“Can I buy it?”
“You want to?”
“Of course,” I say, lifting the broken hood. The engine block is still there. If I can find another chassis with the same specs, I can take apart the whole car and rebuild it. Replacing the hood and windows won’t be a problem.
It would be easier to buy a car that doesn’t need so much work, but I can probably get a good deal on this one, and besides, she’s my baby. I walk in circles around the wreckage, inspecting the damaged interior and patting the driver’s side lovingly. I can’t wait to bring her back from the dead.
“Thanks, man,” I say, getting in Junior’s car and doing our CVL handshake. “This is awesome.”
Junior drives to a rusted trailer near the front entrance, where we get out and meet Scrappy, aka Steve Scranton. He’s old as the hills and smells like BO. He sells parts, not cars, so he won’t even let me make an offer. Junior, who’s standing behind Scrappy, forms a phantom bat with his hands. He’ll get me the car through brute force.
“Do you need any help?” I ask the old man, trying a different tack.
“Doing what?”
“Errands, heavy lifting, removing parts. Whatever.”
“You an auto mechanic?”
“No, but I took auto in high school.” I actually passed that class, too. “I’m a hard worker, and I’m cheap.”
“How cheap?”
“I’ll trade services for the car and spare parts.”
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Junior says to me. “Let’s go.”
“Come back Sunday,” Scrappy says.
“You won’t sell it before then?”
“Boy, I don’t even sell cars.”
“You won’t gut it?”
“No. I’ll leave it alone.”
We shake hands.
After leaving the junkyard, Junior buys me lunch at a taco shop about a mile away. He doesn’t eat much, which confirms my suspicions that he’s on something. Meth kills the appetite. I’m almost finished with my meal when it occurs to me that the place is familiar.
“Have we been here before?” I ask, glancing around.
He wipes his mouth with a paper napkin. “You don’t remember?”
“No.”
“We ate here after a night in TJ once. You were drunk off your ass.”
“Is this where I pissed in the trash can?”
He laughs, nodding. “You pissed in the trash can, knocked it over, and fell down with your dick out.”
“Que cabrón,” I say, shaking my head. “Who was with us?”
His face grows solemn. “My sister.”
Now I remember. It was my eighteenth birthday. A bunch of us went to Avenida Revolución to celebrate, and Junior kept buying me drinks. Junior’s sister, Cristina, was our designated driver. I feel a pang of guilt when I think about how young she was. She was pretty and wild, taken too soon.
We don’t speak much after lunch. Junior drops me off at the transit station. He gives me his number and I say I’ll call.
But I won’t.
Chapter 9
Meghan
On Thursday there’s a nasty surprise waiting for us outside the women’s resource center.
SLUTS
The word is written across one wall in huge spray-painted letters. Around the corner the message is even more sinister:
STAY HOME
I meet Kelsea by the front entrance and we stare at the vandalism in horror. She takes pictures with her phone while I scroll through a slew of messages on social media. Apparently the event has created quite a stir—and not just among SDSU students. Last night someone linked the news of the slut walk to 4chan, an online community known for sexist trolls. The Men’s Rights Activists had responded. Big-time.
There are hundreds of comments on the event page and various social media sites. Slut walk is trending on the SDSU forum. Students are milling around the center, studying the graffiti and chatting about likely suspects.
I’m appalled by the message on the wall and offended by the slurs on social media. It feels like a personal attack.
Kelsea’s first reaction is rage, and she’s not shy about showing it. She paces in front of the wall, cursing the MRA and the KKK and any other hate-group she can think of. Then she stops and grabs my arm, brightening. “Let’s take selfies.”
“Selfies?”
She nods. “We’ll treat this like an advertisement for the slut walk and rub it in the haters’ faces.”
“They want attention.”
“Yeah, but they want us to be scared and upset, not laughing and hamming it up.”
