On Monday, I have so much work to do, I don’t even think about him… much. I only picture his handsome face between classes, while grading papers, and eating. The evening comes soon and I wait for him outside my parenting class but he doesn’t show.
The last to enter before the door is shut, I glance down the hall, my heart heavy and feeling stupid for stopping to freshen my makeup and put on one of my sexier summer dresses and high heels.
Class over, I rush home to Karen without stopping to see if he showed up late. Clearly, I am overly enamored and he is in it for the sex.
I turn off my phone and don’t even check for any messages so I won’t be tempted to text right back.
God, how I hate these games. It was so much easier with Scott. We’d gone from high school sweethearts to college lovers. I always knew what he was thinking and he did me. A familiar hurt threatens to rise up but I tamp it down. My ex-fiancé was a selfish prick. He refused to let my sister live with us and she would’ve ended up homeless. That is unacceptable.
Better I live alone. Men are not trustworthy. They can’t help it. It’s in their DNA. Ask my mother. She had three husbands, every one of them a SOB.
I have to stop, sit, and remind myself of a very important fact. I’m not allowed to wallow in self-pity except for once a year. Since I already had my quota, I need to move on and focus on what is important in life.
Resolved to do better, I sit on my bed and open my laptop. The Mexican American club is having their second meeting this week and I should be prepared. They have a Go-Fund-Me page with pictures of a filthy toddler in rags behind a fence. They’ve used social media to advertise and the school’s name to validate their legitimacy.
Still, a half a million dollars? Something doesn’t sound quite right.
The lobbyist they’ve chosen for their cause doesn’t come cheap but his payments all seem aboveboard. He works with several other organizations, many of them religious.
I shake my head back and forth as I read their web page describing the deplorable conditions in the border jails. Children as young as eight are caring for infants with overflowing diapers. Not even soap and water is provided to these poor souls. They’re caked in dirt, snot, and filth. Even the dogs in our country have better laws protecting them.
One of the detention centers is in McAllen, Texas. The name rings a bell. That’s Chris’ hometown. I wonder if he knows anything about the horrendous conditions. Perhaps he could provide safe contacts there before the students stage a demonstration.
The club meets tomorrow so I have to choose between my parenting class and the group but it’s no contest. I will stand with these students and help them move forward with their agenda. I email the journalism professor and ask her if she has any advice. After, I warn the president of the college that they are planning a protest.
I’ve done my due diligence but fall asleep with troubled dreams. In them, Karen is a child, detained at a center, crying out my name. Her favorite outfit is soiled beyond recognition and there’s nowhere to sit except a dirty concrete floor covered in shit.
I ignore my fickle new boyfriend’s emails during the day so I don’t appear so eager and in the evening introduce myself to the rest of the club. Because they’ve outgrown their original room, they meet in the outside amphitheater. They’ve got a microphone and small speaker in the center of the space while over two hundred gather around on the stone steps.
“Hi. I’m Danielle Hughes. I’m your college advisor. First off. Let me tell you how proud I am to be part of your movement. I pledge to do everything I can to help you to help these children. Never, have I been so disappointed in our government. I will be on the plane with you this weekend and standing hand in hand in McAllen. We will make a difference. But I also urge you to be patient. It may take more than once demonstration. Stay calm, stay peaceful. Gandhi said it best. “In a gentle way, you can shake the world.”
I give a few more words of caution as instructed to me in an email by the president. When finished, I sit to a round of applause.
The club president stands. “Does everyone have their instructions?”
She laughs as all hands go up in the air. “Are there any questions?”
One young man with dark skin stands, raises his hands, and speaks. “What if nothing happens? What if we just stand out there, shouting, and nothing changes?”
“Then, we go out there next week, and the week after, every time bringing more people. We will get them to stop.”
Another student with long dark hair stands. “They swear the children are well cared for.”
Suddenly, the room is filled with shouting.
“Quiet please. Quiet!” The treasurer, a bearded man with a bun and thick glasses grabs the mic and smiles. “Save this for the rally. I’ll be sending out emails for our last poster party on Wednesday. Thanks Jenny. Also, busses to the airport will be arriving at eight AM. If you’re not on by eight thirty, you’ll have to make arrangements.”
The meeting goes on in a similar fashion for over an hour and I have to say, I am impressed but I feel a kinship with the naysayers. More needs to be done than shouting outside the gates. We need to embarrass the United States government into doing something.
How can we speak of human rights when we so blatantly ignore them inside our own borders?
Chapter 15
Chris
Dammit. She’s ignored all my texts. What the fuck? She can’t be that busy. I check my cell phone again then put it down. Didn’t she say, see you Monday? That was four days ago. I’ll be out of town all weekend with an away game and if she dropped her parenting class, who knows when I’ll see her again.
I wrack my brain, trying to figure out what I did wrong. Did I hurt her making love? God, maybe. I’m a big man. Perhaps I wasn’t gentle enough. Shit. Should I apologize? I try to recall the last time we spoke. I was cleaning up after practice and still had a lot of homework due. Maybe I cut her off?
