A Little Rebellion

A Little Rebellion
KD Fisher

SYNOPSIS
Veteran public school teacher and union rep Ruth Chan is always ready for the curveballs life throws at her--an updated curriculum, a new principal, a replacement superintendent… But she’s not ready for a cute woman at the dog park to divert her attention the day before a new school year. Ruth can't afford to pursue love when her students need her.

The last thing Mia Davis needs is a distraction. It’s her first year teaching and she’s going to do things right, dang it! No matter how much she wants to fantasize about a certain colleague she met at the dog park, Mia has to stand up to the intolerant jerk of a principal and help her students learn despite the horrible new test-prep curriculum.

As a close friendship develops between Mia and Ruth, the women must fight to save the school they both love and decide if their friendship can turn into something more.

Chapter 1

Ruth

August

“Frida! Wait! No!” My voice was a rusty squeak as my dog slipped her collar and dashed across the park lawn toward the off-leash area. Last week, a very angry white lady shouted at me for letting Frida loose before we were safely within the confines of the fenced-in dog run. Her threats to call animal control echoed in my ears as I jogged after my damn dog.

“It’s okay. I got her.” I slowed to a halt, only to find my greyhound jumping all over a young woman while her dog looked on with great interest. Quickly I rearranged my features into a placating smile and gently pried my dog off, stopping her from attacking the woman’s face with kisses. “She sure is fast, though.” The woman shook her head, laughing as I wrestled Frida’s collar back on and tightened it one notch.

“Thank you so much. Sorry. She just gets a little excited sometimes. Thanks for grabbing her. Not that she was going anywhere but here…” When I finally stopped rambling and glanced at the woman, I lost all my words. She was incandescent. The late afternoon light caught the golden threads in her chestnut hair, messily pulled back into a braid. She resonated a kind of fresh athletic wholesomeness, with the kind of healthy glow achieved only by spending a lot of time being active outside. Really, she looked like she’d stepped off a soccer field or out of a Nike commercial from the 90s. Her pretty brown eyes, framed by dark lashes, widened.

“Everything okay?” The woman cocked her head to the side, expression slipping from amusement to light concern.

I shook my head and raked my fingers through my hair. “Oh, yeah. Fine.”

We walked into the dog park together, Frida bounding after the woman’s brown-and-white boxer who seemed wholly committed to sniffing everything in sight.

“I don’t get him. He practically pulls my arm off on the way over. Then once we get here, he ignores all the other dogs.” She rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, Frida definitely loves it here.” Usually I dreaded making small talk with people at the dog park because I was horrible at coming up with adequately light chitchat. But I would talk about the weather for days if it meant I could keep talking to her.

“She’s beautiful. How old is she?”

“Two. It’s my first time having a dog, and I was worried when I adopted her that she’d need tons of exercise. Turns out, she’s lazy as hell.”

“You’re lucky. Gary is a wild child. I usually try to take him for a run most days, and I’ve probably played more games of indoor fetch than my downstairs neighbors can handle. But he has so much dang energy.” The woman drifted toward one of the benches along the fence and gestured for me to sit next to her.

I slid onto the bench, feeling weirdly self-conscious. Not wanting to gape openly at this woman, I glanced around the dog park. For a sunny August afternoon, it wasn’t very crowded. A couple of women chatted in the shade of a tree at the opposite end, leashes draped over their shoulders. A young dad and daughter threw a tennis ball for their dog, a dopey smiley mutt, the little girl shrieking with delight each time the dog caught the ball. The air was warm, not quite hot. A storm had blasted through the city the night before, leaving lush green and sun in its wake.

The woman stretched her arms overhead, revealing a strip of golden skin between the hem of her loose tank top and bright pink running shorts. I swallowed hard and looked back to where Frida was now sprinting away from a tiny white puppy. Desperate to keep the conversation going at any cost, awkward or not, I blurted out the first words that bubbled to the surface of my mind.

“Do you, uh, come here often?” As soon as the words left my lips, I had to suppress the urge to cringe. I was a thirty-three-year-old woman who couldn’t have a damn casual conversation with a very cute, probably very straight woman at the fucking dog park.

The woman giggled, a surprisingly bright, warm sound, and shrugged. “Smooth.” Her eyes flicked to my face then back to watching the dogs frolic on the grass. “But yeah. I just moved to Shadyside in July when I finished up grad school. It’s about a five-mile run here and back, so just barely enough to keep Gary calm. What about you? Do you come here often?” She lifted her eyebrows and laughed again.

Was she…flirting? Hoping like hell I was being subtle, I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. No visible signs she was queer. No rainbow shoelaces. No astrology-themed forearm tattoos. No undercut beneath her thick, messy braid. Just cute, brightly colored athletic clothing, dewy skin, and a smile that lit up her whole face. Not that how people present necessarily says anything about their sexuality, but rainbow shoelaces certainly would’ve given me a handy clue.

I could practically hear my best friend Joey’s voice in my ear. Ask her what her name is! Ask about grad school! Say something, Ruth!

“What made you choose Gary? I mean, the name. Why did you name him that? It’s kind of a…human name for a dog, isn’t it? Then again I guess so is Frida. But yeah.” Wow. Totally crushed it.

That bright clear laugh again. I didn’t even mind that I had been rendered incapable of carrying on a normal conversation if it meant I could keep hearing that beautiful sound. Hell, I would even bust out some of my worst dad jokes if that was what it took.

“His name was Jerry when I got him. But I knew a really awful dude with that name growing up. He wouldn’t respond to other names, though, so this was close enough. Plus you know Gary the snail and everything.”

My nose scrunched in confusion. “The snail?” Was he a sports mascot or something? God, I really needed to get a TV. My students never let me live this kind of shit down.

The woman turned toward me fully, and I had to try really hard not to stare directly into her eyes. The color was intoxicating, a lighter brown than I’d ever seen before, like perfectly brewed tea. She narrowed her gaze at me. “Like from SpongeBob. You know, Gary. His pet snail?”

I shrugged and rubbed by hand over the soft, buzzed hair at the back of my neck. I really needed to stop doing that when I was nervous. Which, why the hell was I nervous? “I know what SpongeBob is. I just never watched it, I guess.”

“Never watched SpongeBob, huh? Please don’t tell me I have a dog named after a kids’ cartoon and yours is named after, like, Frida Kahlo.”

I grimaced. “She is, actually. But I didn’t come up with it. My mom did.” My mother, a retired art history professor, had insisted that an animal this goofy needed a classy name. It didn’t exactly suit the gangly greyhound, but I loved both my dog and the painter, so it worked out just fine for me.

“Oh man, I feel like a total pleb.”

“Nah.” I batted at the air. “I promise I’m not a pretentious asshole or anything.”

The woman’s lips parted, and I could see a mischievous glint in her eye, but before she could say anything, her phone pinged loudly from where it was strapped to her arm. As her eyes flicked over the screen, her face fell. “Wait…how is it four already? Crap.” Her whole demeanor transformed as she sprang into action. Calling for Gary in an almost frantic tone, she clipped his leash onto his harness and started jogging toward the gate.

“Sorry,” she called over her shoulder. “I start a new job tomorrow, and I have a million things to do. See you around?”

And in my only genuinely composed moment of the afternoon, I flashed her my best smile and called back, “I hope so.”

…

The first day of school was unmitigated chaos. Dr. Garcia, the principal who’d hired me at Edison High School, not to mention my social justice pedagogy superhero, had announced her retirement at the end of the previous school year. To the teachers in the building who cared about equity and authentically supporting students, the announcement had been a blow. But Dr. Garcia was seventy and, after an almost fifty-year career in the Pittsburgh school system, deserved to spend some time with her grandkids.

As the building union representative, I’d been tangentially involved in the search for new leadership, and we’d pre-interviewed a number of promising candidates. Then, in July, things fell apart. The center, or in this case, the superintendent, did not hold. In a rambling memo addressed to the entire school system’s listserv, the new superintendent quit his five-year term only one year into the position. The board’s reaction was swift, harsh, and unpopular. They’d brought in the founder of a charter-school chain in North Carolina with a reputation for being tough on both teachers and students. This new superintendent was brash and intense and took it upon himself to become intimately involved in the hiring process for the new principal at Edison, the lowest performing and lowest-income school in the district. He’d hired Bob Christensen, despite a veritable chorus of concerns raised by vice principals, grade heads, and other principals in the district.

Before I’d even looked at Christensen’s bio, I knew who he would be. An Ivy League grad who did Teach for America for one year before jumping right into administrative roles. A young white man who spoke before he listened and filled his monologues with buzzwords. Basically, an underqualified dick. And he was. At the first all-school faculty meeting, Mr. Christensen stood in front of dozens of public school teachers, sweating and anxious in a stifling auditorium, and told us we were failing. The focus of his diatribe was test scores. Test scores and accountability. Efficiency and high standards. Grit, a word I’d hoped I would never hear again after grad school, was another popular term.

“Remember how Dr. Garcia used to make us banana bread?” Joey, Edison’s gym teacher and beloved basketball coach, not to mention my best friend in and outside of the building, whispered in my ear. “And when she found out DeAndre doesn’t eat gluten, she started making two different kinds.” He sighed heavily.

My snarky response was on my lips when I felt the energy in the room change. That gut-drop feeling of all eyes on me.

Mr. Christensen stared intently at Joey and me, wearing an expression I’d worked hard never to show my students. Patronizing irritation. I half expected the man to ask us if we wanted to share our thoughts with the whole class. It was worse.

“Respect is vital.” He’d been trying for militant, but he sounded nervous. “If you cannot be respectful, I suggest you leave.”

Numbing blue-hot rage rushed through me. It was a feeling I hadn’t known since high school, since days of lying to everyone I knew and shoving myself into a mold that didn’t fit. Was this twenty-something white boy really going to try this shit? Was he really going to start off like this? Talking down to Edison’s only two openly queer faculty members? Dismissing people who’d given up countless hours advocating for students?

Next to me Joey bowed his head and inched down in his seat. I did the same. “Sorry, sir.” Our voices twined together in the tense air.

Christensen nodded. The meeting went on, but I heard nothing.

