“The social commentary is considered way ahead of its time, especially when it comes to women. Any thoughts on this?” Mrs. Riley asks.
“What was he, like, a feminist? Can guys even be feminists?” Brody asks. He’s reclining in his seat now, and manspreading so hard that his leg blocks the whole aisle between desks.
He says feminist like it’s a dirty word.
“How do you define feminism, Brody?” Mrs. Riley asks.
“Uh, frigid bitch—I mean—chicks in pink hats?” Brody says, and chuckles break out throughout the room. I mess with my copy of Tess, folding the corners of pages like I’ll need them for something. If Mrs. Riley asks, I’ll tell her I was marking every time some pompous, entitled ass tried to ruin Tess’s life.
“Anyone else?” Mrs. Riley opens the question up to the room. “Leighton?”
“Sure, ask the ice queen about feminism,” Brody mutters.
My cool, collected exterior precedes me. Ice queen. Last year, I turned Brody down for junior prom, and he’s been making snide comments ever since about me being too cold for any guy to thaw out. He didn’t just ask me out, he promposed, getting down on one knee in the lunchroom and giving me a box that held the dance ticket. And I said no. In front of everyone. Public rejection didn’t sit well with Brody, and he’s called me an ice queen ever since.
“Guys can be feminists,” I say, and thirty sets of eyes turn in my direction. I’m feeling sharp around my edges today. “But probably only the more evolved ones.”
“Like me,” Liam says. “I’m a feminist.”
“Great,” Mrs. Riley says. “Define it.”
He falters. “Uhh. Wage gap. Wonder Woman. Bra burning?”
“Oh God, please stop,” I say.
“Thank you,” Liam says. “That was all I had.”
“You probably are a feminist, though. It just means you think women deserve equal rights. It’s not that complicated or scary. The hats aren’t mandatory,” I say.
“Sounds stupid,” Brody says.
“What’s stupid is thinking a girl is obligated to go out with you just because you asked her.”
“Retract your claws, kitty cat, this isn’t a protest,” Brody says, puckering his lips and blowing me a kiss.
“Go to hell, Brody,” I snap.
“All right, that’s enough,” Mrs. Riley says. “Let’s get back to Tess.”
The conversation veers back into the nineteenth century, but there’s still some commotion in the back of the room. “Leave her alone,” Liam says, kicking at Brody’s outstretched leg so that he pulls it back under the desk.
Liam.
I steal one more glance.
Something about him keeps drawing me in, curiosity outweighing my typical caution. Liam is self-assured, but it doesn’t come off as an ego trip like it does with most guys our age. He’s cute, but not a jerk about it. His brown skin is smooth, his complexion perfect. But it’s the less obvious things about him I’m starting to appreciate. Like how his jawline is so sharp, but when he smiles his whole face softens. Like how he smiles a lot. Like how his eyebrows are full and he uses them to his advantage, quirking them up, furrowing them down. His expressions are funny and warm, and I feel like they would make anyone want to be his friend. And I like his eyes, too. They’re kind.
I like that he calls himself a feminist and cares about representation in books. Liam’s dad is white, and his mom is Black. His dad grew up in Auburn, which means he knows everyone, and his mom is the assistant principal at the middle school, which means everyone knows her. Liam is far from a stranger to me, even if we’ve never really talked before. There are no strangers in a town this small.
I even landed in Mrs. McNamara’s office a few times when I was in eighth grade. My grades were slipping, almost in direct correlation to the first few failures of Dad’s business—and the resulting anger we saw at home. But Liam’s mom didn’t lecture me or make me feel bad because of my grades, she just encouraged me to focus on school because it was the path to any future I desired. Her words stuck with me. An illuminated path was what I needed. The next semester I got a 4.0. I couldn’t control what was going on at home, but if I worked hard enough, I could control my grades. My future.
The McNamara family moved to Auburn from Philadelphia when the elder Mr. McNamara retired from his law practice, and Liam’s dad took over. I remember thinking that Liam and I had that in common—being stuck here because of our grandfathers’ businesses. But it was more complicated than that for Liam, coming to a town with so few people of color. On Liam’s first day at Auburn Elementary, we were all sitting at a long lunch table. I was at the far end, book open in front of me, but Liam, the new kid, was right in the middle, the center of attention. He was outgoing and funny, and everyone liked him and wanted to sit near him. He’d just told a joke that even made me crack a smile and put down my book and wonder about this new boy who had everyone laughing so hard.
Then another kid in our class said that he had a joke, too. But when he said it, it wasn’t funny. It was racist.
When I looked at Liam, I saw this moment of hesitation. I think he was waiting to see if anyone else was going to speak up.
“Dumb joke,” nine-year-old Liam said. “I’ve got a better one.” Within moments he had the entire table laughing again. But I’ve always felt ashamed of that moment. Of everyone’s silence. Of mine.
And looking at Liam now, I wonder how many things like that have happened since. The comments made, and the quiet that follows. I wonder if he ever hates Auburn, too. It’s hard to reconcile because he’s one of the most popular kids in school, but that doesn’t change what this town is like. Here they label ignorance as tradition and carry on as though they’ve earned the right to be cruel.
Chapter Eight
WHEN IT STARTS, I AM IN my room. My calculus book is open, but I haven’t finished a single problem when the voices rise from downstairs. I’d hoped to get my homework done before it began, but there’s been a ball of lead in my stomach all evening just from knowing it was coming. It’s been building all week: he gets quieter before he erupts. Tonight, the house felt as somber and soft as a graveyard, and I’ve been sitting for two hours in dread with my legs curled beneath me, listening as voices turn angry. My pencil is still sharp where I abandoned it on my desk.
It’s when the voices suddenly go quiet that I rise from my desk. Some perversion of fear that feels like curiosity wins, and I pull open my door an infinitesimal degree. A perfect, practiced angle—just enough to listen, stopping before it creaks.
I know why people open doors and check darkened basements in horror films. Why they look for the monster. It’s because sometimes it’s the anticipation that hurts the most. So much that I want to do some awful, stupid thing to piss him off and just make it start, because if it starts, then it can end. Because somehow right after is when I feel safest. A few hours of grace. Of not feeling like my nerves have been tugged line by line from my body and replaced with hot white electric wires, burning me from the inside out.
I move to my bedroom window and pull up the blinds. He’s in the yard now, carrying a trash bag to the can outside. His truck is parked out front—a massive thing that he uses for work. The logo pressed to the side of the truck reads “BARNES CONSTRUCTION, family owned & operated for more than 50 years.”