Kelsea has a point, and her bubbly positivity is infectious. If she’s happy about this giant spray-painted threat, I’ll go with the flow. “Okay.”
“Take off your jacket and try to look slutty.”
I toss my jacket aside, giggling. I’m wearing jeans and a tank top with three little buttons, which I undo at Kelsea’s urging.
“What about you?” I ask.
“I don’t even have tits.”
“Sure you do.”
“A-cups are never sexy.”
I roll my eyes at the claim. “Show your stomach, then.”
She’s wearing loose sweatpants and a sleeveless T-shirt. She ties a knot under her breasts. Her tummy is tanned and toned. I’d trade my C-cups for her perfect stomach any day. She adjusts the waistband of her pants and rolls up one leg, hip-hop style.
“Nice touch,” I say.
We pose in front of SLUTS, turning the hate speech into a photo op. Kelsea does two backward peace signs, celebrating the word and reclaiming its power and mocking the naysayers all at once. I make a silly duck face.
Another student offers to help us take some wider shots. We stand on opposite ends of the graffiti, smiling for the camera. Kelsea rests her back against the wall, one foot propped up, and makes a vulgar gesture with her tongue sticking out between her fingers. I’m too busy laughing at her audacity to strike my own pose. Then we take a couple of shots together. Kelsea throws her arms around me and licks my cheek.
She posts the best photos on Instagram and the response is amazing. We get a ton of compliments, likes, and shares. On impulse, she tweets an open invitation for students to visit the wall and take their own pictures.
F*ck the haters! Stop by the women’s center for a sexy selfie! Support the #slutwalk with a #slutshot!
It gets retweeted like crazy.
“We’re going to need more flyers,” Kelsea says.
I have to cram for midterms, so I can’t stay at the center. By the time I leave, Kelsea is handing out flyers by the dozens and young women are lining up to take selfies. The entire school is talking about it. My unease grows as I pass by several groups of students looking at us on their phones. Unlike Kelsea, I don’t crave attention or notoriety. I’m also worried about Chip’s reaction. I can’t hide this from him.
He’s going to question me about the slut walk and I won’t be able to distract him with another blowjob.
I’m ashamed of the lengths I’ve taken to avoid conflict with him. I don’t even know who I am anymore. I feel like I’m betraying myself and betraying Chip. I’ve been keeping secrets from him, holding back instead of sharing my true feelings. If I continue to stay silent and let him push me around, our relationship is going to implode.
Maybe that’s what I want.
I pause outside the library, stricken by the realization. Am I setting Chip up to fail? Waiting for him to snap?
Shaking my head, I continue into the building. The thought of having a major confrontation with Chip makes me nauseous. I’m wary of his hot temper, but what I really fear is the fallout. If we break up, I’ll be even more tempted by Eric. There’s a reason I moved in with Chip shortly after hearing about Eric’s release. I knew Eric had nowhere else to go and I wanted to make room for him. I also wanted to protect myself against him.
I’ve got a killer test in abnormal psych in an hour, so I study my notes before I
head to class. The midterm isn’t as difficult as I thought it would be. I have a knack for absorbing information quickly and zeroing in on important details. I’m good with facts and memorization, less confident about critical thinking and in-depth analysis. As a result I’ve got a high GPA but feel like I don’t really know anything.
After class I check my text messages. The most recent one from Kelsea says:
Bummer! They’re painting over the graffiti! :( I have to get to class.
Chip has an away game in Riverside this afternoon. He texts me a photo of one of his teammates licking another guy’s face. It’s obviously a joke, and the guy getting licked is leaning away in disgust, but the message is nice: The boys liked your photos.
I laugh, relieved that he’s not mad. Then I check his social media and see that he’s shared the photo of his friends, along with links to our #slutshots. One of his teammates added: Lick a face if you like sluts!
I’m not sure they understand the purpose of the slut walk. Chip and his friends are typical college jocks, more interested in hot girls than equal rights. But they aren’t psychos who make anonymous rape threats and spray-paint slurs.