I need some advice. While Jackson does his laps, I punch in my dad’s phone number.
“Hey. What’s up?” The familiar gravelly voice makes me smile.
“Can’t I just call up my old man and say hi?”
“Hell, you could but you wouldn’t.” He snorts and coughs up a lung.
I wish he’d quit smoking but I can’t imagine it happening anytime soon. “Listen, I need some advice on the female species.”
“Since when?” In the background, bar music plays, glasses clink, and a pool ball strikes another.
“I met a nice woman and-”
“Don’t tell me, you keep pissing her off?”
“How did you know?” I wait while he hacks and spits.
“Hell, son. You were raised above a biker bar. You can’t help but piss a good girl off. It’s in your genes. Find another, one who doesn’t get her feelings hurt.”
“That’s your advice, Dad? Give her up?”
“Damn straight.”
“What about mom? She…”
“She never understood our club, son. That’s all I can tell you. But when I fucked up, she rolled with the punches. I never apologized and she never asked me to.”
At times like this, I figure he’s full of shit but I can barely remember my mom at that age so don’t argue.
“Any other words of wisdom I can bestow upon you?”
“Nah. I’m good.” I can’t help but laugh.
I should’ve known better than to ask for his help. We chat for a little while about the team, my leg, and how his latest business partner is a complete fuck-up.
“When you comin’ to visit?” He puffs in the background.
“Probably not until Thanksgiving. The season is in full swing and the coach is counting on me to help a couple of them move to the next level.”
“Hey. I got a few bets going. Is this year’s wide receiver going to win the forty?”
“Jackson?” I glance up, curse, and blow my whistle at the man under discussion. He stopped his run and is chit-
chatting with the pink-haired band girl.
I put my phone on mute then shout, “Get your butt in gear, Farnsworth!”
Back on the phone, I lower my voice. “Dad, “I got to go.”
“Good talk.”
I chuckle. “Uh huh. Thanks for the advice.”
I motion my player over with a wave. “How’s it going with your new agent?”
He shuffles his feet. “Okay.”
“Ready to tell Coach?”
“Do I have to?”
“Nope, it’s up to you.”
“Good.”
Shit. By now, I was sure my receiver would do the right thing. Dammit. How am I so bad at reading people? If he doesn’t say something soon, I’ll need to rat him out and I know CJ. He’ll oust the kid from the team in a heartbeat.
Coach, as if reading my mind, stops working with our star quarterback and wanders my way.
Crossing his arms, he watches Jackson’s workout. “How’s he doing?”
“Much better. He may break my record.”
His brows raise. “Wouldn’t that be something? And your classes? Will you have your masters by next fall?”
I nod but I got my doubts.
“Good. Are you liking this?” His hand points out at the field but I understand his meaning.
“It’s not the NFL but it doesn’t suck.”
He snorts air out his nose with a trace of a smile then punches my arm. “Nope. It doesn’t. Now get back to work.”
I put my cell phone in my back pocket and motion my wide receiver to the field where Coach has Ryan throwing some long passes. The only one who can catch them is Farnsworth.
I grab ahold of Russ who looks like he lost his best friend.
“What the fuck is eating you?”
“Woman troubles.”
I grunt and take out my stopwatch. “Seems to be an epidemic. Do your laps. Run until all your brain cells cease to function except the ones moving your feet and lungs. Go!”
While he takes off, I watch his form. It’s not great but I still have another year to work with him.
My mouth drops open and I shake my head. Well, damn. I count twice in less than five minutes I’ve looked forward to the future.
If I could just add Danni to the mix, my life might not be so bad. If I hadn’t had the accident, I wouldn’t be at this college, and I never would’ve met her. It makes me wonder about fate and all that shit but not for long because Russ comes in with his worst time ever.
“Daaaamn. You’re running like a fucking duck. Longer strides, head up, shoulders down.”
By the time I sink into bed, I’m exhausted. I don’t bother to check my phone, not able to deal with the hollow sinking feeling in my chest.
Did she find someone else? Is that why she isn’t answering my texts?
It’s been a whole week. Friday night we fly out and don’t arrive home until Sunday. If I don’t hear from her by then, I’m knocking down her door.
I need some answers.
Shit. To what? We never even agreed to be exclusive.
Chapter 16
Danni
After leaving two messages on his phone, I give up.
To hell with playing it cool. I miss him and from the amount of texts he sends, he misses me, too.
The Pitbulls have an away game so I leave another message as the bus takes us to the airport. “Hey, it’s me. Listen, you think we can get together and talk when you arrive back on Sunday? My place?”
Karen will be there so it will be hard to jump right into sex, which is a good thing. We need to iron out a few kinks in our relationship.
In the security line, I feel guilty using funds for the flight that should’ve been used to clothe children. However, the club is right, national attention will achieve far better results.
Once we land, another bus takes us to the detention center. Students from as far away as Seattle join us in the parking lot.
“Let them go! Let them go!” They shout with megaphones, block traffic, and don’t allow for a change in shifts.
