Page 4 of When Javi Dumped Mari

“Oh, c’mon,” she says. “We both know you recognized me as soon as I walked in the door.”

I decide to fess up. Honestly, she’s entertaining. “I’m surprised you’re even acknowledging me.”

“Didn’t you hear? We’re off the hook. No jail time for me.”

“The court of public opinion could be a different story, though.”

“You’d rat me out?” She pretends to wipe a tear from her eye. “I’m crushed.”

Professor Amar clears his throat. “It’s one thing to be late. It’s another thing to disrupt the class when you enter. But it’s downright disrespectful to chatter while I’m lecturing.”

My neighbor glances my way, then gulps. “Apologies. It won’t happen again.”

Professor Amar nods. “What’s your name?”

“Marisol Campos.”

“Well, since you’re in the mood to talk, Ms. Campos, how about you give me your thoughts on what happened this morning.”

“ This morning? ” she asks, her eyes widening.

“Yes,” Professor Amar says. Then, as if Marisol’s grubby handprints aren’t all over the scene of the crime, he brings her up to speed, clearly deciding she deserves to be in the hot seat today. I couldn’t agree more.

“So, thoughts?” the professor prompts.

“Well,” she begins, sitting up and tapping a finger across her lips as she makes a big show of pondering the issue, “I’d say the better course would be to fight fire with fire. Why not take the columnist to task and write your own scathing takedown of his ridiculous views?”

My jaw drops. Did she just use my words to get her ass out of the hot seat?

“I mean, wouldn’t it make sense to get the court of public opinion on your side?” she asks. “Taking the newspapers is only going to piss everyone off.”

Then she turns and winks at me.

Narrowing my eyes at her, I mouth, Un-fucking-believable .

“You there,” Professor Amar says. “Looks like you want to say something.”

“Psst, he’s talking to you,” Marisol says, undisguised glee in her voice.

I whip my head in Professor Amar’s direction. “Sir?”

“Care to share your thoughts, Mr….?”

“It’s Javier.”

“Mr. Javier?”

Christ, this is excruciating. “No, Javier Báez, sir.”

“Okay, got it. So, Mr. Báez, looks to me like you’re champing at the bit to add to the discussion.”

“Indeed,” Marisol says, staring at me with wide-eyed innocence, her elbows propped on the desk and her chin resting on her hands.

Okay, fine, two can play this petty game.

“Well, the way I see it, nonviolent protest is at the heart of our democracy. No one was hurt, and now the university’s paying attention.

And I wonder why anyone’s even humoring this columnist. I mean, if half of the student population feels harassed by his views, shouldn’t the school do something about that?

Even if the answer is to challenge this guy’s ideas, he has the backing of the school’s paper behind him.

That gives him an unfair advantage and credibility that isn’t warranted.

Also, I’ve seen the comments on IG. Because I was uh…

interested to see what provoked all this, and it turns out the president’s office probably wants to sweep this under the rug because some of the newspaper’s staff was in on it too, which means the call was coming from inside the house. Plus, this guy’s views are fucked up—”

“Language, Mr. Báez,” Professor Amar warns.

“Sorry, sir. What I meant to say is his views are…reprehensible. I’ve read them.

He doesn’t think the school should support women’s athletics, questions whether date rape is even a thing.

If this were a speaker on campus, we’d be protesting his presence on the green twenty-four-seven.

Seriously, it sends a message to the women of the school that they don’t matter as people. ”

“Wow,” Marisol says loud enough for everyone to hear. “Where were you this morning when those papers were stolen?”

Everyone laughs, including Professor Amar. And especially Marisol.

What a chaos demon. I’m sitting next to one of the culprits, and she’s implicating me. I may not be guilty of stealing the student newspaper, but I might very well be guilty of murder soon.

“Okay, okay,” Professor Amar says, chuckling as he jots something down on a legal pad, “let’s table this discussion for next week’s class. We’re going to talk about viewpoint discrimination, and this will be the perfect segue. For now, though, it’s pop quiz time!”

We all groan and grumble as we pass around the quiz sheets.

Twenty minutes later, I pick up my book bag and move to turn in my quiz. Before I leave the row, I look at Marisol. “That little performance was uncool.”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Considering the hard time you gave me this morning, I’d say it was well deserved. Especially if you believed everything you said in that monologue. Sounds to me like you messed with me for shits and giggles.”

Dammit. She’s right. But I’m not waving the flag. She’s too powerful as it is. “Whatever, Marisol. Have a nice life.”

“You do the same,” she says with a smug smile.

Outside the classroom, I’m barely able to make my way through the crowd. Because seemingly every woman in the class is trying to speak with me.

“You were amazing!” one says.

“That was legendary!” another adds.

“Finally, someone who understands,” a fellow poli sci major gushes, tearing off a piece of paper with her number on it. “Maybe you’d like to join my study group?”

Marisol weaves through the throng, narrowing her eyes as she registers that I’m the source of the commotion. We lock eyes as we pass each other, and then she looks back at me and scowls.

I can’t resist needling her, so I give her a ridiculous wink.

In truth, this many eyes on me is making my skin crawl, but I’d never give her the satisfaction of knowing I’m self-conscious.

“Thanks for being my wingman. Had no idea that little speech was going to make me a minor celebrity. Well deserved, wouldn’t you say? ”

She gives me a once-over and laughs. “Well, since I’m your wingman, it’s only right that I tell you something.”

“What?”

She cups her hands against her mouth and, with as much intensity as if she were yelling “Fire!” in a crowded movie theater, shouts, “Your fly’s open!”

I look down at my crotch and immediately see that she’s right.

God, I can already tell Marisol Campos is going to be a pain in my ass.

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

WhatsApp Voice Message

Marisol, it’s your mother. Tio Ivo put WhatsApp on my phone, so now I can leave you voice messages whenever I need to remind you that I exist. Call me when you have time.

I want to know everything. How’s school?

Your friends? What happened with the newspaper thing?

Did it work? [ whispers in Portuguese to someone in the background ] Sorry, filha.

Your uncle Ivo is talking in my ear. Anyway, is your father leaving you alone?

If I need to speak with him, I will. I’m going to Cabo Frio with Vovó for a week.

You can call me whenever. Okay, I think that’s all for now.

Call me, sweetheart. Tchau. Tchau. Tchau.