Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ALEX IS GONE. HE’S NOT going to magically step up behind me again like he did this morning. Won’t show up at my apartment tomorrow or the next day. He really left this time. And the worst part is, I know it’s for the best. He has to live his life the way I have to live mine.
I swipe at my cheeks, silently sobbing behind the row of booths while students continue to cheer and holler and laugh.
“You okay?” a motherly voice asks, and I nod without turning around.
I clear my throat, but even if I can get my voice stabilized, I know my face is all red and splotchy. “Fine.”
“You don’t look fine.” Oh, god. It’s Evelyn.
I plaster on a smile and turn to face her, but as soon as she locks her deep brown eyes on mine, a new wave of tears floods me.
“Come here.” She tugs me into a hug, and I silently curse myself for crying in front of Evelyn Davera. This is the most unprofessional thing I’ve ever done in my life.
“I’m fine, really,” I say, coming out of her grasp.
Just as I regain my composure, Millie runs up to us. She braces her hands on her knees, catching her breath. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. We’ve got a big problem.”
I scan her eyes as a shudder runs through me. “What kind of a problem?”
She jerks her chin toward the quad, and I follow her gaze to the grassy hill. All the blood rushes from my face, pooling in a massive pit in my stomach.
Charging straight for us is a mob of protestors, complete with anti-Sextival signs and bullhorns.
And they’re led by my mother.
Barbara McEntire eyes me down, and she is out for blood.
According to her banner, Sextival, my lighthearted, sex-positive event filled with games to educate students about safe sex is terrorizing scholars and turning honorable women into jezebels.
Next to her is my mother. While she doesn’t have the same venom in her eyes as Barbara, she’s holding a sign of her own: Keep Smut Out of Barrett.
As they loom closer, I can make out some of the other signs. Sex ≠ Education, Keep Sex Out of My Student Body, and my personal favorite: Condoms Are a Gateway Drug. How, exactly? Who knows.
And of course they’re all dressed in white. The color of purity.
The garbled chants blasting from the bullhorns aren’t intelligible yet—they’re still too far away. But they’ll be here soon.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
I press my hands to my temples, trying to think.
“You’ve never dealt with protestors before?” Evelyn asks, a hint of surprise in her voice.
I exhale a resigned breath. “Not like this.”
Then Millie pipes up, “It’s her mom.”
Evelyn gawks. “Your mom?”
I nod, a tension headache consuming my entire skull. “She and her friends tried to shut the event down. They threatened to pull funding from their endowments if we didn’t cancel.”
A devilish smirk lifts the corner of Evelyn’s mouth. “And you went for it anyway?”
I nod again. “It was important.”
“Professor Wells?” One of my students jogs up to us, her voice wavering. “What are we going to do?”
This is it. My make or break moment. I’m either going to come out a hero for thwarting a mob of angry protestors …
Or, the president is going to ream me for moving forward with an event he explicitly told me to cancel because it was upsetting the donors. The extremely wealthy donors.
My only choice is option A.
“It’s going to be okay, Dana. Go back and tell the students not to engage. I don’t want anyone getting penalized for my choices.” She runs off, and I turn to Millie. “Call campus police. I doubt they have a permit. I’ll try to hold them off until they can get here.”
“On it!” She scampers down the lane.
The protestors’ chant becomes clearer as they push forward. “Hey, Hey! Ho, Ho! Sextival has got to go!”
I roll my eyes. How original.
With a deep breath, I march toward the entrance of the event.
Barbara advances, leading the charge. No way she is getting past me.
I plant my feet in the grass and my hands on my hips.
I am 100 percent ready to throw down. Behind me, students gather in droves, holding up their phones to capture the standoff.
My mother stares at the ground between us, not meeting my gaze.
Barbara lifts the bullhorn to her lips even though she’s no more than ten feet in front of me. “We demand these booths be taken down immediately!”
I lift my chin. “Why?”
“Because they’re indecent,” she shouts into the megaphone, decimating my eardrums. “This is an institution of learning. What does this filth have to do with education?”
I narrow my eyes. “For starters, by protecting them from pregnancy so they can finish their education,” I say, staring directly at my mother.
Her shoulders hunch as she lifts her gaze to mine. Maybe I’m getting through to her.
