DONATELLA
“Is Ivy coming today, Donatella?” Brigitte, the governor’s wife, asked as we walked through the high-school building - another Callahan foundation chore.
“Am I not enough company, Brigitte?” I asked her, looking up at the wall of the self-portraits the senior class had drawn and displayed. They were all terribly bad; many of them looking as if they hadn’t even tried. With the expectation of one who hadn’t focused on realism, instead drawing a self-portrait of themselves in Cubism, only partially in color.
“Ms. Callahan?”
I looked back over my shoulder to the small group of women around me. Principal Pomar, a thin Hispanic woman who wore glasses I didn’t think she needed, hurried to my side.
“Do you like them? Our seniors worked really hard on them this year.”
I pointed to the only one that caught my attention. “Who did this one?”
The woman frowned then took a deep breath, shaking her head and fingering the fake pearls around her neck. “Penélope Muñoz who is, as you can see, a troubled girl. I told the art director to take down but he insisted it would add contrast—”
“I’ve heard that name.” Fatimah Gupta came forward and leaned in, whispering, “Is she the pregnant one? Her mother came down here once, correct?”
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.”
“Wowww.” Her mouth made an O and again, she tilted her head to the side. “How does your neck support such a big ego?”
“I do a couple chin tucks each morning and I’m good to go,” I said, showing her.
She tried not to laugh but couldn’t help herself. Shaking her head at me, she said, “Fine. I don’t mind being a less pretty, more pitiful, underprivileged, poor version of you.”
“Penélope,” I huffed and exhaled loudly. “Just when I was starting to like you.”
“What?”
“You should mind. Who wants to be a less pretty, more pitiful, underprivileged, poor version of me?”
She looked at me like I had lost my mind. “You just said that’s better than being everyone else!”
“Exactly!” I said in the same whiny tone as her. “You’re already better than everyone else. You should strive for more, not just settle. I saw your self-portrait and thought… This girl is ahead of her time.”
“The ones displayed in the hall? You liked that?” she asked in disbelief.
I nodded. “I love art. But I love artists more, despite the fact I can’t draw to save my life. Everyone probably sees that drawing and thinks you’re weird, right?”
“I mean, it isn’t the only reason, but it didn’t help my popularity,” she said a little less cheery than before.
“High school popularity is shit and I say that as someone who has always been popular.”
“So, you don’t know what it’s like to be on the outside, then. To always be out in the cold,” she muttered before drinking her milk.
“I didn’t say that.” I rested my cheek on my palm. “And you also don’t know what it’s like to be on the inside. They’re not any happier. In fact, they’re so terrified of being out in the cold that they’re willing to bend, deform themselves, inject Botox into their faces, cut away pieces of themselves just to stay popular. What they don’t realize is that those pieces they are cutting away are important.”
“What are you, a walking, talking self-help book?” She tried to laugh this time, but it didn’t come out the way she wanted, so she just hung her head.
“If you mean myself… Yeah most of the time.” I nodded. “But today I decided to share my almighty greatness with you, poor child. Think of me as your one-time fairy godmother.”
That did make her laugh. “One time?”
“Make one wish. Please don’t wish for something small and useless, I’ll be insulted. I’m too rich for small wishes.”
“Why?” she asked me, carefully, and I liked her even more for doing so.
“Because when asked to draw a self- portrait, you didn’t draw yourself one dimensional. You said, I am many things which make the whole; I am pieces put together in strange angles and I cannot choose just one for anyone.”
“I could just like cubism,” she muttered, before sucking on her straw, and we gave each other a look before laughing. “Fine one wish, and prepare yourself, I make big wishes.”
“Bring it.” I waved her on.
“I’m not kidding. I’m going to come off like a total parasite, trying to take everything I can—”
“Good on you.” I nodded to her. “Now you sound even more like me.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she muttered, sitting up and rolling her sleeves. She was so funny.
“Well, I don’t have all day—”
“Make me rich,” she cut me off. “Make me so rich, they have to respect me. So that they can’t abuse my mom and the teachers can’t look down on me.”
I smiled from ear to ear, leaning in close to her. “If I give you this, you aren’t going to go crazy, lose your personality, and try to become one of the popular girls, are you?”
She waved her hand over her stomach. “It’s kinda hard to be a cheer girl with a belly.”
“Fine. I’ll trust you.” I nodded, getting back up. “Keep drawing. Your stuff is going to be worth a lot. I’ll buy the self-portrait for one-five.”
“$1,500 is a little steep for a high-school painting—”
“$1,500? I’ve spent more on shoes. Try one point five million.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You lie.”
“Always, but not about this. Enjoy your last shitty sandwich and watch how the popular ones are the first to swarm to new fires.”
I turned around, ready to make my great exit; happy with completing my good deed of the year when I saw him. Dressed in head to toe black, standing at the front of the cafeteria, and grinning at me proudly.
In the next meeting, we are definitely discussing the school’s damn security system.