The men inside look too angry and the students far too sure of themselves. As more arrive, along with all the major networks, I begin to worry.
I leave the crowd and find a local charity I’d contacted by email. It’s a couple miles on foot but I’m prepared. I want to make sure my deliveries for the children arrived safely. In addition, I should get a feel for the church sponsoring this event.
I knock on the front door and they send me to a long cement block building, looking more like an army barracks.
The woman who answers the door is a nun. She wears a giant cross around her neck and a nametag, Sister Mary Francis.
I shake her hand. “I’m assistant professor Danni Hughes.”
She smiles widely. “Oh yes. I was just on my way to the protest. I can’t believe how big it’s grown.”
Her innocent smile widens. “Maybe they’ll allow us to give them the packages you sent.”
It takes a moment to register. “They haven’t accepted our gifts?”
“Not yet, but we’re hoping.”
I picture the children within the building, dirty and unwashed. We’d sent soap, toothbrushes, wipes and diapers. “What the hell is wrong with them?”
“I’m not sure. My superior, Mother Anne, says it’s all political.”
“Children are not pawns.” My anger increases. “Do you have a car? Let’s bring these things to the rally. Maybe with TV cameras looking on, we can change their minds.”
It isn’t a well thought-out plan and I’m winging it. However, if it works, the children will receive some relief by nightfall.
We load up the back of an old station wagon and make our way back to the parking lot where a thousand or more protesters gather. Some are seniors, some are as young as grade school. Busses idle on the perimeter of the crowd with drivers inside, no doubt wondering where to park.
I suspect no one was ready for the huge crowds, growing larger by the minute.
The local police wander through the parking lot, faces angry with mouths to their walkie-talkies.
Inside, I imagine the tension is far worse.
I don’t see the first stone thrown but with it, the crowd’s chanting grows louder and faster. Bus horns blare and a group of monks in orange bang on a huge golden gong.
We drive slowly through the crowd and I open my window. “Let us through. We have food and clothes for the children. Help us.”
The crowd parts, clearing a path to the gate. Someone takes giant bolt cutters to a chain and the metal fence opens.
This is not what I intended but the scene takes on a life of its own. Sister Mary Frances grips the wheel and inches forward toward big men with large guns, the barrels pointing at us.
I jump up with my hands in the air. “We have food and clothes. Diapers. Please don’t shoot.”
Holy shit. My heart is beating a thousand times per second as the crowd enters behind us. The policemen shout, a helicopter appears overhead, and the peaceful crowd turns angry when they refuse our gifts.
Hell, I’m pissed, too. We’re offering to ease the suffering of the kids within. What the hell is wrong with these people?
People empty boxes out of the back of our station wagon and approach the detention center employees who I begin to feel sorry for.
They all look to one man, who scowls fiercely and waves his hands. “Any of you touches one of those boxes and you’re fired. You hear me?”
One brave man, about sixty, ignores him, grabs my arm, and motions me inside. “Do you have a cell phone?”
“Yes.” I untuck my shirt where I’ve taped it to my mid-section.
“Quickly.” He unlocks the door and directs me to where children cry out asking for their mothers.
Silver crumpled blankets lie at their feet, taking up floor space. I punch the red video button on my phone, hoping to catch everything. Most of the children are standing and the little ones wail. The older kids, no more than middle school, t
ry to console them.
Tears freely flow down my cheeks. How can our government do this? No matter what our border problems are, surely these are the innocents.
Eyes on the door, the guard shoves my hand down. “Quick. Put it back.”
Before I do, I post the video to the cloud and send the link to the first email that autofills and hit send.
I tape my phone under my shirt, button the lower button, and tuck the hem into my shorts.
The crowd boos and pushes forward despite the border guards’ attempts to hold them back. Unless they fire real bullets into the crowd, they have no chance of stopping them.
I picture the college president when he sees my face on the evening news and moan. I probably just lost my job.
When army tanks roll into the yard and big guys who look like marines jump out with rifles aimed, I close my eyes and hold up my hands wondering if I’ll live through the next few seconds.
A round object lands by feet. At first, it appears to be a grenade or perhaps a tube of metal. Then, it hisses and a dark cloud of gas escapes.
I drop to my knees, gasping for air, as does Sister Mary. We hold hands and pray while people in the crowd scream and shout.
More shots are fired and more smoke fills the air.
Someone grabs my arms and twists them behind my back so hard I fear my shoulder may pull out of its socket.
Roughly, I’m tugged to my feet and thrown in the back of a van. When I climb out, it’s onto a large parking lot surrounded by a fence with barbed wire on top. A huge group of us are searched, our personal items taken, and with standing room only, we wait.
Outside, it grows dark as a news van keep vigilance. A few snippets of their earnest appeals hits my eardrums. The mayor is asking the governor to continue the state of emergency.
With no strength to stand and with no room to sit, we lean against each other in this sea of humans. I can’t believe our government allowed us to be detained for so long without even talking to us, let alone filing a charge.
“Anyone else here from FSCU?” A voice calls out in the dark.
Tough Break (FSCU Pitbulls Book 3) Page 7