As I dragged myself up the stairs to my classroom for the first ninth-grade cohort meeting of the year, I knew the entire day would be a wash. My carefully orchestrated plan was shot to shit. My warm welcome for the new biology teacher and outline for giving helpful student feedback would dissolve into a complaining session. A few teachers would like Christensen. Our resident conservatives, with their camo T-shirts and endless stream of racialized complaints about students, would love his “no nonsense” approach.

A wave of angry voices crashed over me as I tugged open the heavy wooden door to my classroom. Instinctively I squeezed my eyes shut, already bracing for a throbbing headache. When I cracked them open, there she was. The woman from the dog park. Instead of running clothes and a radiant smile, she wore a navy-and-white boatneck top, cropped, loose-fitting jeans, and a panicked expression. Our eyes locked. Hers flashed wide. 

I snapped into professional, union rep, cohort-lead mode and extended my hand in greeting. “You must be Mia Davis. I’m Ruth Chan. Welcome. Apologies that everything’s so hectic.” As soon as I finished speaking, I regretted being so weird and cordial. Was I supposed to acknowledge that we already kind of knew each other?

She slid her hand into mine, her handshake firm and quick. Standing close to her, I caught a hint of her perfume, something light and softly floral. For a brief, glimmering moment, everything else in the room seemed to fall away. She chuckled and shook her head, like she was trying to dispel an errant thought. “Yeah. This morning has been pretty overwhelming. Was it like this last year?”

The angry voices roared back to life, and I shrugged, resigned. People were pissed, and rightfully so. We’d gone from a beloved principal who’d dedicated her life to the well-being of teachers and students, to a guy who seemed confident he had all the answers after an hour in the building.

“This is bullshit, Ruth!” Jenny, the hugely pregnant math teacher, looked more harried than usual. “I read up on this scripted curriculum crap last night. It’s test prep. Like, all-year test prep. You know how bad the fights are gonna get?”

Before I could respond and ask everyone to take a breath and find a seat, our resident libertarian social studies teacher and devil’s advocate cut in. “I think it’ll be just fine. You’ll see. These kids need some structure. He seems like a good guy. Organized.”

Next to me, I heard Mia mumble something that sounded suspiciously like, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Jenny shook her head hard. “I don’t know. I was up half the night going through the district’s new strategic plan, and I have to say, I’m worried. Did you see the new discipline policy? Three strikes? What the fuck is that?”

The conversation continued but shame snaked up my spine into my ears, dulling the sounds. I hadn’t even bothered to open the email last night. Sure, I knew we would meet our new principal today. Sure, he’d seemed awful in the intro email we’d gotten at the beginning of the month. But I’d been distracted. Thinking of the cute girl at the dog park. Worrying about our contract and stagnating wages. Eager to check in with students from last year. I’d gotten complacent. I’d assumed the district’s strategic plan would be pretty much the same as it’s been every year. I’d assumed everything would be normal. This was not normal.

I moved to stand behind my desk and waited. The classroom miracle happened and everyone quieted. We’d been through tough things like this before. We respected each other, for the most part. We could handle this school year. We would make it work. Together.

Chapter 2

Mia

“Ah, hell no! I’m not doing another one of these.” Matt stared me in the eye as he ripped the history of biology graphic organizer clean in two. The few students who weren’t asleep or engaged in side conversations laughed. Ebony and Thomas, the only two students who seemed able to put up with this horrendous, robotic curriculum, shot me sympathetic glances and returned to reading pages 22–55 in the textbook.

Unbidden, the face of the hippy-dippy, mindfulness-practicing, assistant soccer coach from Georgetown popped into my mind. Drop the attention to the feet. Engage the breath. I did. Then I retrieved a fresh worksheet from the pile on my desk and brought it to Matt.

“I know this isn’t the most exciting task. But here, look.” I flicked open the textbook sitting neglected on his lab table to the half paragraph dedicated to Rachel Carson. “This woman wrote a whole book called Silent Spring about the biotic risks of DDT, the insecticide we used against mosquitoes after World War Two. It ended up getting largely banned in the US as the result of her work.”

During the horrible getting-to-know-you activity required by the curriculum—name your favorite animal and explain why (honestly who wrote this stuff for ninth graders?)—Matt had boldly declared that his favorite animal was the mosquito because they were annoying.

His eyes flicked over the information then he glanced up at me, incredulous. “Why can’t you just tell us about this shit? I hate doing all these worksheets.”

His lab partner nodded seriously. “Yeah. No offense, Miss D, but this class sucks. Like my brother said bio was cool. Why you always just read out the book and make us do packets?”

I hated the physical tells that I was about to cry: hot face, tingling nose, burning eyes. I hated how upset I was. I hated how weak I was. I was failing. My second week teaching and already almost none of my students were completing their assignments. Attendance was abysmal. I was exactly who I’d never wanted to be, the privileged white girl who went to work in a city public school and ruined everything she touched.

From the front row, Ebony turned and pinned both boys with a sharp stare. “Haven’t y’all noticed that all the classes are like this? Even Ms. Chan’s class sucks.”

Not for the first time, I wanted to thank Ebony for being sweet and gracious beyond her fourteen years. Intense relief coursed through my veins. I wasn’t the only teacher they hated. Logically, I knew all of the teachers were struggling with the new curriculum and policies. Stepping into faculty meetings felt like going to dinner with my dad’s side of the family—bouts of brittle silence followed by explosions of indignation.

“Whatever. I’m out.” Matt slammed his book shut, crumpled up the fresh graphic organizer, and stormed out of the classroom.

The new student intervention policy mandated that I call the vice principal, alert the security guards, and give Matt two days of in-school suspension for walking out of class. But I couldn’t. Instead, I poked my head into the hallway to feebly call after Matt. My master’s thesis had been on the school-to-prison pipeline and how those exact policies outlandishly targeted children of color for tiny infractions. I couldn’t bring myself to punish Matt for leaving when I wanted to do the exact same thing.

By the time the bell rang, I was ready to dissolve into tears. One of boys playing poker in the back of my classroom had called me a bitch. Matt hadn’t come back. Only five students had completed the graphic organizer. And one of those was filled in with nothing but lines directly copied from completely random pages in the book. School policy told me to immediately enter zeroes for the incomplete work. Instead, I bit my lip hard to keep from crying and took stock of my classroom.

I hated it. When I’d walked across the stage to retrieve my Masters of Arts in Teaching diploma at the end of June, I’d envisioned my future classroom. Compost bins. A thriving class garden. Colorful student work adorning the walls. Lab tables arranged in the way my advisor told us encouraged creative scientific thought. Instead, I looked out at neat rows, closed textbooks, and crumpled up worksheets. There was student work on the walls, sure, but it was bland, modeled after posters from the district curriculum. Graded on a rubric that prized regurgitating information and following rules.

My face buckled. I was not about to be the green teacher sobbing in her classroom during her planning period. The lounge bathroom was an option, but last time I’d ventured in there, the stalls had been full of other teachers, some sniffling, some outright weeping. No. I knew what I needed to do. With brisk efficiency I was certain my father would be proud of, I walked to my desk, signed into Spotify, and blasted ABBA’s Greatest Hits. Then I opened up the district policies, combing through them to find any wiggle room.

I was munching on carrot sticks, very dramatically singing along with “Lay All Your Love on Me,” and reading a forum about the failed implementation of the same corporate curriculum in New Jersey when I heard a throat being cleared. My face flooded with heat, and I dropped the carrot I’d been bobbing in the air in time with the music. Thank god Principal Christensen was hardcore about the cell phone policy because the last thing I needed was for my live disco performance to be all over Snapchat. But when I turned to apologize to whichever student I’d just traumatized with my singing, my embarrassment transmuted to horror. Ruth leaned against the doorframe, her full lips curved up in a very amused smirk.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” As always she was professional but warm, immediately setting me at ease.

I waved my hand dismissively. “Not at all. I was just going over some curriculum stuff.” My mood tanked as I remembered the ubiquitous looks of confused irritation and boredom gracing my students’ faces every period. How was it the second week of school and I was already desperate for winter break?

“Ah. Jamming to ABBA while you torture yourself, I see. Maybe I can help? With the research, I mean.” Ruth stepped closer, and I tried really hard not to stare at her. But I couldn’t resist. Her dark hair, neatly buzzed on the sides and perfectly tousled on top, fell in her eyes a little as she bent down to look at my computer screen. The sleeves on her chambray workshirt were rolled up just enough that I glimpsed the intricate linework adorning her forearms. And she smelled fresh and clean, like eucalyptus and soap. On the other hand, I routinely arrived home at the end of each day smelling like sweat because the building didn’t have AC, and french fries from cafeteria monitor duty.

In order to force myself to stop gawking at—and sniffing—my cohort lead, I started babbling. And whining. “They hate me.” I sounded pathetic but couldn’t stop once I opened the floodgate. “I want to make this interesting. I really do. Biology is not boring. It’s amazing! The gateway science! This should be fun. But Perez observed me last week and tore my lesson apart.”

It had been brutal. Rick Perez, the well-meaning vice principal, had been ordered to conduct near-constant observations. Christensen wanted to ensure teachers were sticking to the script. Perez arrived, unannounced, on exactly the wrong day. After three days of dull seatwork, I’d come up with my own fun lesson plan to give the kids a break. I’d set up interactive learning stations around the classroom to get students doing hands-on work to engage with the scientific method. By the time Perez walked in, students were already busy with the tasks. I couldn’t exactly go back to the bookwork we were supposed to be doing. So, sheepishly, Rick had informed me that I would be the proud recipient of across the board unsatisfactory ratings for my teaching. That day, I had cried in the bathroom.

“And…” Now my voice sounded weird and thin. “I’m sorry but Matt Johnson walked out halfway through the lesson today, and I didn’t write him up or anything. But honestly I would have walked out of my class too! I suck.” A tear slid down my cheek and I hastily wiped it away.

“Psshh. Matt doesn’t even come to my class anymore. And I never write the kids up for minor crap like that. Three bathroom passes a semester? What kind of 1984 shit is the district trying to pull? And Christensen trying to ban hoodies? He’s a racist piece of trash.” Ruth looked mad. Her normally delicate features had gone sharp and color rose high on her angular cheeks.

