“Thank you,” he exclaimed. “Thank you.”
Though he didn’t have a microphone in front of him, everyone knew exactly what he was saying.
“When you visit those polls in November, don’t forget to vote Grayson. He’s not what Berkeley wants. He’s what Berkeley needs.”
The spotlight returned to the stage where Velma, the event coordinator and director of The Berkeley City Community Foundation, also known as TBCCF, continued her speech. The fundraiser had pulled in well over a hundred thousand thousand dollars. Each plate was eight hundred and eighty-eight dollars. There were enough people in the venue to cover one hundred and fifty plates at minimum. It was a great start.
Donations were being taken as well. Ishmael had made a generous donation himself. His love for Berkeley had no limits. He wanted to see the city thrive and the children grow to be responsible, considerate adults.
“Grayson Cares.” I leaned over, whispering.
“Hm?”
“Grayson Cares. It has a ring to it. I’m going to start the paperwork for a non-profit.”
“Does your mind ever stop working?”
“No. October is coming. It’s breast cancer awareness month. You’ve expressed your concerns for people policing the female body. I think that’s right on target for an early detection campaign. In addition, we should start a clothing drive for the children who have been affected by breast cancer.
“When cancer happens, it doesn’t just affect the person who is experiencing its symptoms. It changes everyone around them. Children feel it the most when it’s a parent or grandparent. Let’s not forget those little ones.”
Ishmael nodded.
“You, my baby, have a good head on your shoulders.”
The grin on his face said more than he was willing to. My trailblazing thoughts weren’t the only thing he was referring to.
“Can we leave now?”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
Ishmael was up in a flash. He took me by the hand and began the usher wave as we made our way through the dimly lit room. If he wasn’t waving, he was shaking a hand. If he wasn’t shaking a hand, he was accepting a hug.
It had taken us eight minutes to get from our seats to the backseat of the Phantom. Ishmael’s exhaustion weighed him down. His head rested on my shoulder. I ran my fingertips up and down the side of his face.
His head grew heavier as we entered the freeway. His breathing slowed once we were at a pleasant speed.
My baby. I laid my head against the window, admiring the man before me.
He was no soldier at the moment. He was a vulnerable boy with an expanding heart. So much was changing for him. So much of his world was evolving.
I wasn’t sure if Ishmael understood yet, but he was safe with me. He would always be safe with me.
TWELVE
The weeks were passingby like days. I couldn’t grasp the concept of time suddenly. Everything was a blur. Everything buther.
I unbuttoned the cuffs of my shirt as I watched Royce paint her toenails. She placed a blue light over them each time she finished putting more polish on them. The television’s volume was high. Her eyes were on the screen every chance she got.
It was my face that made her teeth show and her eyes bunch in the corners. She was enthralled in the latest updates on the race and my responses to the questions I was asked by the reporters with cameras in my face. A city’s historical figure was facing demolishing. I wouldn’t stand for it. I was present to show my support and demand a vote from those in the community.
“Exactly,” Royce tittered as I concluded my statement.
I sniggered, wondering if this was her routine when she was at my home and I wasn’t. She looked up, finally noticing me.
“How long have you been there?” She questioned, placing her chin on her knee and glaring in my direction.
