Not long ago, I convinced myself that Layla’s departure was further proof that committing to Victory would be a mistake; now I realize I was using it as an excuse to avoid making critical decisions about my future. No more. Layla’s important to me, and if I’m going to plant roots here in DC, I can’t think of a better person to be a part of my new village.

I watch Layla stride up the sidewalk; she’s wearing a cream blouse and a pair of black slacks. “Wow. Don’t you look stylish.”

She takes the chair opposite me. “Your wardrobe came in handy after all.”

We’re meeting at an outdoor café near her new job as a receptionist for a small accounting firm in Georgetown. She’s on a lunch break, so we don’t have much time. The server quickly takes our orders and sprints away to another (demanding) table.

“Poor guy,” I say.

“I couldn’t do it,” Layla says, shaking her head. “I’d be fired the first week.”

“I’d be fired the first day.”

She laughs, squinting against the sun’s rays. “So, what did you want to see me about?”

I twist my hands on my lap. I’m making too much of this, and if I don’t speak up soon, I’ll probably weird her out. Just go for it, Solange. “The class misses you.”

“Aww, I miss them too,” she replies, smiling. “Even big-head Darius.”

“I’ll pass along the message,” I say on a chuckle. “So listen, I know you need this job, and I totally support that, but I’d like us to stay in touch. I’d be happy to tutor you for the GED outside of school and give you career advice and be a general sounding board whenever you have an issue.” I wave my hands around. “Whatever you’re comfortable with. What do you say?”

She nibbles on her bottom lip as she studies me. “What about Victory? Will you still be working there?”

I haven’t formally accepted the offer, but I plan to later this afternoon.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m going to be working at Victory for the foreseeable future. It’s breaking news, though, so don’t tell anyone just yet.”

“I’m glad you’re staying, Ms. P. And I’d love for you to be my mentor. I could use all the help I can get.”

I give her a playful wink. “Well, now you’ll have mine.”

The waiter arrives with our entrées—salmon for me and a salad for Layla—and we dig in.

After a few bites, Layla takes a sip of water, then clears her throat. “Does being my mentor mean I can ask personal questions?”

“You can always ask. But I reserve the right not to respond. Depends on the question.”

“Whatever that means,” she mutters.