The hoodie-ban email had come late Sunday night. Ostensibly our lovely principal wanted to prevent students from texting during class or surreptitiously wearing headphones, but it didn’t take a very critical eye to read the real message hidden between the bland administrative lines. While over 60 percent of the students at Edison were Black, the vast majority of the teachers were white. So maybe Christensen thought he would get away with his not-so-subtle racism. He hadn’t. A few minutes after the email went out, Ruth along with the physics and art teachers, sent kind but firm responses pointing out that the district dress code contained no such rule.

It was nice to hear Ruth, a veteran teacher and someone with actual power in the building, voicing the thought that had been rattling around in my head for the last two days. “Right? It’s unbelievable. I mean, actually it isn’t, unfortunately. It’s crap, though.”

“Other than the fact that our principal is a jerkface and the district is turning us into test-prep robots, how’s the school year going for you?” Ruth smiled and my stomach flipped.

Must. Not. Nurse. Crush. On. Cohort. Lead.

I giggled despite my best efforts. “Pretty good. I mean, I have some great students. Matt is super-smart. I wish he’d stick around because when he has the chance to participate, he has really interesting things to say.”

“Yeah, I had his sister, Maya, two years ago. She was the president of the GSA actually. Now she’s studying political science at Penn, and I’m pretty sure she’ll be the actual president some day. Those are some smart kids. Shoot his mom an email. Kiara is a sweetheart and will help you get him back on track. You know how to look up the parent contact info? If your onboarding was anything like mine, you were handed a packet and that was about it.”

My attention had snagged on Ruth’s mention of the Gay Straight Alliance. Was she involved? Was she queer? Would there be room for me to help out?

“I didn’t know we had a GSA here.” I was trying for casual but failed miserably.

Ruth grinned again. She had the nicest smile I’d ever seen. The kind that made me want to smile too. So I did.

“Yeah, Joey and I helped get it started way back when I was a brand new teacher. We’re actually working with the district right now to write a nondiscrimination policy for trans and nonbinary students. So if you have any students who’d like to get involved or if you want to help out at all, you’re more than welcome. I’ll bring a flyer for your bulletin board.” She gestured toward my very sad corkboard.

Her eyes drifted to the constellation of framed photos next to my computer. My parents hamming it up next to me at graduation. A group photo of the soccer team at Georgetown. Me and my brother, Bryce, arm-in-arm at the summit of Spruce Knob. Her eyebrows drew together, and she glanced between me and that particular photo.  

“Thanks, that would be awesome.” As usual my brain started churning. Should I tell Ruth I’m bisexual? That the hulking dude in the photo with me was my baby brother, not my boyfriend? Would that seem weird? And wait, Joey? Before my mind could catch up, I blurted out, “Joey’s queer? Like gym teacher, basketball coach, Joey?” I knew my surprise was unwarranted, but muscle-bound, protein-shake chugging Joey Rossi had not pinged my gaydar.

Ruth laughed, a full sound that warmed me down to my toes. “Yup. His husband teaches at Allegheny. He and I went to grad school together. I know he seems like a meathead, but he’s the sweetest. And he’s super-smart, even if every other word out of his mouth is ‘bro.’”

I rolled my eyes and reached for another carrot stick in an effort to distract myself from staring at Ruth’s long fingers splayed out on my desk as she returned her attention to the website I’d been looking at.

My planning period was over before I knew it. For a full thirty minutes, Ruth and I discussed teaching strategies, ideas for pushing back on the new disciplinary measures, and for a few delightful minutes, music. It turned out we both loved ABBA and Earth, Wind & Fire. Ruth blushed a little as she mentioned a 70s night at a club in Lawrenceville that I’d heard of but never felt cool enough to visit.

When the bell rang and Ruth darted back into the hallway din of pop music and chatter with a promise to check in on me tomorrow, I couldn’t hide the enormous grin on my face. My students filtered in and took their seats, faces blank and defeated. I squared my shoulders. I was going to teach. And I was going to do it right.

Chapter 3

Ruth

November

One of the perks of being the building union rep was that I had my own office. Yes, it was tiny and lacked a window or proper ventilation. But it was an office: home to a mini fridge, far too many pictures of my family and Frida, and the rickety metal desk that I’d grown to love. Usually I didn’t spend much time in the small room. In past years, union issues were typically handled in the principal’s office as Dr. Garcia liked to lend her support and stay looped in on faculty concerns. Mostly I had used the space as a place to avoid teacher gossip and drink coffee in peace during the early-morning, pre-homeroom hours. It had been something of an oasis.

Since Christensen’s appointment, my office had transformed into a daily three-ring circus. Crying teachers. Angry staff. Baffled students. Even the security officers were regular visitors, and they’d never been great fans of me and my restorative justice views.

Today would be brutal. Standing at the base of the stone steps leading up to the school—my school—I took a moment to breathe. Collect my thoughts. I quieted the cacophony of worries in my mind and focused. The early-morning air was soft and cool, the sky a twisted smudge of pink and inky blue. Birds chattered in the established oaks along the city street. A few students huddled by one of the decorative flowerpots turned garbage cans, singing along to a horrendously autotuned pop song. Even if I hated what was going on inside of it right now, I had to admit Edison was beautiful. On the outside, it was a marvel of Pittsburgh steel-boom new money. Ionic columns, granite, elaborately carved slogans about self-improvement. Sure, it was stifling in the summer and freezing in the winter. Sure, the computers were 90s throwbacks and the hallways always smelled like a mix of weed and garbage. But I loved it. It was my home.

I’d been a student at Edison back when I was a timid American-born Chinese girl, pretending she loved lip gloss and Nick Lachey as much as all her friends did. Honestly, my time here had been awful. I never talked in class. Never tried out for the sports I desperately wanted to be a part of. Never did anything but paint and read and try to be invisible. Almost every day of my sophomore year, I pretended to have either a migraine, period cramps, or the stomach flu in order to avoid walking through the big brass front doors of my high school. But after the post-college year spent figuring out my sexuality and how I wanted to move through the world, I’d decided to come back. I wanted to make things easier for students of color and queer kids. I wanted to make school a safer place for kids like me.

“Earth to Ruth!” Joey’s voice startled me, and I almost dropped my phone.

“Hey. Sorry.” I grinned at my best friend and tried not to roll my eyes at how horrendously his bright orange track pants clashed with his Pittsburgh Pirates T-shirt.

“You know you have to go in, right?” Joey raised a perfect eyebrow.

“Ugh, yes. Come with me?” I wanted some moral support. At the end of Friday afternoon’s all-school faculty meeting, Christensen had casually mentioned that he really thought our pay ought to be tied to our observation evaluations. This delightful, and contractually impossible, comment came after he spent a full forty-five minutes berating us about our low evaluation numbers. Evaluation numbers that had nothing to do with student growth or active participation in class. Numbers that reflected one thing: how closely we adhered to the scripted curriculum. Throughout the meeting (although meeting was a generous term for the weekly event of teachers silently listening to the man seethe for a full hour) Christensen’s gaze had pinged back and forth between Mia and the art teacher, Gloria Nkulu. Both women had outright rejected the curriculum and had received nothing but unsatisfactory ratings for the past three months. Unsurprisingly, both of their class attendance numbers were almost perfect, and students were quite literally singing their praises in the hallways. My own efforts to push back on this garbage curriculum had evaporated in the wake of the one-two punch of a tense face-to-face meeting with Christensen and an unnerving phone call with the union president.

Then this morning, I’d gotten a frantic text from another building rep in the district: Teachers talking abt a strike bc of new curriculum policy and student equity concerns. What do we do?

I’d been a union representative for six years and was used to hearing teachers talking about strikes. Sometimes I was supportive, sometimes I wasn’t. But I always listened and talked through the issues with the relevant parties as fairly as possible. Now, I wanted to strike. And I sure as hell couldn’t pretend to be unbiased.

Joey tugged on the collar of my jean jacket. “Okay, you slug. Let’s get moving.” His tone was warm, even as he bodily dragged me up the steps to the school.

Fumbling to unclip my keys from my beltloop, I felt my jaw actually drop as I rounded the corner to my office. At least a dozen teachers were huddled outside my door, talking in the kind of hushed, angry whispers I’d become accustomed to this semester. Joey gave my elbow a reassuring squeeze. I spotted Mia among the throng of angry coworkers, and my heart rate slowed. Her fall wardrobe was somehow even cuter than the adorable French-sailor look she’d been pulling off throughout August and September. She wore tight black jeans and a baggy crewneck sweater, and she’d let her hair out of its customary braid, glossy waves tumbling down her back. Damn. I needed to get my shit together. She had a boyfriend. Or at least, I thought she did.

She waved and lifted a coffee cup from my favorite place near school.

“Is this for me?” I asked as she slid the warm cardboard cup into my hands. I’d been in a hurry this morning and hadn’t had time to make coffee at home like I usually did.

“Unless you want an iced chai with three extra shots?” Mia shook the ice cubes in the huge reusable cup that appeared to be glued to her hand during school hours.

I grimaced. “No. Thanks, though. Seriously. Thank you. I think this earns you first dibs on union talk time.”

Mia rolled her eyes. “I don’t really have any official grievances you haven’t heard about already. I thought of you when I was at the coffee shop…” She shook her head rapidly and cleared her throat. “I mean, I just figured you’d be super-busy this morning and…yeah. Coffee. Oh, I have that book you loaned me. I finished it last night even though I had about a zillion worksheets to grade. I couldn’t put it down.”

“Come by my office at the end of the day and we can discuss? And here, actually, come in with me.” I inclined my head in the direction of my office door. “I need a few minutes of pleasantness before I have to face the angry mob.” Talking to Mia always did this to me, quieted my jangling nerves and made the world a far sunnier place than it often seemed. I was grateful for her friendship, even if it meant forcing myself to pretend I didn’t want more.

She nodded enthusiastically, and I took a long grateful sip of coffee, savoring the bright acidity and slight note of vanilla. Then I steeled myself for a long morning of failing to solve people’s very valid problems.

“Okay.” I raised my voice just enough that the other teachers quieted. “It seems like a lot of you need to talk to me. We only have about an hour, so here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to walk into my office, unpack my stuff, and close the door. Mia brought me coffee, and because I’m a corrupt bureaucrat, that means she gets to talk to me first.” Next to me, Joey barked out a laugh. “Then,” I continued in a rush, “I’m going to put up a sign up sheet for ten-minute slots. If it can wait until my afternoon free periods, when I’ll have more time, you can stop by then.”