I don’t think they are, anyway.
As soon as Kelsea gets out of class, we meet for pizza at the quad. I’m in dire need of caffeine and carbs.
“Did you see Chip’s tweets?” she asks.
I nod, taking a big bite of pizza.
“I’m surprised he’s being supportive.”
So am I, but I don’t say that. I wonder if he’s had a real change of heart or if he’s just going along with his friends. He didn’t comment on the graffiti. Part of me wishes he’d issued a public statement condemning it. Then again, I told him that the slut walk was Kelsea’s project, so he probably thinks the message was intended for her.
“I was hoping to get some media coverage of the graffiti but the maintenance guy said school policy requires him to paint over it immediately.”
“It’s bad publicity,” I say.
“The good news is that the office manager for the student health center wants to join forces,” Kelsea says. “We’re thinking about a slutfest before the slut walk. She’s going to set up some tables and pass out condoms and information pamphlets.”
I give her a high-five. Now that my worst midterm is over, and there’s no crisis with Chip looming, I’m feeling positive. Maybe the slut walk will be fun and stress-free. Good times and short shorts with a side order of girl power.
After lunch we head to the parking lot. The next item on the agenda is recruiting businesses for slut stations along the route. It’s a lot of area to cover, so we take my car. The first stop is Fine Ink. We both check our teeth and hair before we exit the vehicle.
“You want to impress your ex?” she teases.
“No, I want to impress your dad. He’s a total DILF.”
“Shut up,” she says, slapping my arm in mock protest. She always laughs when I make dirty jokes about her dad. “I’d do your brother for reals.”
“You would not.”
“If he was single? I’d be on it.”
I snort in disbelief. She could take her pick of single guys at SDSU. I’ve tried to hook her up with a few of Chip’s friends. She’s gone out on dates here and there, but she’s impossible to please. No one can hold her interest.
We get out of the car and approach the front entrance. The door is propped open. I’ve been to Fine Ink a few times before. Kelsea used to work here as a receptionist and she fills in on occasion. Rose, the current receptionist, greets us warmly. There aren’t any customers in the lounge. Eric is standing on the opposite side of the room with a bucket and a rag. He appears to be scrubbing the wall from top to bottom.
My heartbeat quickens at the sight of him. Always has, always will.
He’s wearing a pale blue button-down shirt with jeans and work boots. He gives me a brief perusal, glances at Kelsea, and continues scrubbing.
“Who’s the new guy?” Kelsea asks, as if she doesn’t know.
“That’s Eric,” Rose says.
Kelsea looks back and forth between us, smiling her cute little smile. Then Tank walks in the front door and her face slips. Tank doesn’t bother with niceties. He just passes on by, holding his motorcycle helmet under one arm.
I totally get Kelsea’s fascination with him. He’s in his late twenties, he’s bearded and tattooed, he’s tough-guy hot. He can probably melt a girl’s panties from across the room. Her father would never approve.
I move my gaze back to Eric, who’s watching me with interest. He’s not as physically imposing as Tank, but he’s dark and dangerous in his own way. I can still picture him standing over Jack, his fists dripping blood.
“You here to see your dad?” Rose asks.
“No, I have an appointment with Tank. My first tattoo.”
Tank puts his helmet away and jerks his head toward Kelsea. Score one for her. She caught his attention.
“Very funny,” Rose says in a chiding tone.
Eric returns to his task and Tank disappears into the hallway. Matthew comes out of his office a few seconds later. He’s tall and athletic-looking, with a long stride despite his prosthetic leg. He seems surprised to see Kelsea. I realize that she didn’t call ahead, and I feel a twinge of unease. He’s a cool dad, but he’s still a dad. I have no idea how he’ll react to the news of the slut walk.
“What’s up?” he says. “You girls want to go out to lunch?”
“We already ate,” Kelsea says. “I have a favor to ask.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Okay.”
