy said you were in the Army,” Beth said to Link. “My son’s in the Army. He’s a combat medic.”
She beamed with pride and I snatched a cookie, popping it into my mouth so I wouldn’t mouth off in front of our guests. Beth never had a negative word to say about her son, Landon, but as far as I was concerned, he was an asshole. Not only had he enlisted right after her husband died, leaving Beth painfully alone, but he hadn’t been back since. He’d left his sweet, kind, caring mom all alone for seven years! Beth insisted that he had his reasons, but I saw the hurt in her eyes every time she defended his continued absence.
“These cookies are delicious,” Emily said, grabbing another.
“They sure are. Here, have another.” Link grinned at his wife. Judging by her pre-pregnancy photos she probably didn’t eat many cookies and he was having a good time getting her to indulge now. She eyed him suspiciously, but accepted the cookie he offered.
“I’d like to meet your son when he comes home,” Link said, turning his attention back to Beth.
“Me too,” I grumbled. Oh yes, I had many things to say to Landon.
Beth flashed me a warning look before backing out of my office with her empty platter. “I’ll let him know. It was nice to meet you all, but I’ve got to go close down the kitchen.”
“Do you have any more questions for me?” I asked the trio.
Emily nodded and held up a finger, swallowing her bite before asking, “I read that you also provide family housing. How does that work?”
“We need the children to attend regularly in order for them to realize the benefits of the education we’re offering, and we found that the best way to ensure their attendance is to provide safe, secure, stable housing. Thanks to donations, volunteers, and a handful of big sponsors, we built the adjoining sixteen-unit townhouse complex two years ago.” I nodded toward the window.
Link and Emily both followed my lead, looking at the structure.
“Bold Housing is on a first-come, first-serve basis with those currently homeless or on the brink of homelessness receiving top priority. Only families with at least one child attending the preschool are allowed to apply. Part of the benefit of returning to the private sector is that we do our own screening and select applicants ourselves. We don’t offer handouts. We are looking for families willing to work with our volunteer caseworkers, financial advisors, and employment specialists to build a better life for themselves, and our board of directors is very selective about who they approve.”
“What role do you see the Dead Presidents taking in all of this?” Link asked.
“Eighty-three percent of our preschoolers come from single-mother homes. Every authority figure in this school is female and we are sandwiched between two gangs—the West Side Boyz and the High Point Locos—who are stealing away the big brothers of our children and enlisting them in their drug war. We need male role models our preschoolers can look up to and trust. The director at Helping Hands Preschool told me about how your motorcycle club has helped them, and we’d like to apply for the same assistance.”
“How long have you been working here at Bold Beginnings?” Emily asked.
Everyone always asked that, but what they wanted to ask was my age. At twenty-three, I was one of the youngest preschool directors in the state. Regardless, I was more educationally qualified than most, having earned my master’s in early childhood education, and had the college debt to prove it.
“I started volunteering here at sixteen, while I was going through the Running Start program. Then once I graduated high school with my associate’s degree, I became a part-time employee while working on my bachelor’s. I guess the short answer is that I’ve been with the preschool for seven years: employed for five, director for one.”
Normally I didn’t divulge that information, but I knew Emily would respect my drive and not misconstrue it as bragging. In response, she gave me a nod of solidarity, confirming my suspicions that she was an obsessive over-achiever as well. No wonder I got such a good vibe from her.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the school day. Moments later, the sound of little feet and voices filled the hallway.
“How many kids attend classes?” Link asked, his attention drifting to the doorway.
“Sixty,” I replied. “Twenty in each classroom, along with two teachers. We also have a steady stream of volunteers who help.”
A line of children walked past my door with one teacher in front and one flanking.
“Those are our three-year-olds,” I said, waving at the kids.
