feminism. They always respond more strongly when they know there’s student interest and enthusiasm for a proposed course.”
He’s right. He’s reasonable and he’s right. Lulu knows this. She’s the one yelling at him in his classroom. It’s just—it’s so—it’s so frustrating! It’s so frustrating. To have to be thankful that she is being included, that she is being listened to, that she’s being encouraged. To be grateful that someone cares enough to give women a week. To have to be the one who speaks up, who takes time, who goes to a dean’s office and lobbies about her feelings. Boys never have to do that.
But then, boys don’t have to do so many things.
Lulu steals a glance at Kiley, but Kiley isn’t looking at her. Probably she’s thinking: White girls don’t have to do so many things.
She’s not wrong.
“Lulu’s taken a renewed interest in women’s issues,” Doug says, and his voice is just loud enough that everyone can certainly hear him, but not so loud that it sounds like he’s making a point of it or anything.
“And I applaud that,” Mr. Winters says.
Lulu knows he didn’t have to take that at face value, to pretend that Doug wasn’t implying Lulu’s a lesbo now. He saw the pictures. He gets the joke.
But he decided to pretend he didn’t, because he’s woke, sure, Mr. Winters, and he’s patient, and probably he’s trying, but he’s still a man. Deep down inside, he’s still a boy, and his instinct is always to belong with them, to think their jokes are funny. To think their jokes are just jokes.
* * *
Lulu catches up with Kiley after class. “Thanks,” she says. “For having my back in there. Made me feel less crazy for speaking up.”
“You’re welcome. But it wasn’t about you,” Kiley says. “Sometimes things aren’t, you know.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
IF SHE’S GOING to be a full-time feminist crusader now, there’s someone she should be talking to, so that night Lulu calls Naomi. She can’t remember the last time she called anyone—much less her sister. For advice.
The world really has been turned upside down.
She doesn’t know how to start telling the story, though. Instead, she says, “Naomi, you’ve read the book I got Cass for Christmas, right?”
“Yeah, a couple of years ago,” Naomi says. “When I thought I might be a lit major freshman year, I took a course on fairy tales. Did she not like it or something?”
“No,” Lulu says. “She liked it.”
“What about it, then? Just curious?”
“Cass said something about it. About how many stories we tell about women getting murdered.”
“Oh, yeah, the SVU thing.”
“Law & Order?”
“A whole television show about violence against women. And you know, those serial killer podcasts and stuff? People are obsessed with hearing about ways women die.”
“Yeah.”
“You okay, Lulu?”
“Something happened. No one died. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay.” There’s a pause. Then Naomi asks, “You want me to talk to you instead?”
“Sure.”
So Naomi does. She tells Lulu about her classes, and how she thinks maybe a grad student in one of her upper-level seminars is flirting with her. She tells Lulu about how the other night she and her friends went out to a bar and played pool. She tells Lulu a bunch of sort of funny, sort of boring stories, until Lulu’s lulled her brain into quiet, until, when there’s a pause in the conversation, Lulu says, “The thing is that it turned out that Ryan was spying on us.”
“I’m sorry,” Naomi says. “But what? And who? And what the fuck?”
Lulu tells her the whole story.
After she’s explained, Naomi says, “I’m so sorry, Lu.”
“What are you sorry for? You didn’t do it.”
“Of course I didn’t do it. I just didn’t want anything like this to happen to you.”
“Well, yeah. But it did.”
“Have you talked to someone? A guidance counselor or anyone?”
“No.”
“Oh Lu. I wish you would.”
“Well, I don’t want to.”
Naomi sighs. There’s a long silence. “I don’t want to tell you what to do,” she says. “I know that usually doesn’t work. But I just—I don’t want this to be your secret either. I don’t want you to live with this alone.”
“I don’t, though,” Lulu says. “You know. That’s why I called you. Bea knows. Cass—”
Cass knows. Even if they never speak again, they’ll have this between them. They’re the only people who know this specific betrayal, inside and out.
“Still,” Naomi says. “It’s different. But it’s up to you. As long as you know it’s an option.” And then, “God, no wonder Cass has been thinking about Bluebeard.”
“We