Page 39 of Scarred Crown

She sticks out her tongue at me while she lines up another shot.

“I’d need to figure out which African country. But assuming I can narrow the field, why girls? Why school?” I prod.

“Education is the great equalizer. Women are less likely to attend school than men. They’re also more likely to be illiterate in poorer countries. Without an education, women have limited choices. Get married, have babies.” She raises her eyebrows at me as though she’s schooled me.

“What’s wrong with getting married and having babies?” Despite my goading, I see her point.

“Nothing as long as that’s what you’re choosing to do and not what you’re forced to do.”

“Where’d you learn all this?”

“Model UN Club. You should have joined.” Her smile is smug.

I might have joined if the Model UN Club hadn’t been Alex’s big achievement during his school years. Whatever he’s done and excelled at, I avoid. “Shame they didn’t teach you that Africa is a continent.”

She hurls the basketball at me, and I laugh.

“That’s it,” she says. “You can’t have my idea. Find your own.”

I palm the basketball and stare at the net. “Let’s say I put in the research, and my grandmother picks this idea. Are you going to help me run it?”

“You want me to help you?” She’s beside me now, and she takes the basketball out of my hand.

“It’s your idea. You’re always saying you want a job where you’ll make a difference in people’s lives. Someday, when we’re old enough, we can run it together.”

She taps her chin and pretends to think about it. “Only if I get to be the boss, and you’re in charge of fetching tea.”

“I will work on my tea fetching skills,” I say, stealing the ball from her and dribbling down the court for a layup. “I suppose that means we need to do some research.”

###

Two weeks later when I enter the conference room where we’re meeting to discuss our proposals, I’m confident Jules and I have the best plan. There’s no way Alex or Brice put as much effort into their pitches as Jules and I put into this one.

I have a slide presentation, handouts, and a map of areas to target. Aside from actually visiting Tanzania, we’ve got our plan all laid out. Simple but effective. Provide school uniforms and supplies for girls to attend public schools. We went back and forth on whether I should pitch an actual school, but we decided it might be too much as a starter project for us as high school students. A school, training local women as teachers, developing scholarships, funding daycares are all extensions Jules and I have clearly labeled in the pamphlet. Start small and go big.

A bunch of advisors file into the room behind my parents and my grandmother, and a sweat breaks out under my armpits.

My parents suggest youngest to oldest for our presentations, probably assuming Alex’s will be the best, and Brice will be first to minimize any embarrassment if his sucks.

My younger brother’s presentation is on Haiti. He’s surprisingly organized and informed on the earthquake and how much of the relief funds weren’t properly channeled to the right people. But his idea to build a casino and offer a percentage of the profits to local communities probably isn’t quite the vibe our parents are going for. Definitely not one Grandmother will approve. I swear he’s going to have a gambling problem when he’s older.

It’s my turn next, and I pass out my information, adjust my tie, and dive in. The advisors ask a few questions that I really wish Jules could be here to answer. We worked so much as a team in the research and planning, I didn’t consider the gaps in my knowledge. Between the two of us, we have everything covered. Have I gotten our thoroughness across?

Next Alex presents, and I’m tempted to tune out. Everyone in the room is sitting up straight, paying attention, clearly interested in what he has to say. Is this the difference between being the future king and being the second-in-line? Automatic respect.

There’s no way he came up with his topic on his own. He’s chosen disabled veterans from Bellerive who’ve gone to Iraq and Afghanistan to help fight the War on Terror as his charity. He wants to pump money into an accessible housing project. There can’t be that many people who fit his criteria on the island, can there? Does he know that?

Doesn’t matter. Right away, I realize Jules and I are sunk. Who can argue with army vets? Disabled army vets? No one can. No one will. His presentation is adequate, if nothing special, and our grandmother, who will ultimately give the nod of approval to the panel’s selection, won’t be able to resist.

Instead of doing research, he probably had a chat with Grandmother about issues that are important to her. Fucking cheater. I suppress a sigh, and when they leave the room to deliberate, I gather up every piece of work Jules and I labored over for hours. Burn it in a bonfire on the cliff later.

“Gran give you the suggestion?” I ask Alex, eyebrows raised.

“Don’t know,” Alex says with a smirk. “Jules give you yours? Seems like something she’d be into. Women’s issues.”

“I came up with my own,” Brice says, cracking his knuckles.

“It showed,” Alex says, not even bothering to look at Brice. “Well? Did she?”