GABRIEL
“How did you get in here?” she hissed once she’d gotten close enough. I looked her over; covering my mouth as my eyes drank in her curvy hips under the tight, high-waisted yellow skirt which stopped just a little below her lacy crop top, showing a small sliver of her mid-section. “My eyes are up here.” She snapped her fingers at me.
“I’m not looking for your eyes,” I said, finally looking back at her. “Though they are beautiful, as always. I’m trying to figure out how you got in here.”
“Excuse me?”
I waved my hands over her outfit. “I know you enjoy being every man’s fantasy, but this a little much, don’t you think? They’re teenagers; you aren’t playing fair.”
She raised her hand as if she were about to smack me, but I quickly side-stepped her, looking to the women who now stood behind her. “Ladies, please excuse us, but Ms. Callahan has another engagement this afternoon and we must leave now if we hope to be on time.”
“Ma’am,” I turned back to Dona, waving her towards the door. She gave me a look that was more than annoyed… Which I had to admit hurt, seeing as how I’d just witnessed her true smile.
“Ladies.” She faced them, speaking politely. “I’m sorry, I must go. Principal Pomar, someone will collect Penélope’s drawing later.”
“You’re buying it?” The woman’s eyes almost fell out of her damn head.
Donatella simply nodded, looking over at her shoulder at the girl she’d spoken to. Other students were now gathering around her. “I have feeling that girl is going to be a great artist one day. I’m surprised someone as sophisticated as you didn’t know her talent. For shame. I guess it’s true… Somethings you can’t buy, or teach. You’re either born with it or not.”
When I wasn’t on the other end of her attacks, I had to admit that the way Donatella made words into weapons was masterful. Without another word, she spun around gracefully and walked out.
“Ladies.” I nodded to them once more, hurrying to catch up. I matched her pace to reach her easily. Noticing one of the girls in the hallway taking a photo with her phone, I winked at her, and they all gasped and giggled, nearly falling over themselves.
“A little much, don’t you think? They’re teenagers, you aren’t playing fair,” Donatella mocked me as we reached front glass doors, which slid open.
“You know, I like this side of you,” I said, walking down the stairs.
“What side of me?”
“The playful one. You were even, dare I say it,” I gasped placing my hand over my mouth, “nice.”
“Give me the keys. I’ll go by myself.”
“What keys?” I asked, placing my hands in my pockets.
At the bottom step, she paused and shook her head. “I’m not playing this game with you; where is the car?”
“What car?”
She nodded to herself, lifting her phone and starting to dial. “Yes, I’m finished. I need a car—”
She was cut off by the sound of the helicopter as it flew overhead before landing on the grassy field to our right.
“Option one, you wait out here for your car. There’s traffic, so it will take at least twenty minutes for the car to get here. Option two, you go inside and wait with the woman you politely berated—”
I didn’t even need to finish. Dona was already walking towards the helicopter. I grinned again, catching up and walking in pace with her.
When the door slid open - because I was born a gentleman - I placed my hands on her ass, helping her inside before getting in myself.
As I sat beside her, she said, “I’m going to kill you later.”
“I’m ready when you are,” I replied, taking a set of headphones, carefully brushing the loose strands of hair out of the way before putting them over her ears. She didn’t even pretend not to glare at my face as I did.
When I was done and had put my own headphones on, she crossed her arms and legs and looked out the at the city below us. The noise from the chopper made it far too difficult for us to talk, but that was fine. We had time for that.
Step one: Get her to give me the smallest of chances; even if the door to her heart opened a millimeter, it was still an opening I could work with.
Step two: Get her to invite me in.
Step three: Stay there at all cost.
I was currently on step two. Step one took much longer than I’d anticipated. Step two required even more patience and a man proficient in seduction.
Luckily, I was such a man. Normally the secret to the art of seduction called for one thing—knowledge. Knowing exactly what it was the other person craved and giving it to them in small doses until they became addicted. However, with Donatella, I was sure it would take more than that. I needed to make sure she was always on her toes, that she never knew what to expect. I needed to frustrate, anger, excited, confuse, and amaze her. I needed to give her everything. I needed to be everything.
It sounded daunting, exhausting, for most men at least.
However, I was not most men. Since I was a child, I’d been taught and trained to be best at everything. So, I was willing to do almost anything even if it meant crawling to her cousin and begging for a clue. I was sure she’d do it, with a little convincing and I was right. What didn’t expect was her answer.
Her text simply said, “Donatella is greedy in the same way all women are greedy. Her dream date is every cheesy thing you’ve seen in movies and read in books. She wants to have every experience.”
The answer was both helpful and completely useless.
She’d basically told me anything is fine in the most eloquent way possible. Meaning I was left to think of something on my own. Fortunately, there was no shortage of things to do in this state.
She’d be pissed at first, but I was looking forward to it. Her rage excited me.
If she wanted everything; I’d give her everything.