Against the Wall (8 page)

I get ready for the slut walk in Kelsea's dorm.

She earned a full scholarship to SDSU with room and board included, but she chose to commute from home until this year. Her dad had been relying on her to take care of Braden, her little brother. She moved out of their private beach house and into a crowded dorm to “get some space.”

I change my clothes and study my reflection in the mirror on the back of the door. I'm wearing white shorts and a plain white T-shirt with a red rooster decal. Black Doc Martens complete the outfit. Everything is from the bag in my trunk.

“That's not slutty enough,” Kelsea says.

She's right. The decal on my shirt is suggestive and my shorts show a lot of leg, but the overall effect is almost boyish. I roll up the sleeves of my T-shirt. Then I use some gel to slick back my hair, exaggerating the androgynous style.

Kelsea grins at my reflection. “You look
so
butch.”

I smile back, pleased with the results.

“It's still not slutty, but it's totally hot.”

“You think?”

“I'd do you,” she says, riffling through her clothes. Her outfit so far is a sexy schoolgirl skirt with knee socks and Mary Janes. “I can't decide which shirt to wear.” She finally settles on a concert tee with the words too drunk 2 fuck across the front. I laugh at the gleeful vulgarity. We're going to have a good time tonight.

The slutfest is in full swing when we arrive at the pavilion. There are booths set up with brochures about STDs, lube samples, and bowls of free condoms. Kelsea staked a pink flag in the grass at the slut walk starting point. She also made a ton of new flyers with the participating businesses' refreshment stations mapped out. She even bought some washable paint and rewrote the wall graffiti in fun colors.

Eric's posters are the most popular part of the event so far. I saw the pictures of his artwork last night, along with dozens of comments from adoring new fans. They look like professional paintings, not throwaway posters. The images were heavily circulated and brought thousands of visitors to the web page. It was smart of Kelsea to include local businesses with active social media accounts, because they helped to spread the word.

For a last-minute, thrown-together protest march, it's generated nonstop buzz. There's a big crowd of students milling around the pavilion. Some are curious onlookers, girls with their boyfriends. Others are clearly dressed for the event.

“Check it out,” Kelsea says, squeezing my hand. Ladies are taking selfies in front of the slut wall again. They're wearing outrageous costumes with sequins and spandex and glitter. Fishnets paired with running shoes. Lacy bustiers and scuffed cowboy boots. I spot a pair of studded leather cuffs to die for.

“It's like slut heaven,” I say, and we both crack up.

Kelsea takes out her phone to tweet:

don't stay home like the haters told you to. come out and represent! #slutwalk

We head to the wall to pose for selfies. On the way there, Kelsea snaps photos of the most colorful outfits. I'm mesmerized by the styles and thrilled by the turnout. It's a celebration of all kinds of women. There's even a drag queen in the mix.

We're waiting in line at the wall when a pair of hands grasp my waist from behind, startling me.

It's Chip.

His mouth is near my ear. I can smell the chewing gum on his breath and the sweat in his hair. Instead of feeling excited, I'm annoyed by the intrusion. His presence is overwhelming, like a dark cloud of frat-boy cologne. He's sucking up all my oxygen.

“Hey, babe,” he says, squeezing my hips.

I don't want to make a scene by elbowing Chip in his perfect six-pack. I stiffen in discomfort, aware that two of his friends are watching. “You're all sweaty.”

He kisses my cheek and lets go. “Sorry. You look cute.”

I turn around to face him. He's wearing his home game uniform, which does great things for his physique. His teammates are handsome and well built. The testosterone is pumping. I sense a number of admiring female eyes on us.

“We have to get back to pre-game practice,” Chip says. “I just wanted to say hi.”

“Do you have time for a picture?” Kelsea asks.

“Sure,” Chip says, shrugging.

It's our turn at the wall, so we let them cut in line. Chip does a thumbs-up for sluts and his friends make okay signs. I don't think they care about the event, but it doesn't matter. They're star athletes with thousands of followers on social media. Whether they believe in the cause or not, their attendance is a big deal.