The crowd of students cheers behind me.
But Barbara won’t be overshadowed. “Let me get this straight,” she screeches, turning to her followers. “Instead of books, and notepads, and computers, this teacher”—she says with air quotes—“wants to give students condoms.”
The group of twenty behind her chime in with a chorus of boos. Well, all of them except my mother.
Barbara lowers her megaphone, sneering at me. “You’re a disgrace. Do you have any idea how much shame you’ve brought your family?”
The truth is, I don’t care. Because I know what I’m doing is right, and my mom is on the wrong side of this fight. And no matter what Barbara says, she’s not going to faze me. Neither is my mother. They won’t affect me ever again.
Then, to my absolute shock, Mom grasps Barbara’s arm, a steely resolve in her eyes. “Enough, Barbara.”
Barbara shakes her off. “No, Nancy. She needs to hear this.” She gestures toward me.
“For heaven’s sake, look what she’s wearing!
That grotesque getup from the newspaper.
” Barbara eyes me like a bug she’s about to squish.
“You not only sullied your family’s name, but their entire legacy at Barrett, you little slut. ”
“Barbara!” Mom shouts. “Enough!”
The students come to my defense, calling Barbara slurs of their own. But I can’t let this get out of hand. I face my brigade and quiet them down, telling them not to worry because I’ve got this. To my relief, they settle.
I stalk toward Barbara, and she takes a step back. A wry smile lifts my cheeks. She’s afraid. Good. She should be. I’m about to show her exactly who I am. And she knows it.
I level her with a scathing glare. “I’ve spent my entire career undoing the damage caused by people like you.
My life’s mission has been to create an environment where students are comfortable in their bodies instead of feeling shame in them.
Where sex is a healthy expression and not something dirty that has to be hidden.
Where people are free to make choices about their own bodies regardless of what anyone else has to say. ”
When I take another step closer, Barbara stumbles backward into her own people. I lift the sides of the bulky dress and fluff them, making thousands of condoms pitter patter in sequence like the wave.
“You can call me a slut or a whore or a jezebel, but guess what? I don’t care what you think of me. Your insults slide right off.” Then I stare directly into my mother’s distressed eyes. “That goes for you, too.”
I maneuver the heavy skirt as I turn my back to them and return to the event. The students greet me with a surge of applause, and I do a little curtsy.
But my victory is short-lived.
“Oh, yeah?” Barbara calls, and I pause mid-step. “Then it’s time for Plan B.”
A shudder rolls through me, and I slowly turn back to face her. What the fuck is Plan B? Because I know she’s not talking about the morning after pill.
Barbara snaps her fingers, and someone in the back lugs a trash bag forward. Oh god, what’s in there? Bibles? Pigs’ blood? Dismembered puppies?
She reaches in and pulls out a red balloon. Huh. Those actually go with our carnival theme. Is Plan B to … join us?
“Barbara, don’t!” my mother yelps, stepping in front of her and raising her hands. A red splotch drips from the balloon onto the grass. A collective gasp sounds behind me. Oh, god. I hope it’s not actual pigs’ blood.
“Move, Nancy.” A deranged gleam glints in Barbara’s eyes.
But Mom doesn’t back down. “I mean it,” Mom says gravely, arms raised like she’s facing a feral mountain lion.
“Whose side are you on, Nancy?” Barbara seethes, drops of spittle flying from her mouth.
Her grip tightens on the balloon. She’s completely oblivious that her fancy nails are digging into the latex.
“Mine?” She motions toward me with an irate growl.
“Or hers?” On the word hers, the balloon explodes, dousing Barbara from head to toe in dark red paint.
She shrieks, throwing her arms out. Her once perfectly blown-out blond hair is now matted against her face, streaks of crimson staining her cheeks. Scarlet globs drip off her cream sweater and into a puddle on the grass.
A wild cackle blares out of someone, and it takes me a few moments to realize it’s my mother. She doubles over, bursting with laughter.
“Oh, you think that’s funny?” Barbara challenges, picking up a second balloon.
Mom’s laughter dies out instantly. “Don’t you dare.”
Barbara’s lips quirk as she readies the balloon to pelt my mom.