As I closed my office door behind us, the small scrap of confidence I’d been clinging to like a life preserver dissolved. My head buzzed and my favorite wash-worn shirt I’d tugged on in the quiet dark now felt tight and itchy.

“Okay, we’re just gonna hang out for a few minutes. No school talk.” Mia folded herself into the tiny chair propped next to my desk. It had become her official seat over the past six weeks. Most mornings, she and I were the first teachers in the building, so we drank our coffee together and pretended to be working while mostly chatting and showing each other funny dog videos. Sometimes Joey would join us, and the three of us would hang out until the first bell.

I shrugged and massaged my temples.

“Actually,” Mia mused, twisting a long strand of hair around her index finger, “I have something I need to ask you about.”

My stomach clenched. Had she guessed that I was into her? I tried for a casual nod.

“What is the deal with the fries on salad thing here? Like, I didn’t grow up eating healthy by any stretch of the imagination. Martinsburg, West Virginia, isn’t like the gourmet capital of America or anything. But seriously, Pittsburgh? Why even bother with the salad part?”

A laugh erupted from me, and some of the buzzing tension in my chest dissipated. “I’m the wrong person to ask. We never had stuff like that growing up. My mom and Ama were all about the homemade life. My mom was pretty intense about healthy eating. Other than cafeteria food and junk at friends’ houses, I never ate fries or pizza or anything like that. Went kind of wild eating it in college, though. And I still probably eat way too much pizza. But not with fries on top.”

“Please tell me that’s not a thing.” Mia grimaced.

“Sure is.” I winked, hoping it wasn’t too flirty. “I’m totally going to take you to Sal’s next week. Prepare to be amazed.”

By the time Mia left my office, I was relaxed, ready to take on a solid hour of difficult conversations. Usually my role as a union rep boiled down to mediating arguments between teachers. People wanted to be heard, and I was happy to listen. More often than not, the meetings were spent arguing over how much Shakespeare was too much for the curriculum (any, in my humble-but-unpopular opinion) or why we do we have to do all this damn diversity crap (because you’re a white, middle-class man teaching a mostly Black and Latinx student population, Bob.) Now the urge to do something, to take action, pulsed through me. But what the hell could I do?

The answer came in the form of a sixteen-page report compiled by our sweater-vest loving, mild-mannered economics teacher. When he was the first to walk into my office, I didn’t even bother to hide my surprise. In a quiet voice, he explained that he and his wife, who was apparently a data analyst for some big company downtown, had spent the past few weeks going over district salary figures. Although Pennsylvania teachers generally were well-paid, our district’s numbers had stagnated. New teachers like Mia, pouring out of prestigious master’s programs full of innovative teaching strategies and laden with student debt, were being offered lower and lower starting salaries. I knew these things in an amorphous way. But seeing the numbers, meticulously graphed and charted over time and compared to rising cost-of-living and inflation data was jarring.

The financial figures stuck with me as teacher after teacher stepped into my office, some sobbing, some hopeless, some furious. But it was Gloria Nkulu who transformed my useless self-pity into searing rage. As she slid into the chair next to my desk, she looked exhausted. Her eyes were bloodshot and her typically glowing deep-brown skin was dry. Not that I looked any better. I’d fallen asleep with my contacts in and had barely taken the time to drag a comb through my hair before dashing out of the house.

“Ruth, what is going on in this school?” Gloria released a heavy sigh.

The normal platitudes I kept on hand crumbled to ash in my mouth. “Nothing good,” I finally said.

Gloria nodded slowly for a moment, then sat up ramrod straight. “This is hurting the students. I’m sure you see that. All of this extra discipline. It is my opinion, and the opinion of several other teachers, that these policies are disproportionately harming students of color. Black students, in particular. I refuse to allow this in my classroom, in my school, in my country.” Gloria’s voice, strong and clear, broke on the last word.

As a woman of color—hell as a woman with eyes and a conscience—I knew what Gloria was talking about. Even before the district and principal’s new policies had been put in place, all you had to do was look at the grossly and unjustly inflated number of white kids relative to students of color in the honors-tracked classes, and the inverse relationship at in-school suspension, to see that our education system was seriously inequitable. These new polices made the simmering implicit racism more visible. White kids still wandered the halls during closed periods, used their phones in class, got away with showing up a few minutes late. Black students didn’t.

My eyes snapped from Gloria’s pained expression to the neatly bound pile of reports on my desk. Images raced through my brain: Mia crying in her classroom on more than one occasion, my students resigned faces as they sat for another day of mind-numbing instruction, Christensen’s patronizing speeches at every faculty meeting. The images coalesced into bright, definite words. “We need to strike.”

Chapter 4

Mia

Ruth was a machine, her fingers flying over her laptop keyboard. She didn’t notice me looming in the doorway of her office for a full three minutes. She didn’t hear me say her name. Twice. She finally glanced up, a little dazed, when I tossed her copy of Little Fires Everywhere on the paper-strewn top of her desk.

“Oh shit, sorry, Mia. I don’t think I have time to discuss the book. Maybe tomorrow…although I have so much to do…” She was already looking at her computer screen again.

I gently tapped her on the shoulder. Ruth looked back up at me, features softening. My heart jolted. “No worries. I actually have to run. Literally. Because you’re looking at…” I did a tiny drumroll against my thighs. “The new assistant girls’ soccer coach.”

Ruth flew out of her desk chair and pulled me into a tight hug. “Yes! Joey told me that you were interested. And that you played for Georgetown. Damn, girl.”

I always loved the sound of Ruth’s voice, rich and warm and a little low. But now, with my face pressed into her shoulder, and her ropey arms and clean smell wrapped around me, her voice warmed me all over. My ears pounded hot and my cheeks burned. I wanted to nuzzle into the fabric of her shirt. I wanted…  

Maybe she felt the infinitesimal rise in my body temperature because Ruth released me as quickly as she’d wrapped me up in what was certainly the greatest hug in the universe. “Sorry.” She laughed and mussed her hair. “But that’s fantastic. Good for you. Maybe we can win a game for a change now.” I nodded along but really wished I could slip back into Ruth’s arms for another hug. A fast, friendly hug, I reminded myself. Not an I want to make out with you for hours and trace every line of your body with my tongue hug. That was just me being an unprofessional creep.

Ruth shook her head, and for a terrifying moment I worried I’d voiced my thoughts aloud. Thankfully, her frustration was directed at her phone, which was buzzing furiously in her pocket. Mine buzzed too. Grateful for the distraction, I tugged it out of my backpack. There was a message from Joey on the unofficial faculty group text that Ruth had looped me in on. It was mostly used by the cool teachers to plan happy hours and complain about Christensen.

Joey: So we’re striking? YES! I propose a 7:30 meeting at the Red Moon Cantina tonight to plan the revolution/dance our troubles away. (It’s disco night so we all know Ruth will be there.)

Ruth looked simultaneously angry and amused. “Fucking Joey. I was going to text everyone tomorrow morning once I talked to a few other reps. If Christensen finds out about this before we have a solid plan…”

Hope unfurled inside of my chest at the idea of a strike. I had about fifteen questions I wanted to ask Ruth about next steps and how I could help. Instead, what came out of my mouth was: “So do you always go to disco night?”

It was a sharp, cold night. Walking from the parking spot I finally managed to snag a mere six blocks from my apartment, I took a moment to savor the clean snap of air at the back of my throat. Soon, it would be winter, icy roads and white skies and constant talk of snow days. For now, though, I could tip my head back and gaze up at the muted wash of stars in the early November sky. I spotted Polaris but could barely make out the rest of Ursa Minor because of Pittsburgh’s light pollution and regular pollution. After a long moment of slightly unsatisfying stargazing and missing the vast depth of the West Virginia night sky, I realized I was shivering. I hadn’t bothered to change out of my soccer shorts and newly customized assistant coach hoodie after practice.

When I stumbled into the apartment, a little winded from dashing up four flights of stairs with my soccer stuff, tote bag full of work to be graded, and overburdened backpack, Gary bounded to greet me, tail a brown-and-white blur, big paws sliding on the hardwood floor. I found my roommate and best friend, Ayanna, busy in the galley kitchen. Frantic jazz screamed from her laptop. The apartment smelled amazing, like ginger and onions with the sharp undercurrent of the mind-blowingly hot peppers she put in everything. As always, she looked lovely, dark skin glowing, makeup flawless, natural curls pushed back with a colorful headband. I came home every day looking like I’d been doused under my classroom’s emergency chemical shower and spun dry in the school’s industrial dryer.

My stomach pinched and growled, and I desperately hoped I had time to eat after showering and finding something to wear to this union-strike-planning-session-slash-dance-party.

“Hey, you.” Ayanna wiped her hands on her denim apron and hurried to turn down the music. “How was practice?”

I collapsed into a stool at the tiny breakfast bar and took a long sip of Ayanna’s lukewarm green tea. “It was great actually. The girls were pretty excited to have an assistant coach that actually, you know, knows how to play soccer. We just ran drills, but I think we have a few promising players.” I chewed my lip, wondering if I should say anything about the potential strike. Ayanna and I had gone through the same teaching master’s program, but now she taught French at an elite all-girls prep school. It wasn’t like she was part of the district. And she certainly wouldn’t tell anyone. Before I could start running my mouth, though, Ayanna slid a plate of rice and delicious-looking stew in front of me.

“Eat.” She pinned me with a long look. “If I know you, you worked through your lunch period and forgot to eat whatever bullshit salad you packed yourself.”

She was right. I attacked the food, immediately burning the roof of my mouth. It was worth it, though. If Ayanna weren’t straight and engaged to a wonderful man, I would propose to her myself. After growing up on pepperoni rolls and soup-based casseroles, I didn’t know people could even make food that tasted this good. “Thanks,” I said through a mouthful of perfectly seasoned vegetables. “What’s the occasion tonight?” Ayanna always cooked pepperpot when she was angry and trying to avoid the constant onslaught of parent emails.

“Just some assholes who still aren’t so sure I’m qualified to teach their precious angels. Worried I don’t speak ‘proper’ French. Bitch, I grew up speaking it! And it would be fine if they brought it up to me directly, you know? But they have to copy the damn head of school on this shit.” She shook her head and took a seat next to me with her own plate of food.