I start to relax, because it's nice of Chip and his friends to show support. Especially since he wanted me to come to his game instead. Maybe I've been unfairly harsh. Eric's return has kept me on edge, second-guessing my future with Chip.

When the boys are done, Chip offers to take pictures of me and Kelsea. We stand in front of the wall, striking silly poses.

“Get closer together,” he says.

I frown at his instructions. We're already hip to hip.

“I mean, like, put your lips together.”

Kelsea walks toward him and snatches her phone back. “Nice try, pervert.”

Chip's teammates laugh.

“We'll finish this later,” he says, pointing at me and Kelsea.

“In your dreams,” she says.

Chip has mentioned his threesome fantasy to me on more than one occasion and I've told him it's never gonna happen. I know he's just showing off for his friends, so I roll my eyes. “Get out of here,” I say.

He kisses me goodbye and grabs a handful of my ass, palming the bare skin where the shorts meet the back of my thigh. I slap him on the shoulder and he laughs, jogging away.

Kelsea gives me a disgusted look.

“What?” I ask.

“Why do you put up with that?”

I don't have an answer, but the question rankles. She doesn't understand. She's never even had a steady boyfriend.

“I'm serious,” she says. “Most girls let their boyfriends get away with stuff because they're idiots, or they're crazy in love.”

“So?”

“You're neither. You're not an idiot, and…”

I'm not in love with Chip. Not the same way he's in love with me, at least. He acts like a jerk to get my attention, and he's insensitive, but there's no doubt in my mind about his feelings. He's not deep or mysterious or difficult to read. He'd never reject me the way Eric did.

“He's crazy in love with
me,
” I say. “That's why I put up with him.”

Kelsea arches a brow. “So he strokes your ego?”

“Getting stroked feels good. You should try it sometime.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh, did that ass-grab feel good? My mistake.”

“I don't want to argue.”

“You don't want to analyze.”

“What's there to analyze?”

“He doesn't respect you,” Kelsea says.

“He's immature,” I counter.

“He groped you against your will and asked us to perform for his friends. It undermines the whole idea of the event.”

I think that her expectations exceed reality. That's why she never goes on second dates.

Instead of continuing the debate, I walk around the corner of the building to make a sign. One of the volunteers set up a table with poster board, markers, and wooden slats. Kelsea writes respect on hers.

I choose a simple message for mine as well:
NOT
ASKING FOR IT
.

Some of the signs are serious, like
NO MORE RAPE
and
MY BODY, MY CHOICE
. Others have a lighter tone, such as
SLUTS RULE! GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE FUN
and
CONSENT IS SEXY
.

One of the participants writes
VAGINA POWER
on her sign, which breaks the ice between me and Kelsea. We both laugh, enjoying the spirit of the event again. Then I notice Eric standing near the wall with a pretty dark-haired girl. She's wearing a navy blue tank top and red bandanna, like Eric's poster.

He's already got groupies. Beautiful Latina groupies.

Kelsea follows my gaze. “Did you read the comments on his photo last night?”

I did, and I wish I hadn't. I'm jealous of the women fawning over him, which is ridiculous. I've never cared about the cheerleaders who flirt with Chip.

Eric is different. He makes me feel
too much
. Every time I see him I die a little inside. Today he's wearing a plain black T-shirt and jeans. He looks good in his clothes, comfortable in his skin. When he glances my way and nods, my stomach twists. He's the same troubled boy I fell in love with, wrapped in an even more enticing package.

Of course he seems extra tempting now that I'm questioning my relationship with Chip. The grass is always greener and all that. It doesn't help that the two of them are total opposites. Eric is a former gang member with the soul of an artist. He's got layers.

Chip's just got…muscles.

“Let's start the walk,” I say, even though it's not quite four o'clock.

