But what possibly pisses me off even more is seeing Jackson with his head down while those whispers and rumors follow him, making it pretty clear he wasn’t the one to out himself to the entire school.
In class the other day, I called on him during our discussion ofThe Iliad, hoping for another of our usual back-and-forths where the rest of the room seems to kind of disappear into the background. The moment a couple of guys in the back started whispering with their heads bowed together, he clearly got uncomfortable, his confidence retreating. He gave me a quick, surface-level answer and wouldn’t meet my eyes. I shut that shit down with those assholes fast, but Jackson stayed withdrawn for the rest of the class. And the one after that.
So I stopped calling on him altogether. The last thing he needs is a spotlight.
I wish there were more I could do, but for now all I have is vigilance—keeping an eye on him and stepping in when the bullies get too close.
I still remember what it was like when I was outed, and even though all of that along with my own mistakes nearly ruined my entire life, I know it sucks regardless. That’s why I’ve never publicized my sexuality, why I let it be just another one of the rumors.
Still, I can’t shake this gnawing thought there’s more going on. Those suspicions from before are back. I hate that I have them at all, but the timing of everything makes me wary. Like it’s meant to catch my attention.
But I don’t want to start assuming the worst.
I’ve done that before and paid the price.
It’s just before five o’clock Friday evening, and I’m trying to wrap up my notes for next week’s lectures when there’s a knock at my office door.
“Come in.”
The door opens, and the last person I want to see right now enters.
“Do you have a minute, Isaac?”
I close my laptop because I know I won’t get any more work done before it’s time to leave.
Leaning back in my chair, I force a weak semblance of a polite smile. “What can I do for you, Richard?”
Professor Grant shuts the door behind him before crossing the room and taking a seat in the chair on the opposite side of my desk. “I thought we should have a talk.”
Richard Grant is the head of the English department and also has a seat on the tenure committee. He’s about fifteen years my senior, and has a considerable amount of gray hair peekingthrough the dark brown along the sides of his head. He turns every one of those years and gray hairs into a tool, leveraging the authority they grant him to his advantage.
“Sure. What’s going on?” I ask even though I already know exactly why he’s here.
He crosses his legs, his hard, brown eyes unwavering. “I heard we have another queer at our school.”
You’ll lose your tenure if you punch him, Isaac.
While his tonesoundsneutral, it’s deceptive at best, especially when he uses “queer” as a noun. But I’m used to it by now when it comes to him, so I’ve had plenty of practice holding my tongue.
“I’ve heard the same. Rumors carry fast around here as we both know.”
“You more than anyone.”
There’s almost a threatening undertone to his voice that has me clenching my teeth so hard they just might crack.
But I can’t say I don’t deserve it after everything that happened five years ago.
Richard may have convinced the committee to grant me tenure back then, but I know he only did it so he could hang it over my head for the rest of our careers. So he could keep me on a leash. He was quick to let me know he didn’t think I actually deserved it, that it was conditional. That I should begrateful. That he hoped it would help keep me in line from then on.
But he didn’t only want to keep me in line.
He wanted obedience.
And fear.
I hate to admit that it’s worked.
However, it’s less because I don’t trust him and more because I don’t trust myself.
