“Is this what it’s going to be like?” I stand my ground. “Because we’ve only got a few weeks for filming, not forever.”
Scowling, Ryan turns away and begins to pack up.
“I’m sorry.” The words are out of my mouth before I take a chance to consider them, but when they linger between us, I know I’ve made the right decision. I can’t take another few weeks of this: we need to clear the air. I take another breath and continue. “About what happened with Morgan. I knew, well, I knew she wasn’t being completely honest with you. I understand if you hate me for that.”
Ryan doesn’t look at me for a minute, but I stand my ground and wait. At last, he stands up straight and meets my eyes. “It’s not your fault,” he says quietly. “I mean, it’s not like we’re friends.” His expression is tired, as if he doesn’t want the reminder of what’s happened. I can understand. I wanted to get away from Sebastian so much that I crossed the Atlantic.
“Yes, but . . .” I don’t want to say anything bad about Morgan, so I just shrug. “I would want to know. If it was me, I’d want to know everything.”
He nods slowly, the sun shining like a halo behind his closely cropped hair. Finally, a little tension seems to ease out of his posture. “OK.” He nods at the trolley we’ve loaded with equipment, and I realize that the moment is over. “Help me take everything back to the equipment room?”
I follow him, arms full, across the campus. It’s always full of people, but today was another hot, sunny day, so the girls are still out in force: sprawled in packs on the quads and benches in their tiny skirts and even the odd bikini, while boys pretend to play soccer and basketball nearby. I think of Oxford, the neat lawns adorned with KEEP OFF THE GRASS placards until well into summer so we have to scurry down the long, tiled pathways. I begin to smile.
“What’s up?” Ryan says, seeing my expression.
I shrug, embarrassed. “Nothing. It’s just . . . I never realized what a difference the weather could make.”
“Seriously? I thought you Brits were always going on about it.”
I laugh. “Yes, about the difference between rain and sleet, or drizzle. But here you’ve got all this sunshine . . . It just seems like people are actually happier, that’s all.”
Ryan shoots me a look as we enter the arts building. “Too much good weather is a dangerous thing. Stay in California and you’ll see what I mean — some people are so laid-back, it’s hard to get anything done.”
“You mean worse than your lot?” I tease.
“You have no idea.” He grins. “Hang on.” He fumbles with the keys to the equipment room. “Now, have you got everything?”
“All accounted for.” I brandish the list, ticked off and double-checked.
He shakes his head with a grin. “OK, so maybe you should go lie out in the sun some more.”
“Maybe I will,” I say, considering the possibility. After all, I can get my class reading done just as well on the front lawn as in a library.
“But don’t be late tomorrow,” he calls in my direction as I leave. “And don’t ever touch my camera again!”
15
When I arrive at the protest meeting on Thursday, there’s already a group of people chatting at the front of the room. Most of them are activist types, with dreadlocks or painfully unfashionable hempy clothes, but they all seem totally relaxed and friendly with each other. I sidle in and take a seat near the back, pulling out some reading so I don’t look awkward and alone.
“Hello, everyone.” Carrie arrives in ratty denim and some serious boots and calls for attention. So she’s the boss here; I should have guessed. I mean, she acts like the defender of all feminism in our classes — all she’s missing is the cape and mask. “Thanks for making it today; we’ve got a lot to talk about.”
People settle down, and I can see that aside from a couple of angel-faced boys in skinny jeans, the room is full of girls. Strident, political-looking girls who probably boycott lipstick and heels on principle. I send silent thanks that I picked the dullest, most functional outfit possible: a plain navy corduroy skirt (that actually covers my knees) and a crisp shirt and sweater.
“First of all, I’m Carrie, and this is Uma.” She points to the petite girl in an Amnesty pullover. “As you all know, the Oxford board has decided, in all their wisdom, to shut down the most vital resource we have: the women’s health center.” Carrie nods at her companion.
“This isn’t just about the center itself,” Uma continues, her voice lilting with a faint Indian accent. “But the fact that women’s services are the first thing to get cut: before sports funding, before entertainment budgets. Oxford is breaking its commitment to the welfare of its female students, and we can’t just stand idly by and let them.”
There’s a rumble of agreement, and even I see it’s pretty lame to cut our services before, like, the cable subscription.
“We want to put together a group to make women’s voices heard, any way we can.” Carrie folds her arms. “That means emails and letters, postering, handing out leaflets, and even demonstrating.”
A girl farther down my row waves her hand in the air, rattling with an armful of beads and bangles.
“Yes?”
“What about fund-raising?” she asks. “Wouldn’t it be a better use of time to actually raise the funds to keep the center open?”
Carrie exchanges a look with Uma. “It would, if we had time to raise half a million pounds.”
“Oh.” Her faces falls.
Carrie shrugs. “I’m not going to lie, people. This is a last resort. They slipped it in the last budget meeting and gave Judy and Sue only one month’s notice. We don’t have the time or resources to make up the shortfall ourselves, but you know what? We’re not going down without a fight.”
Another rumble.
“The board thinks they can just sweep this under the rug, like our welfare doesn’t matter. Well, not on my watch.” Carrie’s voice rings with determination. “We’re going to make our voices heard. We’re going to make a difference!”
“Yes!” It’s an easy crowd, but I’m impressed with the way she’s riling them up.
“So, let’s all split into groups and come up with some ideas. Ten minutes of brainstorming, people, then let’s share!”