“I didn’t realize there’d be so many people,” I tell Carrie in a hushed voice.
“Great, isn’t it? And the Oxford Student is coming out this afternoon with a big article too.” She’s beaming. “I talked to one of their reporters earlier in the week, and he seemed really interested in the issues. Maybe that will help sway them.”
“Uh-huh,” I murmur, running through my notes again. It’s only a tiny part of our presentation, but I don’t want to be the one to screw up, not when so much is riding on this. I may be flying back to my private health insurance in a couple of weeks, but I still remember Holly weeping in that bathroom stall and what could have happened if the center hadn’t been there.
“Oh, here we go.” Carrie falls silent as that stern woman from the hallway takes her seat with the others at the long table and bangs her gavel. As she runs through a welcome and agenda, I take a quick glance at the panel who’ll be deciding our fates. It doesn’t look good. The guys are old, white, and serious, with that kind of pink-cheeked paunch that comes from drinking too much port. Out of the eight of them, only three are women, and they’re the pinched librarian kinds who are wearing baggy cardigans and seem to have an average age of, like, sixty. I can’t imagine the last time they ever needed contraception.
We’re so doomed.
“Ready for battle?” Professor Elliot leans over from the seat behind me. I turn, surprised to see her — and a bunch of Raleigh kids packing the room. Holly gives me a thumbs-up sign, and I think I see Will sitting in a place by the back.
Now I’m really nervous.
“Absolutely!” Carrie answers. And then Stern Librarian Lady No. 1 must have said something, because Uma and Louise get up and I have no choice but to follow them all to the front of the room.
“Thank you for giving us the opportunity to talk to you today.” With a respectful nod at the board, Carrie begins. “We feel that an issue as vital as women’s service provision must be debated in more detail before any cuts in funding are made. . . .”
As she launches into her opening remarks, I force myself to look up from the floor. Bad idea. There are only about fifty people in the room, max, but it seems way more when they’re all staring in my direction. Right now I’m kind of hidden behind a group that has great distracting props like charts and PowerPoint presentations, but soon they’ll all be looking at me.
Just me.
I kind of blank out the next part of the meeting, trying not to panic, until I snap back into the room and find that Uma and Louise have said their parts. They’ve read the personal testimonies, shown the running cost breakdowns, and thrown a bunch of statistics about emergency contraception and sexual assault at them. That means there’s only me left.
“. . . so next, we’ll hear an international perspective. Natasha?” Carrie gently pushes me to the front.
I take a deep breath and ignore the crowd. “Oxford has a reputation as being a world-class college,” I begin, trying not to let my notes shake in my hand. “But it’s also seen as being stuck in the past. By ignoring women’s rights and health issues in this way, the university risks appearing archaic and” — I hear a rustle and then a low whisper from the audience — “alienating a more diverse student intake.”
There’s another sound from the crowd, almost like laughter. I keep talking, but carefully reach down and make a slow sweep of the front of my body, making sure my shirt is buttoned and the skirt hasn’t bunched up around my thighs. I saw the original Parent Trap once, and I swear, ever since I’ve been terrified of standing up and finding the back of my dress missing.
Nope, everything’s where it should be.
“So the women’s center is more than a health issue.” I can feel myself speeding up, rushing to be done. The whispers have turned into low murmurs, spreading across the room. I turn to Carrie, but she just shrugs and motions for me to keep talking. I swallow. “It could also be seen as a PR issue too, making sure Oxford can be associated with modern, forward-thinking campuses around the world.”
“Can we have some order?” one of the board members interrupts. There’s an outbreak of giggles, quickly covered with super-fake-sounding coughs. I don’t understand what’s happening, but the sooner I’m done, the sooner I can get the hell out of this room and away from these people. I finish the speech on autopilot, blushing and stumbling over my words as my mind races to figure it out. The way they’re whispering and laughing takes me right back to when the video broke, when I couldn’t even walk into a room without feeling people’s eyes on me, judging me and —
No.
Suddenly I can’t breathe. I force the final sentence out, scanning the room for some sign that I’m crazy, that I’m paranoid. Any sign at all. But then I spot two girls in the front row staring at me, wide-eyed with that lip-curling mean look that can only mean one thing: major gossip.
And then I know.
“What’s happening?” Carrie hisses at me. I shrug blankly.
One of the librarian ladies bangs the gavel again. “We’ll take a short break now. I hope that this disruption won’t be repeated when we resume.” She glares over her glasses.
“Come on.” Carrie drags me down the aisle and out into the hallway, the rest of the group following close behind.
“What the hell’s happening?” Mary exclaims, closing the door behind us.
“I don’t know.” DeeDee shakes her head. “It was all going so well, and then Natasha started her speech and . . .” She turns to grill me. “Do you know anything?”
I shrug. My insides are tangled in a terrible knot, squeezing everything so tightly I can’t breathe.
“Go find out what’s happening.” Uma sends Louise back into the room. I sink back slowly against the wall. It’s cold, but I’m already numb, so I guess it doesn’t matter. I guess nothing I do matters anymore.
“Now you’re really pale.” Carrie looks at me carefully. “Don’t worry, it’s not your fault — whatever’s going on. You did fine.”
We wait there, the fluorescent light strip flickering above us. To me, it’s like waiting for my execution. Melodramatic, I know, but it’s kind of true. Soon Natasha will be dead, and I’ll be Tasha again. Drunk, slutty Tasha who can’t keep her pants on. Maybe I was dumb to think I could get past her with nothing but a change of clothes and a few thousand miles, but I thought it had worked. I thought I was done with her.