“Been here all semester.”
It’s meant to be sarcastic, but he laughs louder, like we’re friends. It grates on my nerves and makes my palms sweat.
A hand comes up to pat my shoulder. If I could hide, I would.
“I got that now, my bad. Don’t tell our prof, but I’m not really paying attention during class,” he whispers, like it’s a secret. Must have lots of money to be so lazy about a program this competitive. “So I didn’t notice anyone in class that first week. But people started spreading news after you were seen at the mixer. With princess Rosie Mendoza, too.”
I’m so uncomfortable.
I’m not surprised people started discussing me at Brookstone after the event. The mention of Rosie by name, though, makes my eyebrows raise. He used princess, too, just like Jeremiah did when he was talking down on her. My skin starts to itch.
I don’t want a full conversation with this guy, but he offers it to me anyways.
“Of course she’d get to you first. Not really surprised, but I didn’t know she works that fast.” He snorts. My face scrunches.
“By that you mean?”
The longer he speaks, the more he sounds like Jeremiah. I figured Rosie had a history with him she didn’t want to share with me. That’s okay.
But a random guy in my cohort—with a totally different major than hers, who really shouldn’t know who she is—also thinks he can speak this way. It’s annoying and strange. I don’t like the self-righteous glint in his eye, either.
He pats my shoulder again. The discomfort grows. “Well, you know. She’s pretty infamous in the program for… a lot of things. She’s dated around too.”
I take a step back. It’s not subtle, but being near this guy has me feeling another level of disgust.
Throughout my life, I’ve met more than enough people like this. A man who speaks about the women in my father’s office happens to own part of the company. It’s not anything new, but it never sits well with me. Women try to do their part in an industry already set up against them and get brought down by stereotypes and immaturity.
My little sister would never be in a STEM program. I hope her communications classmates don’t subject her to conversations like this. But the first time I imagined someone treating Billie the way the men in this industry treat women, I saw red.
Crimson shades are invading my vision now, while this guy continues to chuckle like it’s funny.
“Hey, no judgement if you’ve been with her. I don’t blame you. Me and my older brothers think it’s funny that girls are trying to get into engineering, but more ass to look at, right?”
He bumps his elbow with mine. My back straightens, but not because of some obedient McCarthy bullshit. It’s so I can be the one to look down at him, pointed stare through the glasses sitting high on my nose.
“No. That’s disgusting.” His face falls. I won’t let my resolve slip, but there’s a voice in my head reminding me this guy must have some pull somewhere, if he can casually sit through classes and has an in on the Brookstone gossip.
My conscious screams that boys like him only find joy in tearing others down because they have nothing else to offer the world. I want to say it to his face, but the weak part of my brain reminds me of my father.
“Rosie is my friend.” I grit out. If I open my mouth as wide as I want to, I’ll say a thousand not-so-nice sentences to him. “Nice meeting you,” I say before heading to the exit, and I hate myself for it.
I want to say more. I should say more. For everyone who is talked about and can’t defend themselves, this is where I have the privilege to protect them. At least with words.
But I can’t. There’s a pounding in my head when I walk up the lecture hall steps and out the door, ignoring the calls of a classmate who is undeserving of the position he’s in.
I’m that, too. Undeserving. Of having so many opportunities, when I hate how I got them. I hate that being my father’s son means hiding what I really think and what I really want to say to appease him. I hate that despite the power it gives me, he manages to take it away. He controls every part of my life, and it’s the only kind of fatherhood I’ve ever known.
Dad finally calls me into his office on Saturday. In comparison to the hustle and bustle of his real employees, I don’t do much. Like a shadow, my sole purpose is to follow him around mindlessly. I’m only acknowledged when he wants me to be. As soon as he steps into the spotlight around his peers, I’m irrelevant again.
Regardless, I dress in a suit that will impress everyone but him and appear like he asks. There are hundreds of better ways to spend my Saturday, but this is what will help get back on Dad’s good side. I comply.
The sunlight in his large office is dying behind the city’s skyline before he spares me a full sentence.
“How have your classes been?”
He’s ruffling through papers on his desk, not throwing me a glance, and it’s still the most attention he’s given me in weeks.
Whenever he casts me to the side, I tell myself it’s better that way. I prefer being separated from his expectations and the pressure to perform. But then a day like this comes back around, where he has me watch him do everything but be a father, and like a habit I hang onto every word he’s willing to spare me.