“I’m so sorry, Aya. That’s awful. Anything I can do?”

“Nah.” She speared a piece of chicken and chewed contemplatively. “So what’s new with your girlfriend?”

My heart jolted. I may have talked about Ruth a bit too much. Okay, way too much. “Not my girlfriend. My friend. Colleague. Anyway, actually it looks like we might be going on strike? I’m not really sure what’s going on yet, but people are rightfully pissed off, and we’re getting together to discuss.”

“Ooohh. Just the two of you? Hot. You can get all fired up and take that energy to the bedroom…”

I smacked Ayanna’s shoulder. “No, you perv. A few of Ruth’s teacher friends are apparently meeting at that Red Moon place at 7:30.”

Ayanna glanced at the stove clock, and I almost choked on my bite of rice when I saw the time. How was it already 6:45?

“No!” I scraped back my stool. “What do I wear? I have to shower. Crap!”

“Okay, go beautify yourself. I’ll find you something to wear.”

The Red Moon Cantina was both overwhelming and intimidating. The bar was packed wall-to-wall with people far cooler than I could ever hope to be. Tinny disco music and colorful lights bounced through the air, which smelled like stale smoke and layers of spilled beer. I’d never been big on nightclubs. Had never even been to one, in fact. In college, I’d been too focused on studying and soccer to go to many parties, then after graduating, I mostly hung out with my boyfriend Brody and his obnoxious Polo-wearing friends. Sometimes we went to bar trivia nights, but mostly it was backyard barbeques and extremely dull house parties. At least for the few months I’d dated Lisa during grad school, we went out and did things. Granted, she was so outdoorsy that dates usually meant weekend-long backpacking hikes through Ohiopyle or double-digit mileage runs. Still, I’d been devastated when she got a job in DC. I’d spent most of the summer missing her. Now, I was alone, with only my dog and Ayanna for company. Well, those two and endless stacks of mindless grading.

“You clean up nice.” Joey squeezed in next to me at the bar where I’d been standing and staring into space, instead of trying to flag down the heavily tattooed bartender.

I glanced down at the outfit Ayanna had selected for me and sighed with relief. Thankfully my best friend was an actual fashionable person who knew how to dress for nights like this. I’d been ready to settle for jeans and a sweater, but Aya had cocked an eyebrow and pulled a long-forgotten olive-green turtleneck dress out of my closet. I never wore it to school because it was so tight and short, but she insisted it would make my butt look great. Honestly, she was kind of right.

“Thanks,” I replied belatedly as I took in Joey’s gray sweats, Jordans, and navy T-shirt. Maybe I was overdressed? “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thank you, though. You’re so polite.” He grinned and the flashing lights reflected off his very white teeth. “Ruth’s babysitting my beer at the other bar. Come, join us. It’s way quieter back there, and the bartender isn’t too busy flirting with cute twinks to take an order.”

Joey was right. The back room, while tiny and crowded, was significantly quieter than the dance floor and main bar. The distant bass rhythm thudded through the walls, but most of the noise came from the small group of teachers clustered around two high-top tables pushed together. I spotted Ruth immediately, hunched over the table, scribbling furiously on a yellow legal pad. Most school days, Ruth wore almost the same thing: fitted pants and a workwear button-down. Seeing her in shredded black jeans, combat boots, and a white T-shirt revealing the tattoos spiraling up her arms…if my heart rate increased any more, I would likely be in tachycardia territory.

As though lifted by strong magnetic force, Ruth’s brown eyes, glistening in the low light, locked with mine. My body vibrated with awareness. Ruth capped her pen and cut through the crowd to greet Joey and me.

“Sorry I’m kind of late. Practice went over, then my roommate made us dinner.” And it took me eons to do my hair because I wanted to look nice for you.

“No need to apologize.” Ruth’s voice was a little hoarse. My throat constricted as Ruth’s gaze flicked over my body. She swallowed hard. Then hastily she gestured to the table where everyone was still loudly talking over each other. “Everyone was just pissing and moaning anyway. We haven’t gotten any planning done yet. Because someone”—she shot Joey a very teacher-ish look—“suggested we plan our fucking labor strike at a goddamn nightclub.”

After darting to the bar to get myself the cheapest, lightest beer on tap, I found my colleagues embroiled in a heated debate about the terms of our strike. Unsurprisingly the white male teachers present, a young hipster music teacher and the very philosophical civics teacher, were vocally concerned with money, insisting we ask for a 5 percent pay increase. Ruth and Gloria Nukulu argued we should settle for 3 percent and focus our demands on changing district policy to emphasize restorative justice, allow teachers greater control over their own curriculum, and increase services for low-income students. As our action plan took shape, Joey jotted down notes, looking more serious than I’d ever seen him. I stayed silent. I’d barely been in the district for three months, and my teaching experience was miniscule: a youth education internship with Planned Parenthood after college and five months of student teaching at a mostly white suburban high school. My opinion didn’t really matter.

“What do you think, Mia?” Ruth offered a small, encouraging smile.

“Oh, um. I mean, I agree with you and Gloria. But obviously I don’t have a lot to compare to, so…” I was hyperaware of everyone looking at me.

“Sure. But you’ve been a hell of a lot braver than most of us this year in terms of pushing back on the scripted curriculum, and I know that it hasn’t been pleasant for you. Do you feel like these demands do enough to protect teachers’ interests?”

I didn’t understand how Ruth did it. How she managed to set me at ease and boost my confidence with a handful of words. But I knew I wanted her to keep doing it. I knew I wanted to give that back to her in turn.

I cleared my throat. “Well, those packets are garbage, to be perfectly frank. The students aren’t grasping the content. And biology is actually fun!” Joey coughed something that sounded like no, it isn’t next to me but I forged ahead. “Biology was what got me into science. It was kind of my hook for STEM. It’s absurd that it’s being presented in this rote, soulless way. And I know we probably all feel that way about our individual subjects. Our students deserve to get that passion.” I realized I was nearly shouting. Ruth was grinning at me now. Instead of lowering my voice, I raised it just a little more. “We deserve to do our jobs.”

A few teachers whooped, and Joey slammed his notebook shut with an over-the-top dramatic flourish. “All right. Enough with planning the educational revolution. Let’s dance.”

Ruth rolled her eyes and tried to say something about putting together an official document for tomorrow morning, but she was drowned out by one very tipsy drama teacher calling for shots. Since I did not mix well with hard alcohol and planned to get to school extra early the next day, I retreated to the edge of the dance floor.

Mesmerized by the moving bodies and shifting lights, I nodded my head and nursed my beer. A few of my colleagues were surprisingly good dancers, moving with the rhythm in a way I could never hope to replicate. How I managed to control myself so effectively on the soccer field but moved like a broken marionette on the dance floor was a biological mystery.

A warm hand on my shoulder snapped me out of my mental deep-dive into the functions of the cerebellum.

Amusement twitched up the corners of Ruth’s full lips. She moved close enough that she didn’t need to shout. “What are you thinking so hard about?”

“Neurophysiology,” I said before I could stop myself. Really sexy talk for the dance floor there, Mia.

“Of course.” Ruth chuckled. “Well, I was going to ask if you wanted to dance. But if you’re too busy being a total nerd…”

“Oh, okay, says the woman with a Chaucer quote in her email signature.”

“Fair.” Ruth fiddled with her leather bracelet and looked down at the floor. “So, dancing though?”

Desire twisted sharp then swelled in my stomach. Ruth’s hands on me, our hips brushing, bodies close.

I nodded my head furiously and beamed. “Please.”

Chapter 5

Ruth

Mia moved like water. To the first few cheesy, synth-heavy songs, her motions were stilted, like a river breaking over rocks. She kept her distance and tossed her head back in self-conscious laughter. I didn’t want to push, get too close, or make her uncomfortable. But I couldn’t stop looking at the creamy expanse of her neck and the way her hair gleamed in the flashing rosy light. Then the music shifted and slowed. She stepped closer. Mia’s movements smoothed out, flowed with mine. Her shampoo and perfume, the familiar floral smell I’d grown to associate with morning chats in my office or walking out into the evening air, bloomed around me. Our eyes locked. My hands dropped to her hips as her breasts pressed against mine. The dance floor throbbed around us, the push-pull tide of bodies sealing us together. I could feel her heated skin through the thin fabric of her dress.

“Ruth.” Mia’s voice was barely audible.

Desire rushed through me as I bent closer to listen. All I wanted was to trace my lips along her cheeks, her throat, her lips. To find out for sure if her skin was as petal-soft as it looked.

“I really like you. A lot.” I felt her words as much as I heard them.

“I…I really like you too. A lot. Also.” Fuck. This was not the time to stumble over my words. Despite the undeniable charge that sparked between us in my office this afternoon, I wasn’t sure if Mia liked me in a romantic way. We were friends. Colleagues. And she potentially had a boyfriend, even if she never had actually mentioned him. But even if she was into me… What if things got complicated? What if I got her in trouble? Christensen already had an axe to grind where she was concerned. And he wasn’t a big fan of me either. I reminded myself it was completely okay for teachers to date. Hell, most of the single straight teachers at our school had dated or slept with each other at some point. I’d gotten stuck mediating some pretty awkward situations over the years, but no one had gotten fired. Maybe Mia wasn’t interested in dating? Shit. This was also not the time to let my mind slip down into the dark sea of what-ifs and pointless worries.  

Mia laughed, that same bright sound that pulled me to her when we first met. Her lips grazed my ear. “Did you know you furrow your eyebrows when you’re thinking really hard? I can always tell. It’s pretty hot, to be honest.”

“Um, yeah, my sister always makes fun of me about that. I mean, the eyebrow thing. Not being hot.” How someone paid to teach literature and writing was so bad at talking, I had absolutely no idea.

“I really want to kiss you. Would that be okay?” The amused edge had disappeared from Mia’s voice.

The word yes ignited on every inch of my skin and I nodded. Grabbing her hand, I tugged her into the crowded front bar, away from the eyes of our coworkers. As soon as we’d comfortably situated ourselves in a dark corner, Mia pushed herself closer and her lips brushed mine, soft and dry. A test kiss. I sifted my fingers into her silky hair and brought us deeper together. Mia gasped and her lips parted, her hands sliding up my arms, gripping them tight. She tasted like coconut lip balm and mint gum. The need to feel her skin was too much, and I moved my lips to her cheek, kissing softly, savoring.