But as she rears her hand back, she slips in the sludge of paint on the grass, and her legs fly out from under her.
With an ear-piercing scream, she hits the ground.
The balloon lands in the middle of her chest with a loud pop, detonating like a bomb.
A sea of red sprays out, engulfing her and a surrounding three-foot radius.
Her gang shrieks, dropping their signs and running to save their precious white clothing.
Cowards.
Mom rushes over and grabs the trash bag. She glances at Barbara and panics, trying to move in two directions at once. Rather than running, she throws the bag on the ground and stomps on it. A spurt of red paint gushes out, splattering her white linen pants.
“Nancy!” Barbara attempts to get up, but her hand slides in the muck of paint and mud, and she face-plants with a sploshy thud.
“You will not destroy everything my daughter has built,” Mom says, stamping out more balloons. Paint flies everywhere, coating Mom like a Jackson Pollock. But she doesn’t let up. She just keeps trampling balloon after balloon.
“How can you say that, Nancy? She’s handing out condoms!”
“Yeah, well”—stomp, stomp, stomp—“if they had condoms here when I was a student, maybe I would have finished my degree.”
My jaw drops, and Mom cuts her eyes to me, the last of the balloons smashed to oblivion. Her shoulders slump and she scans the quad. The grass looks like a bloody battlefield. A river of paint and mud trickles down the lawn and into the flood grate.
Barbara finally manages to get herself up. She stalks toward my mother, fists clenched at her sides. “You’re finished, Nancy. The club, church, society lunches—you’re done. Your name’s as tarnished as your tramp daughter’s.”
“She’s not a tramp.” Mom bends down, scooping up a handful of paint, and rubs it in Barbara’s face. “She’s a distinguished member of the faculty. Now get off her campus.”
The crowd cheers behind me, clapping and whistling. With one last glare, Barbara turns to march away.
But just as she takes the first step, the campus police arrive on the scene, halting her.
“Do you have any idea who I am?” she shouts at a uniformed officer. She lifts her paint-soaked finger and presses it to his chest. He clutches her wrist and pins it behind her back as he pulls out a pair of handcuffs. “Get your hands off me!” she shrieks.
He scoffs. “You started it, lady.”
Just as he’s about to haul her away, President Markum strides up to the scene. He squints, staring at the unhinged woman screaming expletives. “Barbara?”
“Scott!” she yells. “Tell these blockheads who I am.”
Oh, god. They’re on a first-name basis. There goes my tenure.
His gaze sweeps from her to the ravaged lawn. “What have you done?”
“Me?” she screeches. “It was them!” She jerks her stained chin at me and the horde of students. Immediately, they begin yelling in protest, shouting rebuttals.
“Enough.” President Markum lifts his hands. “Where did this red paint come from?”
Barbara’s mouth falls open, but she seems to have lost her tongue.
Busted.
I cross my arms, holding my smug smirk at bay. Then I gesture overzealously. “Tell him, Barb.”
“She did it!” she screams. “It was that slut. I want her fired this instant!”
I cut my eyes to President Markum. Is he going to listen to her? Am I finished at Barrett?
He tightens his lips, sliding his hands into the pockets of his tweed pants as if he’s mulling it over. Then he says, “I don’t think so, Barbara.”
My pent-up breath skates out, and my body turns to jelly.
“What?” Barbara stomps her foot like a petulant child, and a spurt of paint splashes the president’s trousers.
“How dare you, Scott! Do you know how much money I donate to this university every year?” She attempts to get in his face, but the officer tightens his grip on her.
“You’re never getting another dime from me, you hear?
” She stamps her foot over and over, splattering paint everywhere. “Not another dime!”
The president lets out a surprised scoff. “Oh, you’re going to pay plenty. Do you have any idea how much damage you’ve caused?” He nods toward the officers. “We’ll be pressing charges.”
A chorus of cheers breaks out behind me.
“Let’s go,” the burly man says, leading her away. She digs her heels into the lawn, but he easily pulls her along, her spiky stilettos leaving a trail of twin divots.
She flails as the officer drags her, a succession of very un-Christian words spewing from her mouth.
“I’d pick up your feet, Barbara,” President Markum calls over the whooping and camera clicks from the students. “It’s only going to cost you more.”