To his credit, Eric doesn't linger with the fangirls. He strides ahead of the group to keep watch and appears to takes his security guard job seriously. Kelsea leads the march, holding her sign high. I'm right behind her. The energy in the crowd is electric. We strut down the street with pride, cheering each other on. Cars honk and men holler, but I don't hear any insults. Our voices drown them out.

Fine Ink is the first stop along the route. There's a big orange thermos and paper cups on a table by the front door. I help Kelsea fill cups with lemonade. Some of the girls go inside to look around or make appointments. Rose has a stack of coupons offering a “slut special,” which is fifty percent off body piercing.

Although Eric stands at a distance, he still gets bombarded by scantily clad women. They want pictures of him in front of his poster. He agrees to take a photo with the Rosie lookalike. Her upper arm is painted with a thorn-studded heart, like the poster.

They're adorable together.

After the photo, Eric glances at the lemonade station but doesn't approach us. He returns to his security detail, incognito.

“Go give him some lemonade,” Kelsea says.

“Why me?”

“Because I need to get more cups.”

She probably wants to swish her skirt at Tank, so I grab a drink for Eric and weave through the crowd. I spot him in front of a café two doors down, under the shade of a ficus tree. An hour before sunset, it's still warm and sunny.

I hand him the lemonade. “Here.”

“Thanks,” he says, and drinks it all in one tilt.

I watch his smooth brown throat work and my mouth goes dry. He's wearing the silver chain again. I'm struck by a vivid memory of that cross dangling from his neck in my bedroom as he thrust inside me. He's got a tattoo of praying hands on his chest and religious script written in cursive across his collarbone:
Perdoname Padre, porque he pecado
.

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

He tosses the empty cup into a nearby trash can. “Nice shirt,” he says, arching a brow. “Is that supposed to symbolize something?”

I'm sure he knows exactly what the rooster decal means. He's feigning ignorance to be funny. Or maybe he wants to hear me say
cock
. I'm not going to, but the thought excites me. Being near him excites me.

It's always been this way between us. Dangerous. Combustible.

“Everyone likes your posters,” I say, changing the subject.

“Do you?”

“Yes,” I say honestly. “They're really good.”

“Which is your favorite?”

“The hitchhiker.”

He smiles with pleasure and my cheeks heat. The Rosie poster is excellent, and so is the punk rock girl, but the nude hitchhiker just does it for me. It's kind of naughty and passionate, an ode to the female body. Every brushstroke a physical caress.

God. I need to get out of here before I embarrass myself further.

“How did your midterms go?” he asks.

“They went okay.”

I probably passed them all but I don't feel confident. I'm not ready to face the future or make any big decisions. Maybe I'm wasting my parents' money on the wrong major. I wish I knew what I wanted to do with my life. Like Noah.

“You should apply to an art school,” I say. “Get financial aid.”

“Felons can't get financial aid.”

“Oh.”

“I'd have to save up my money.”

“Are you going to?”

“I'm thinking about it.”

He seems sincere, and I'm struck by a strange feeling. It goes deeper than sexual chemistry and wiggles underneath my resentment toward him. I admire the way he's overcome so many obstacles. He had a tough childhood, joined a gang and went to prison, but he was never a bad person. He deserves a fresh start. He's ten times the man Chip is, with a fraction of the opportunities.

The realization makes me happy and sad at the same time. I don't know what to say or how to process my feelings. Before I figure anything out, the crowd swells around us. I pick up my sign and start walking.

The next slut station is less than a mile away. There's constant honking and catcalling. We keep marching on. One of the ladies in the crowd belts out an amazing rendition of Aretha Franklin's smash hit. Her voice gives me chills. At the salon, we're greeted with more drinks—passion fruit tea and ice water. There are free samples of makeup and nail polish. I find some red-tinted lip gloss and apply it liberally.

The last stretch of the walk is the longest, and it's getting dark. We're off schedule because the group is larger than Kelsea anticipated and we stayed at each business for over thirty minutes. My throat is hoarse from cheering and my feet hurt. We enter a party zone with several sports bars. Although we weave around groups of people and avoid the men when we can, some come out to whistle as we pass by.