“Ruth,” Mia breathed my name again. It had never sounded so perfect.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Damn, that sounded like a sleazy come-on. “I mean, like maybe we could grab something to eat.”

Mia pressed a fast kiss to my lips and took my hand, leading me out into the clear cold.

Even in the harsh diner light, Mia was beautiful. We talked for hours over slices of too-sweet apple pie and mugs of weak coffee. Mia told me about growing up in West Virginia. About her dad, a small town physician. About her mom’s successful interior design business and sky-high expectations. Her face lit up when she talked about soccer, then fell when she described the knee injury that ended her dream of playing competitively. We talked about politics, about pedagogy, about dogs, about food, about coming out. Mia did an actual spit take at my impression of my Ama’s nonchalant reaction to my tearful revelation at a big family dinner.

I took a large gulp of my lukewarm coffee. I wanted to ask Mia the question that had been rattling around in my mind for weeks. I thought back to the photo on her desk, Mia cuddled up to a jacked Abercrombie-model looking guy on some picturesque mountaintop. If he was her boyfriend, though, why would she kiss me? Although I’d only known Mia for a few months, I was reasonably certain she wasn’t the cheating type.

“Ruth?” Mia’s lips twitched with suppressed mirth.

“Oh sorry. What’s up?” Shit. How long had I been spacing out?

“You’re doing it again. The eyebrow thing. What’s going on in there?” She reached across the Formica table to brush her fingers over my forehead.

I sighed, cursing my overactive brain for potentially ruining a perfect night with a woman I’d been crushing on for months. “Okay. I want to ask you something. Sorry if it’s weird…I just…you know what…never mind.”

Mia rolled her eyes. “You apologize way too much. And you can ask me anything.”

The words tumbled out in a garbled rush. “Is that guy your boyfriend? The big dude in the picture with you? The one on your desk, I mean? Because I don’t want to—”

Mia cut me off, dissolving into a fit of laughter so loud a few diners cast amused glances in our direction. Relief flooded through me. Okay, probably not her boyfriend then.

“You are such a goose. That’s Bryce. My little brother. Do you really think I’d make out with you if I had a boyfriend? Besides, I’ve been trying to flirt with you all dang year. You’re terrible at picking up on my signals.”

I batted the air between us, trying to play it cool. But really, she couldn’t have eased my mind more if she’d tried. But then she did. Grinning, Mia reached across the table, covering my hands with hers.

She didn’t let go as we walked back to our cars. Her fingers twined with mine, warming me against the biting breeze blowing off the river. Clouds rolled in, obscuring the stars. Everything was shiny with dew. I glanced at my watch. I had to be up for school in five hours. But I didn’t want the night to end. When we got to Mia’s car, I shoved my hands in my pockets, the awkwardness slamming into me like a particularly chilly gust of wind.

Mia laughed and leaned in to kiss me again. She made this all seem so easy. And really, it was with her. Usually I struggled to initiate intimacy with new people, but with Mia, it was like coming back from a long trip and remembering how much you love being home.

“You’re so cute.” She kissed the tip of my nose.

“Yeah, yeah.” I wrapped her firm, compact body in my arms, wishing I never had to let her go. “And you’re gorgeous. But we’re both going to look and feel like shit tomorrow if we don’t get some sleep.”

With a final kiss that should have been fast but turned into a slightly indecent parking lot make-out session, Mia climbed into her car and waved through the window. Only when I watched the red glow of her taillights disappear into the dark, did I turn in the direction of home.

Over the next few days, I couldn’t get Mia off my mind. I wanted to text her about the NPR science segment I’d listened to on my drive in to school. My students talking about how her biology class was the only fun period of the day inflated me with pride for her. And every time I passed Mia in the hall, I wanted to push her up against the lockers and kiss her breathless.

I did not, however, have a spare moment for pining and workplace-inappropriate fantasies. Thanks to the excellent interpersonal skills and thoughtfully laid-out arguments provided by the building rep at the fine arts magnet school, it seemed the majority of teachers in the school district would be participating in the strike. We’d decided on a unified set of demands, a walkout date, and an action plan for the future. Unfortunately for me and my stress-induced migraines, the union did not condone our terms. After the recent walkouts in other states they wanted us to keep our heads down and play it safe. No fucking way. Ours would an unsanctioned wildcat strike action. Worse yet, I had somehow become the unofficial contact person for everyone’s questions and concerns, district-wide. I was running on coffee, adrenaline, and the gigantic stockpile of soups and dumplings my mom had stashed in my freezer last time she visited and cooked enough food to feed a family of ten.

My vision swam as I tried to find the thesis statement in yet another rambling Romeo and Juliet essay that completely ignored the prompt to discuss the role of identity in the play. To be fair to the students, the essay topics suggested by the curriculum were spectacularly awful. The headache frayed my nerves. I realized I had completely forgotten to take a single sip of water all day. Three sharp knocks on my classroom door reverberated through my brain, and I had to bite back a sharp what? as the door creaked open. But when I saw Mia’a shiny tumble of chestnut hair and the gigantic knitted scarf obscuring half her face, I grinned.

“I thought I saw your car in the parking lot.” Mia shook her head. “What are you still doing here?”

“Ugh, I’m so behind on grading. Christensen sent me a strongly worded email about my lag time on returning student work. So, yeah, I need to get these essays done.”

Mia scoffed. “You know we’re walking out tomorrow, right?”

Massaging my temples, I released the breath I’d been holding. I knew what I was doing. Grade A procrastination. The kind of stalling I lectured my students about every time I assigned a new essay. Pushing down gut-clawing fear of failure in favor of hyperfocusing on a simple, irrelevant task. One look at the dusted baseboards and freshly scrubbed bathtub at my house would reveal a similar truth. I was freaking out about the strike.

I flopped back in my desk chair and buried my face in my hands. “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?”

Cold, delicate fingers gently pried my hands away. I wanted to lean into Mia’s touch, let her soothe and hold me until everything felt normal again. When I opened my eyes, Mia squatted in front of my chair, face etched with concern. “Of course. You know we are. These policies are hurting the students. There’s no reason school has to be a miserable place to work or learn.”

Her words eased the hot knot of tension at the base of my neck. “I know. I keep feeling guilty, though. Who knows how long this will take. I don’t want to punish our students, you know?”

Mia nodded slowly, considering. “I don’t think they’re learning very much now, to be honest. So many kids are getting sent to in-school suspension that they’re missing huge chunks of content regardless.”

She was right. Unfortunately, admitting it made the fact that we were striking tomorrow very, terrifyingly real.

“What are you doing tonight?” Mia asked, a slight playful smile on her lips.

I ticked items off on my fingers. “Making signs, finalizing the game plan with the other schools, emails, grading, ideally sleeping…”

“Okay, I’m going to go home and get my poster stuff and a few other things. Then I’m coming to your place, and we’ll work on this together. Sound good?” She clapped her hands twice, and I got a glimpse of Mia’s peppy, no-bullshit coach alter ego.

She brushed her fingers over my cheek and darted out of my classroom. As the sound of her boots clattering down the hall faded, I realized bright excitement had all but replaced my headache.

Chapter 6

Mia

Kicking my car door shut behind me, I struggled to control my straining dog and balance two pizza boxes on my coat-covered forearm. The street was dark and quiet, lined with neat brick rowhomes. Window boxes filled with chrysanthemums, ornamental kale, and tiny pumpkins adorned most of the facades. The air smelled like woodsmoke and the silty cool river. It reminded me of home.

When Ruth had texted me her address, I simply plugged it into my GPS, noted she lived close to both the river and one of my favorite breweries, and followed the robot voice to my destination. Now, as Ruth stood in a pool of golden porch light, Frida waggling beside her, I worked to hide my surprise. I knew Ruth was older and probably had an actual home, unlike the Ikea-decorated apartment I shared with Ayanna. I just didn’t know it would look so…classy. The front door was huge and painted a bright shade of blue. On the wide brick stoop, Ruth had arranged a variety of colorful gourds and fall flowers in terra cotta pots. Gary strained toward Frida, whining, and Ruth hurried down the steps to help me with my bags.

“Wow, you really are queer, huh? Second date and you’re already moving in.” Ruth kissed my temple and ushered me inside.

“Shut up. I brought you dinner.” I plunked down my shoulder bag and glanced around. The place was even lovelier inside. High ceilings, open floor plan, exposed brick walls, the kind of wide hardwood floors that always reminded me of my Memaw’s house. And Ruth’s décor, unlike her wardrobe of neutrals, was surprisingly colorful. Bright rugs on the floors and big modern paintings on the walls. And books everywhere: piled on the coffee table, neatly organized on white shelves in the living room, scattered across the kitchen table. “Actually”—I turned to Ruth who was petting both dogs at once—“I am moving in. This place is gorgeous.”

A dusky blush colored Ruth’s defined cheekbones. “Thanks. My parents bought the place in the eighties. They sold it to me a couple years ago when they retired and moved to fucking Hawaii. My brother lives in Philly and my sister moved into one of those awful bougie apartment complexes in South Side.” She laughed and her eyes crinkled up at the corners so adorably that I couldn’t help but lean forward and brush a kiss over her lips.

I followed Ruth into the cozy kitchen. Family photos, cards from students, and scrawled to-do lists dotted the fridge. Steam poured from a kettle on the stove, and Ruth hurried to switch off the flame.

“Thanks for letting me bring Gary.” Frida had decided the commotion wasn’t worth her time and curled up in front of the fireplace. Gary, confused that he wasn’t the center of attention, was play-bowing in front of her and wagging his tail so hard he was sure to break something.

“Of course.” Ruth lifted the lid of one of the pizza boxes. “Thank you for bringing pizza. Antonio’s is my favorite. Sorry to see it’s french fry-free, though.” She chuckled.

Ruth had changed out of her work clothes into a navy Henley and a pair of light gray jeans. I laughed to myself. She totally seemed like the kind of person to relax around the house in jeans. If I had to guess, she probably didn’t even own a pair of sweatpants. Her hair looked softer than usual, like maybe she hadn’t put any product in it, and the glossy dark strands fell into her eyes as she bent to push aside a pile of poster boards and a stack of books on the table. She was barefoot, her toenails painted a bright sparkly blue. Seeing Ruth at home, relaxed, flooded me with tenderness for her. I slid my arms around her from behind, hugging her tight and rubbing my cheek over the short, soft hair at the nape of her neck.

