2. New Soil
NEW SOIL
S pring exited her office and stood at the door of the conference room to compose herself. Her bone-white silk blouse clung to her, hinting at the sweat forming on her torso. “Shit,” she muttered as she entered the room.
The boardroom was long, white and cold, with a table that looked like it cost more than Rae’s salary.
There were six people seated: a director, two consultants, one man from Legal who always smelled faintly of peppermint and ego, and two board members whom she’d never met.
She was certain they were representatives from Universal.
Forget about the divorce. You are Nairobi Spring Ellison-Greene, and you know you can make a goddamn film. You’ve been doing it your whole life. Now go show them why you’re the only choice.
Spring took her deep breath and launched into her pitch.
Except her voice caught once. Then again.
“The film follows African American soul voices through the diaspora—” Spring’s voice caught. She swallowed. “Back – no , across Africa.”
“You mean through the diaspora,” the representative from Universal Pictures calmly corrected.
Spring nodded once. “Yes. Through,” she said, steadying herself. “That distinction matters.”
She tried to recover but skipped a slide, then misquoted a source. Shit, get it together, girl, she told herself. But it wasn’t working.
She could feel her rhythm folding in on itself, unraveling like a scarf snagged on the corner of something sharp.
By minute seven, she knew she was bombing. By minute ten, they did too.
There was no hiding it. All she could do was finish strong.
But before she could get to her closing, she tripped over the projector cable, pulling the plug from the socket and regaining her balance on a nearby table, where she knocked over a bottle of water – which landed on her newly-changed blouse.
With as much composure as she could gather, she looked at the board and asked, “Any questions?”
The board members sat silent for a moment, leaving the awkwardness of the water stains combined with newfound sweat forming make her appear as much of a wreck outwardly as she felt inside.
Forget the next big thing. There is no way in hell I’m getting this money.
She gritted her teeth while trying to remain composed at the putrid nature of the thought. This project was dead in the water, and all she was doing now was waiting for someone to get her out of the purgatory of this embarrassment.
“We’re still struggling with the framing,” said Marcia from Distribution. “It feels a little... curated.”
“And I’m not sure how we reconcile the authenticity claim with the celebrity backing you’re pursuing, because they are mainstream at the end of the day.
If you’re going for that vibe, we’re totally on board with mainstream.
In fact, we prefer it. This just isn’t landing in its current state,” added the other board member from Universal.
Spring nodded. Her stomach was trying to murder her from the inside.
She cleared her throat, hoping to find her voice again.
“You’re right… about all of it,” she said.
“It’s off. I’m off. And I want to apologize to all of you for what I just put you through.
That isn’t me. I got hit with something personal today, and I’m. .. regrouping.”
She paused to take a breath. She poured a glass of water and swallowed it down before continuing.
“I still believe in this project. I believe in its cultural necessity. And I believe I can build it into something worthy of the communities it represents – because I don’t come from theory, I come from the people who live this.
I make work for them, not just about them. ”
The room remained silent. She sat in its stillness, letting the weight settle like the water on her drying blouse. “If you give me a shot, I won’t let you down.” Desperation had caught her off guard, her words betraying her mind’s command to remain quiet.
The room stayed still a beat longer than she liked.
Board Chair Everett Stokes cleared his throat and said, “That’s good to hear, because we’re giving you the funds.”
Spring blinked. “Wait – what?”
Marcia smiled. “We were going to vote after the pitch, but luckily for you, the vote happened before. It was unanimous.”
Spring opened her mouth but couldn’t find the question fast enough. “I… don’t know what to say. Thank you. I knew I bombed the pitch. Normally I’m much more prepared. I just… I’ve never been this rattled before. Apologies again.”
That’s when one of the men – from Universal, she assumed – grinned and said, “It’s fine, really. Your body of work speaks for itself, You’re Spring Greene, filmmaker extraordinaire. We’ve all seen what you can do, and besides, we’ve all been through what you’re going through.”
Spring paused, caught off guard by the words. She tilted her head slightly and asked. “I… I’m sorry. What am I going through?”
He chuckled. “There are eight board members with twelve divorces combined. We all know a process server when we see one.”
Laughter rolled across the table like friendly fire. She closed her eyes and thought back to the moments when she didn’t think this situation could get any more embarrassing and chuckled in concession, joining the board at her own expense.
“You held your ground,” Marcia said. “Didn’t fold. That matters.”
Everett nodded. “Look, we’re not investing in perfection. We’re investing in clarity, and your record says when you’re clear, you deliver.”
Spring nodded slowly, swallowing her pride and embarrassment like something bitter and alive in her throat. “Thank you. I appreciate that more than you know.”
She shook each member’s hand until she got to Marcia, who hugged her and whispered, “Go to the bathroom and clean up; your tatas are showing.”
Her embarrassment had reached its apex. She embraced her mentor and walked back into her office like a woman who’d just walked through a battlefield in heels.
Rae was perched on the edge of Spring’s desk, eating the emergency almonds she claimed were “strictly for panic nutrition”.
Spring closed the door and leaned back against it. Rae turned as she entered the office eyes wide, “Girl didn’t we just change that shirt?”
“Not now Rayelle,” She took a breath to decompress, then another.
“Well?” Rae asked bracing for impact.
“They… said yes.”
Rae’s mouth fell open. “No, the hell they didn’t.”
“They did. Even after I bombed. And I mean I bombed , like the U.S. finding out a country has oil reserves.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Marcia all but confirmed that the guys were ogling my tits because I spilled water on myself. And that wasn’t even the worst thing that happened.”
“Well, whatever happened, you got the check, and that’s because you bombed with dignity, because you, Spring Green, are that bitch .” Rae said, mouth full of almonds, her smile now relaxing a bit more.
“I am that bitch, ain’t I?”
“Been that bitch. Gone always be that bitch. That’s your whole brand.”
Spring walked to her chair, let herself fall into it, and exhaled like the truth was heavy. “They also said they saw me get served.”
Rae paused mid-almond. “They saw that?”
“Apparently everyone saw it. Apparently I’m giving… ‘failed marriage energy' like it’s a fragrance.”
Rae snorted. “Girl, you been wearing Eau de Emotional Reckoning for a minute.”
Spring laughed, finally. For real.
Rae stood, walked around the desk, and handed her the rest of the almonds. “Congratulations for the funds. And for not spontaneously combusting.”
Spring looked at her, softer now. “Thanks for sitting with me in the ash.”
“You’d do it for me.”
“I have.”
“Exactly.”
The two women sat there a moment longer, surrounded by silence, snack wrappers, and the thick scent of survival. The first step was done, haphazard, hectic, and messy, the way art should be. Spring looked down at the manila envelope still on the table, still unopened. Still humming.
She pushed it aside and picked up her laptop, beginning the search for replacements for the Afro-British actor in the documentary.
Without a word, Rae got up and walked over to the phone to call the talent agency for actors in other vital roles, aware that a total overhaul was imminent. The first step was done, but the true work was only beginning.