Page 3 of Heartbreak Kings
“This looks all right.” Mom set down the suitcase of books with a sigh, and I placed the box of food on the desk. “At least they did not make you have roommates.”
“No way I would put up with that,” I sighed, poking through the small chest of drawers tucked inside the closet. “Not really any room for over one suitcase.”
“I’ll take back the other one for now.” Mom put her fists on her hips and scanned around the room, then stared back up at me with soft-eyed worry. “I don’t want to leave you here alone.”
“I know.” I gave her a firm hug, smelling her vetiver perfume, and sighed into her close-cropped hair. “I’ll call every day if it makes you feel better.”
She lingered a little while as I unpacked my books from the suitcase and piled them on my bed and desk. I had gotten my books early via mail order to get a jump on reading them. The journalists’ biographies tempted me to open them and resume reading instead of putting them away. But she needed to get back home before dark, so I resisted and laid them aside with the others.
Finally, we said our goodbyes, and she walked back out to the truck and left. I returned to my dorm room, sat down on my bed, and sighed.I made it. I’m here. They didn’t stop me.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the crumpled note. I unfolded it and studied the single word scrawled on it in Sharpie. The men of Markinswell had decided how they would represent themselves to me, Mom, the administration, and the public. It seemed some of them would have to face consequences before they would back down. Maybe a little public humiliation was in order.
I got my dorm room cleaned up first. Clothes hung up, the bureau stuffed full of books, my suitcase tucked under my bed. Food arranged on top of the bureau if it didn’t go in the fridge. Chair against the door with its back tucked under the knob. Then I took a long shower. Back home, fuel oil was precious. Showers were down to four minutes, twice that if I needed to wash my hair. Here, someone else was footing the bill, so I took my time scrubbing and washing my thick mahogany-brown curls. It took me a while to dry and style my hair while standing in the warm, steamy room. But I definitely wanted to get my appearance right before I went on camera.
I glanced at the note again as I was getting dressed in one of my few nice, corporate-looking outfits. The silvery tweed popped against my dark skin. The careful bun made me appear older, more respectable. Makeup and jewelry, nice but not too flashy. I looked professional and grown-up.
In short, I looked way better than the guys trying to block my entrance or leaving obscenities on my door. And I was about to make sure that many people saw that.
With enough negative reinforcement, they would likely stop. And if not, well, I would have plenty of documentation to bring to the administration. Whatever happened, whatever they tried, I wasn’t letting the bastards on campus impede my education.
Chapter 2
Sabine
“Two hundred thousand views so far,”I murmured proudly as I sat back from my desk a week later. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”
School had started, and I was slowly getting into the swing of things. After days of working at it, I was finally settling into a routine that wasn’t all about dealing with salty boys. It still partly was, but not so much that I felt overwhelmed. Then again, it took a lot to overwhelm me.
My classes were tough. Eighteen units in my first semester, my first class at eight in the morning, another one running until seven at night. I’d sorted out all the details, from where everything was on campus, to dining hall credits, to where to do my laundry, to the fact that I had to stay there and watch said laundry to avoid coming back to discover some pervert up to his elbows in it. That had happened two days ago. The guy in question, a little weasel of a freshman boy with pasty skin and cowlicked blond hair, had straightened up quickly with a fistful of my panties and an expression of panic on his face. I had recorded him on my phone, while demanding to know what he was doing, why he was touching my underwear, why his pants were unbuckled and unzipped, what his name was, and what his parents would think when I published this without blurring out his face.
He had tried threatening me at first until I had mentioned that I was live-streaming to a friend and she was recording. I had been sweating through it underneath the bravado, because I had been bullshitting about the live stream. There had been no time to set it up.
Fortunately, he was scared and embarrassed and, apparently, rather stupid. All the rage had drained out of him, and he had cowered away from the phone like a vampire from a cross. Exposure really was the absolute best weapon to use against bastards like him. He had obediently tossed the panties back into the wash on my demand. Then he had blubbered and begged. I had stood firm, warning him coldly that I would publish and tell the administration the second he gave me any more trouble. Once I had gotten him bobbing his head in desperate acknowledgment of his understanding, I had let him run. Stayed composed. Finished my laundry. Hand-washing those panties in the sink three times. After that, I’d gone back to my dorm room and propped the extra chair I had borrowed from the common room under my doorknob again.
Mom didn’t know about the pervert panty-thief. She didn’t know about the men who had tried to block my way, the ones who had knocked my books from my hands, those who had smeared my seat with paint or tried to shout me down in class. I hadn’t reported any incidents beyond the first day to her, or on my blog, which was published weekly right now while I settled in.
But I had recorded the incidents. Every one of them. And everyone causing me problems had gotten nervous and backed down, because I had already shown them I would use my journalistic skills against them at the drop of a fucking hat.
I needed an income, though, because if I kept using my phone on people, they would soon try to break or steal it. I would need a dedicated camera, one for the peephole in my door, and a concealed one I would wear. I had declared that I was always recording and that I now had someone off campus involved—my “editor,” who received the streams. I was editing my stuff, but they didn’t need to know I didn’t have any backup. In fact, it was important that they didn’t.
Maybe I should monetize my blog?But not with ads.I’d just add a donation button. I had resisted the idea for a long while, mostly because I had been raised not to take charity. But there were plenty of “buy me a coffee” level donation sites that bothered me less to use.Yeah, I’ll do that.
Markinswell’s faculty, staff, and administration didn’t appreciate my publishing my negative experiences online. The day after I had published my first piece, they had called me into the assistant dean of journalism’s office and asked me to take it down. I had agreed—if I went a solid week without being harassed.
The assistant dean, a small, mousy man with black hair that looked like a layer of shellac, had given me a frightened stare, protesting that they couldn’t stop “boys from being boys.”
I’d smiled and told him I would not be complicit in hiding my harassment so they could maintain a facade of respectability without being respectable.
That had shocked him into silence. I didn’t know if it had been my audacity or my words, but I had finally broken through to him. I was very serious.
I had patiently explained to him that I had come here expecting to create a positive blog about the educational experience they had offered me. If my experience was overall negative, however, that was impossible without outright lying.
It was their idea to open the campus to women, to offer me this scholarship, and to promise me I would be safe here. It was their obligation to prevent any student from being harassed, and that they had created a bigger job for themselves where I was concerned did not change that. If their reputation suffered because a loud minority of boys threw a fit and they did nothing to predict, manage, or contain it, it was their fault.
I had also asked him if I could get his cease and desist request in writing so I could send a copy to my lawyer.
He had backed down after that, and instead, consequences had finally started happening.