“Hey,” Ruth said through a laugh. She turned and wrapped me into another perfectly tight hug. We stood together, entwined, for a long moment. Heat pulsed between us, grew with every heartbeat. A need to kiss Ruth, to feel her skin on mine, to do something with the tingling between my legs built in me slowly until I couldn’t contain it any longer.

“Can I kiss you again? Please?” The words came out needier than I’d hoped.

“Of course. Anytime.” Ruth sifted her fingers through my hair.

I nodded, feeling thick and sluggish with arousal.

We kissed frantically, breath mingling, hands sliding over each other’s bodies. Ruth was surprisingly strong, easily lifting me onto the kitchen table. I squeezed her torso with my thighs and giggled against her lips.

“Quite the slick move there, Ms. Chan.”

“Cut it out and let me be sexy.” Ruth bit my neck gently and any desire to banter evaporated. A delicious ache pulsed through me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been this turned on from nothing more than making out. Cupping Ruth’s face, I brought her mouth back to mine and kissed her roughly, tongue and teeth and moaning. Liquid heat pooled in my core, and I shifted closer to her, wanting friction.

Then something cold and wet brushed the exposed strip of skin between my sock and jeans. My eyes shot open. Gary nosed at my ankle again, tail whirling. Ruth pulled away, pressed another swift kiss to the corner of my mouth, and tugged me down off the table.

“Gary…” I groaned. “Go lay down.”

My dog tilted his head and nuzzled against my dangling hand. Even if he had just intruded on one of the hottest moments of my life, I gave him a quick scratch behind the ears.

“We can go to my room if you want.” Gone was the confident, lift-me-onto-the-table-and-drive-me-wild-with-desire Ruth. She tousled her hair and offered me a shy smile. “No expectations or anything. It might be a little more comfortable.” She glanced down at my dopey excuse for a dog. “And private.”

“Yes, please.” I laced our fingers together. “And if you’re into it, I would really love to fuck you.”

It was satisfying to see Ruth’s defined jaw actually drop. I was getting the sense she liked when I was forward. When I took charge. “Mia!” She gasped. “What have you done with my prim and proper friend?”

“Girlfriend?” I asked, immediately mortified at voicing the thought aloud as I followed Ruth up the stairs to her room.

She turned, glancing down at me, eyes soft. My embarrassment ebbed away as quickly as it rushed in. Of course we were on the same page. “You’re goddamn perfect, you know that?” 

As much as I wanted to investigate the giant tower of books on Ruth’s nightstand and take a moment to appreciate how put together her bedroom was, I was too focused on getting us both naked. The slight awkwardness of tugging Ruth’s Henley over her head while I straddled her narrow hips was well worth it. The sight of her toned muscle, golden skin, and gray-and-navy patterned sports bra alone made my heart race like I’d just run ten laps around the soccer field. As I pulled my own sweater off, I was grateful I’d had the foresight to match my white lace bralette with the one pair of sheer white panties I’d found in my underwear drawer. Ruth swallowed audibly as I shed my jeans.

Draping myself on her, I delighted in the brush of soft skin against mine. Grinding against Ruth like this, I knew I could make myself come fast if I wanted to. I was already teetering on the edge, my whole body full-up with round, buzzing pleasure. Every inch of Ruth was warm and smooth, and I wanted it all. I kissed down her neck to her shoulders, pausing at the elastic band of her bra.

“Can I take this off?” I breathed, glancing up at Ruth’s face. Her eyes were closed, head thrown back.

“Yes. Fuck. Yes.”

Her breath came fast as I licked my way down her neck to her breasts, dragging the flat of my tongue over her small, dark nipple. She gasped and arched. I licked and sucked until we were both lost in each other’s soft moans and cries for more. Absently I wondered if I could bring her over the edge this way, watch her let go. But the need to taste her, to slide my fingers into her, pushed me back onto my heels, kneeling on the bed.

Ruth’s moan shifted into a hitched breath, and her eyes fluttered open. “Everything okay?” Her voice was raw, low. It made me want her even more.

I nodded and grinned as I slid my fingertips down her flat stomach to the waistband of her briefs. Ruth’s eyes followed my every movement, then drifted closed as she sank back down into the pillow. “Good?” I asked, touching her gently through the thin damp fabric of her underwear. She nodded and bucked into my touch, lifting her hips off the bed so I could push her underwear down.

I moved my fingers lower, through her soft pubic hair, and slid over her clit and into warm wetness. She tightened around me and a soft groan rumbled through her. I eased myself down next to her, clumsily trying to get the angle right as I slid in and out, spreading her wetness, relishing in the slick heat. Pressing my thighs together, I could feel how wet I was too, how desperate for the slightest touch. But I needed to feel Ruth come, make her writhe and cry out and fall apart.

“Mia,” Ruth sighed and rolled her hips.

“Yeah?” I bent to kiss her, rubbing over her clit at the same time.

“Please. I want…” She gasped as I rubbed her in tight circles.

“What?” Another kiss, this one lingering and hungry. “You want me inside you again? My mouth?”

“Yes. That. Both.” Her whole body was taut, coiled with pleasure, and I knew she was close.

I moved down Ruth’s body, kissing and nipping all the way. When my tongue found her clit, Ruth arched against me and fisted her hands into the soft linen comforter. I licked into her avidly, moaning as she tightened and writhed on the bed. The first time I’d gone down on a girl, a fumbling post-game party hookup, I’d realized it was without a doubt my favorite sex act. The feeling of control, of giving such intense pleasure…it was like nothing I’d ever experienced. Now, Ruth’s steady murmurs of oh my god yes and the sweet tang of her desire made my whole body clench.

I slid a finger back into her heat. She cried out. When I added another, sucking gently on her clit at the same time, she clenched hard around me, muscles pulsing as a rush of liquid heat surged around my fingers. I could feel her shaking as she came down from her orgasm.  

“Holy shit,” Ruth panted. She sat up, leaning forward to kiss me. “You’re really good at that.”

I grinned against her lips. “Want me to do it again?”

“Well, yes.” Ruth reached around my back, deftly unclasping my bra. The cool air of her bedroom brought my already hard nipples to full attention. Then Ruth’s hands were on me, palming my breasts and electric heat flashed through my body. “But first I’d really like to return the favor.”

Ruth looked up from stenciling bubble letters reading Negotiation Not Dictation! onto a poster board, her face largely obscured by a thick layer of clay face mask. After a veritable sex marathon, we’d crept downstairs to refuel with cold pizza and the weird dairy-free chocolate ice cream Ruth kept in her freezer. When the post-orgasm haze dissipated, we realized we’d ignored all of our pre-protest duties. So now it was almost midnight, and we were flying through the checklist Ruth had scrawled on a sheet of notebook paper. Our water bottles were filled, snacks packed, emails answered. All we had to do was stop getting distracted every time we touched and focus on designing catchy protest signs. The face masks helped keep us on track. It was pretty hard to make out while your face was coated in green mud.

“Do you think this should say ‘Educators for Justice’ or ‘Teachers for Equitable Schools’?” I contemplated the neon-green piece of cardboard.

“Let’s do one of each and call it a night.” Ruth yawned. She was clearly relaxed, the tension compressing her shoulders this afternoon all but gone. “You can stay over if you want. I’m assuming a change of clothes was in the arsenal of bags you brought over here.” She had scrubbed off the mask, her skin looking even more luminous than usual. Even if she had been running on less than five hours of sleep a night, she still looked perfect to me.

“Ha-ha. It was poster stuff.” I was glad I still had my face mask on to hide the blush burning on my cheeks. “But I, um, did bring clothes for tomorrow. Just in case.”

Chapter 7

Ruth

I awoke in the silent dark. The hazy golden wash of the streetlight spilled through the gap in my curtains. Next to me, Mia shifted in her sleep. I wanted to kiss her hair, to trace my fingertips over the fine lines of her delicate jaw. The braid she’d pulled her hair into before we’d gone to bed was mostly loose, thanks to one final round of sex before we both succumbed to exhaustion. She was softer in her sleep, the usual fire shimmering under her skin lowered to a gentle glow. I rubbed my hand over my face. Clearly I was sleep-deprived, coming up with the kind of metaphors I might suggest my students axe from their own writing.

I was exhausted. Coffee was in order. Coffee and a cold shower. I pushed down the covers, ready to retreat to the kitchen in an attempt to stop being such a sap, when Mia stirred again next to me. Her eyes fluttered open as she inhaled deeply through her nose.

“Hi.” Her voice was sleep-rough, and any thoughts of leaving bed promptly vanished. “Crap. What time is it? Did we forget the alarm?” Mia sat bolt upright and scrambled for her phone.

“No. Go back to sleep if you want. It’s not even five yet. I just happened to wake up.” Because I’m panicking about the strike and worried that you aren’t as gone over this relationship as I am.

Mia wrapped her arms around me and tapped her forehead against my shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s going to work out. The strike. And this.” She pressed a feather-soft kiss to my neck.

A tiny shiver fizzed up her body as I slipped my hand under her T-shirt. Her skin was butter soft. Mia’s murmured encouragement was cut short, however, by Gary’s huge paws landing on the edge of my bed. He huffed at us then hopped down, waiting by the door with a distinct air of impatience. Conversely, Frida was still sprawled on her back in the dog bed, legs twitching in the air.

“All right, you monster. Let’s wake up Princess Frida and go for a walk.” Mia swung her legs over the side of the bed.

By the time Mia returned, apple-cheeked and windblown from walking the dogs, I had made coffee I was too nauseated to touch, showered in a daze, and begun to fret over the prepared statements I’d composed for angry parents and administrators. I kept refreshing both my school and personal email accounts, sure I was about to receive an enraged message from either Christensen or the superintendent. There was no way this was going to work. I was going to get fired.

“Should we head out?” Mia was bundled up in her forest-green peacoat, giant leather bag slung over her shoulder. “I can bring the signs in my car.”

I glanced at the electric-green numbers on my stove clock. Shit. How was it already six thirty? Feeling like I might start hyperventilating if I uttered a single word, I nodded and shrugged on my coat.