“I’m organizing a protest march this Saturday. We’re going to walk down University Avenue with signs and stuff. I was wondering if you’d host a station with cold drinks for us and let me put a poster in your window.”
“What does the poster look like?”
She hands him the flyer. “I still need someone to make them.”
He arches a brow. “A slut walk? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“It’s for a good cause.”
“How is being a slut a good cause?”
“The point is to raise awareness about violence against women and gender inequality. Women get called sluts for dressing too sexy. We’re shamed and criticized for sleeping around, but guys are celebrated for doing the same thing.”
“So you’re going to walk the streets half-naked to promote equality?”
“We’re going to carry signs, too.”
“Men won’t focus on the signs.”
“Some of them will.”
“Does your brother know about this?” he asks me.
“Um…”
He studies the flyer again, his mouth thin with disapproval. “I can’t display a nude poster. It’s offensive.”
Kelsea blinks at him in shock. “Are you serious? You tattoo tits for a living!”
“That doesn’t mean I’m going to hang them in the front window,” he barks back. “I don’t want you participating in a slut parade, either. You won’t earn any respect for women that way. You’ll just give the perverts a show.”
She clenches her hands into fists, incensed by the quick dismissal. “Mom would have understood.”
Matthew’s eyes darken with hurt. It’s a low blow, even for Kelsea. Talking about Kelsea’s mother always makes him shut down. I put my arm around her shoulders, intending to lead her away before she can do any more damage.
Eric tosses the washrag aside and steps forward to glance at the flyer. “I don’t think it’s offensive.”
Matthew squints at him in warning. “Nobody asked you.”
“I agree with him,” Rose chimes in. “It’s free publicity, too. We could get a ton of new customers.”
“There’s a law against profanity in advertising,” Matthew says.
“I can fix that.” Eric sits down at the coffee table and picks up a pencil. Using scratch paper, he makes a quick sketch, writing sl*t across the top and walk across the bottom. Then he
draws a figure in a bikini, which is much more innocuous than the original. “You can keep the same look but tone it down.”
“I don’t like it,” Matthew says.
“I don’t, either,” Kelsea says. “It’s censorship.”
Eric and I exchange a glance. They’re both impossible.
“How about a different image?” I say. “Maybe that classic one with the woman rolling up her sleeve to go to work?”
Rose brightens. “Rosie the Riveter. I love her!”
Eric isn’t familiar with the icon, so Rose shows him a picture from the tattoo book.
“How many posters do you need?” Eric asks, doing another sketch.
“Three,” Kelsea says. “I’m planning to ask Wild Locks and The Q Room.”
Matthew voices no objection there. One of the businesses is an edgy hair salon, the other a gay-friendly bar.
“I wanted to use all of the images,” Kelsea adds.
“Okay, but one image per poster will work best,” Eric says. “It’s simple and has the strongest visual impact.”
“Do you have to call it a slut walk?” Matthew asks.
“That’s the name of the event,” Kelsea says. “I can’t change it.”
“I’ll make the posters for you,” Eric offers.
Kelsea looks at her dad with puppy-dog eyes.
Matthew is strong-willed, but she wins the battle—this time. “I’ll do it on one condition,” he says, pointing at Eric. “I want him to follow the parade, just in case someone tries to mess with you.”
Eric’s gaze meets mine for a brief second. Then he looks away. “No problem.”
Kelsea squeals and hugs Matthew, making him stumble backward a step. “You’re the best!”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Don’t make me regret it.”
We leave Fine Ink and hit our other targets. Both businesses agree to participate. The manager at Wild Locks wants a toned-down poster because some of her clients are teenagers. The Q Room has no issue with a provocative poster, even a full nude.
Kelsea is so excited, she’s practically doing cartwheels. She calls Fine Ink to relay the message to Eric. She’s planning to make new flyers with a map of the route and the names of the participating businesses.
Against the Wall Page 7