It was still dark when we got to school, the sky a deep indigo. Immediately I spotted a cluster of teachers on the front stairs, armed with signs, folding chairs, and thermoses. Gloria and Joey, huddled together and talking seriously, waved as Mia and I approached. My body felt surreal and hollow. I was here but I wasn’t going to teach. This whole thing might blow up in our faces, might make things worse for our students.

“Hey.” Mia touched her gloved finger to my bare knuckles, brushing over them lightly. The cord of panic squeezing my body loosened a bit. “This is going to be great. We’re doing the right thing. I promise.” She sounded so sure.

“How do you know?” I was the veteran teacher. The union representative. The one everyone thought was supposed to have all the answers. Why, then, was Mia the one with all the faith in our cause?

Mia shrugged and winked at me. “It’s my theory and I’m sticking to it. Now let’s do this, Ms. Chan.”

I glanced at my watch. It was almost the end of second period. I should have been leading the inquiry discussion on symbolism in Romeo and Juliet. Okay, actually I should have been milling around the room, hoping students worked on their mindless seat work. Instead, I was standing in the school courtyard with twenty-three other teachers, hoping the biting wind wouldn’t tear my poster in half. So far, the strike had been anticlimactic. It seemed Christensen was determined to ignore us, as if he didn’t acknowledge our concerns, they might simply disappear. A few kids had asked us what we were doing as they filtered into the building. So far, the biggest event had been a testy phone call from the head of our union.

Faintly, from inside the building, I heard the bell. I wondered what my kids had done for the last forty minutes. Who had stepped in? Did they even notice more than half the teachers were absent?

“Holy shit,” Joey said next to me, his voice bubbling with laughter.

Tearing my eyes away from the pile of dry leaves I’d been staring at, I followed his gaze. Students were pouring out of the front doors, many of them holding signs and chanting. Next to me, Mia whooped and waved at a group of three kids brandishing pieces of notebook paper scrawled with Ms. Davis Rules! and Let our teachers teach!

I grinned. One of the students was none other than Matt Johnson, his eyes glowing with mischief and mirth. In addition to the throng of teenagers, a few more teachers had slipped out of the building, joining the cause. Better late than never.

“You might get in trouble for this,” I told Matt, unable to stifle my chuckle. It was great that so many teachers across the district were participating. But knowing the students were on our side, that we were all in this together, banished my last shred of doubt.

“Whatever. You all might too. Who cares? I’ve been suspended like half the year. This is bullshit, and we all know it.”

“Language, young man,” Gloria admonished Matt. He rolled his eyes, but his posture straightened considerably.

The student walkout got Christensen’s attention. True to form, he refused to speak to us directly, sending out Vice Principal Perez in his stead. Unfortunately for our fearful leader, Perez decided we were in the right and picked up one of the extra solidarity signs. The walkout also garnered the attention the local media. Apparently a student had Tweeted footage of the walkout to WPGH. It didn’t take long for news vans to line the curb in front of the school. Reporters wove through the crowd, firing off questions and narrating in dramatic tones.

Joey stood in front of the brass doors, hamming it up for the camera as he explained our unified list of demands. Mia was talking to a local NPR reporter, her voice confident and clear. I raised my sign high in the air. We were doing the right thing. Change was going to come.

And it did. By the time my fingers were cold-numb and I’d drained the last sip of coffee from my thermos, the union officially sanctioned our strike. More than 80 percent of teachers across the city had walked out. The last thing the district wanted, apparently, was an extended strike drawing national attention. A number of parents stood behind us too, concerned about racial equity and the overall decline in attendance district-wide. Christensen never showed his face. But that was okay. The school board sent an email inviting each school to nominate a teacher to come in for a two-day roundtable discussion.

It was swiftly decided that said representative would be me, as long as I pushed hard for Christensen’s resignation. I envisioned his stupid blond head ducked in disgrace, the sound of his fake-deep voice yelling at students in the halls fading away forever. I could certainly do that.

Finally, as the light turned golden and the shadows lengthened, the students began to filter off campus in higher spirits than I’d seen most of them in months. The same contagious hope had infused the faculty too. There were high-fives and fist bumps all around. Joey hip checked me, then glanced down at my hand. My face heated. My fingers had been interlaced with Mia’s for god knew how long. So much for being discreet.

“I knew it!” Joey punched the air. “Well, drinks and dancing on me next week. We have to celebrate getting our school back. And Ruth finally meeting someone good enough for her.”

I turned to Mia. The setting sun turned her hair to molten gold. She beamed at me and the sound of her bright laugh flowed through the cold air. I wanted to kiss her but settled for brushing my fingers over her cheek. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

She glanced around quickly before tapping a kiss to the tip of my nose. “You could have. But I’m glad we did it together.”

Madwomen in the Attic Featured Writer

This month I am the featured writer for Madwomen in the Attic, a grassroots feminist mental health and madness literacy and advocacy organization that aims to provide support for women and queer-identified or non-binary people who have been affected or harmed by the mental health industry or the stigma attached to mental illness.

Check out my poetry and thoughts on writing and mental health here.

Author Interview

Want to read my thoughts on romance, the politics of desire, and to learn about A Little Rebellion in Rogue Ever After? Check out my interview with author M.D. Neu here!

Pride Book Reviews: She of the Mountains by Vivek Shraya

I don’t quite know how to write a post about She of the Mountains. Really, I think I might like this book too much and be too emotional about it to write a good review! So apologies in advance for being extra rambly…

She of the Mountains is the best book I read this year. It might be one of the best books I’ve ever read. This book made me cry three times on the green line T and I never cry in public. When I finished reading it I started again immediately. It might live on my nightstand forever. Reading this book was difficult but felt like an act of self care.

To be fair, I do really love poetic novels. One of my other all-time favorites is The Autobiography of Red by Anne Carson. Both Carson and Shraya’s novels weave together myth, sexuality, and self in a way that feels (to me) almost perfect. Both deliver concrete, fresh imagery and mesmerizing lyrical prose.

She of the Mountains comprises two stories: the Hindu myth of Parvati (the goddess of love and fertility) and Shiv (the god of destruction), and a contemporary coming of age love story. The unnamed protagonist, a queer Indian boy living in Canada, is taunted at school and made to feel uncomfortable with his sexuality and body. As he works to fit himself into a narrowly defined mold of what it means to be gay and perform the identity that his classmates and his city’s small gay community have assigned to him, he falls deeply in love with a woman. The rest of the novel charts their love and the complexities of sharing a queer life.

Shraya discusses race, gender, queer gatekeeping, sexuality, and how messy and hard it can be to exist in our own bodies with stunning truth and complexity. The intimate, precise way Shraya writes about love made me feel like I knew and loved both of the characters in the contemporary love story. And the mythological love between Parvati, Shiv, and their son Ganesha was equally powerful. Honestly, reading this book reminded me of a little bit of the first time I read Hunger by Roxane Gay. I had that same sense of damn, how did they do that and wow, this is really honest writing.

She of the Mountains is heartbreaking and beautiful and a pleasure to read. Also, the book’s design and illustrations by Raymond Biesinger are gorgeous. This will be the book I buy for friends because I want everyone to read it but I will never want to part with my own copy. 

Read this book—I don’t think you’ll regret it.

Pride Book Reviews: Treasure by Rebekah Weatherspoon

Hi friends! In honor of Pride and because I have three weeks off before my summer job starts, I thought it might be fun to blog about some of the LGBTQ+ books I’m reading. These posts will be more rambling thoughts than legit reviews because I don’t really have any consistent evaluative criteria and I really only want to talk about books I love!

So, first up…Treasure by Rebekah Weatherspoon.

Treasure is a sweet, contemporary lesbian romance about Alexis, an anxious and adorable soft-butch from a well-to-do black family, and Trisha, a warm and pulled-together stripper working on her undergrad degree. The two women meet and share a sexy moment when Alexis comes to Trisha’s club for a bachelorette party. Alexis is surprised and delighted to reconnect with the beautiful stripper when she discovers they are in the same computer science class.

I absolutely adored this book. Like, ignored folding my laundry and doing all my Sunday chores because I couldn’t stop reading, loved it. Rebekah Weatherspoon is a new-to-me author, but once my bank account recovers from my recent book-buying spree, I plan to read much more from her.

The characters in this novella were so concrete and relatable from the start. I loved Trisha and Alexis so much. I related to Alexis in particular, her anxiety, self-doubt, and difficulty navigating her gender presentation. I loved the subtle way Weatherspoon highlighted the tension between Alexis’s family expectations and her own way of being in the world. Sometimes Alexis dresses femme and preppy, other times she’s all T-shirts and denim. One section about Alexis’s difficulty getting dressed was so relatable for me that reading it felt like a gut-punch (in the best way.) Alexis looks at the clothes in her closet, dresses her mother bought and the menswear she knows her father will scoff at, and wonders, “how do you get people to see that some days you just don’t feel right in your own skin?” I read the paragraph about four times over with my breath held because it felt like Alexis’s thoughts had been plucked from my own brain.  

And Trisha! She was one of those characters you read and wish you could become real-life friends with. She’s smart and kind and funny. She’s gentle and supportive around Alexis’s mental health issues and never pushes. Trisha is just…real. And I loved seeing a complex, totally positive representation of a sex worker in a romance novel. There’s no drama over her work as Treasure, a stripper at an all-nude club. She loves working as a stripper and she does great in her computer science classes. (Sidenote: I enjoyed the dynamic between the women and their computer science professor. He’s supportive of them in a way that made me smile when I read it.) Trisha has dreams for her future career but isn’t trying to “escape” the club. Her relationship with her mother is complicated but positive. I could probably write far too many words about how much I adored these two characters!

The relationship between Trisha and Alexis is complex and progresses in such an authentic way. The women really seem to bring out the best in each other. I especially loved their text exchanges throughout the book because they did a lot of work to develop their relationship and they were cute as hell. The sex scenes were hot and realistic and I loved seeing the women explore and discuss what they want and like together.

Honestly, I liked this book so much I was kind of bummed when it ended. Weatherspoon did so much in a fairly short novella. The ending was satisfying and the character arcs were well-done. But, selfishly, I wanted more!

I highly recommend this book to anyone looking for adorably real characters, positive sex-work rep, and a really immersive and enjoyable reading experience.