Whistleblower ✓

19 | what a drag

After Thursday's disastrous confrontation with a suit-clad Bodie St. James and Monday's coffee ambush, I wasn't about to risk walking into Human Sexuality alone.

It took me a few tries to find a good bench on campus, since all the ones under trees were splattered with bird shit (and the ones not in the shade were scalding hot from the sun), but eventually I found a place to park myself for fifteen minutes while I waited for Andre to get out of his Typography class.

I texted to let him know where to find me—a narrow, hedge-lined walkway between two redbrick buildings near the architecture school—and that I'd be totally down to skip lecture and grab an early lunch at Pepito's.

We are NOT skipping, Andre replied.

Then he added, Be there soon just gotta fix this fucking kerning.

I propped my backpack beside me on the bench and groaned.

So Vaughn was claiming an alibi.

I'd known that he wouldn't go down without a fight. I could hardly blame him for it, since the evidence stacked against him was career-ending—from the lies about a "charity trip" that'd really been a vacation dedicated to binge-drinking, to the fact his quarterback had told us Vaughn had a history of booking hotel rooms under the name of the Godfather, to the five anonymous tips the Daily had received about potential instances of harassment and assault.

But if Vaughn was an innocent man, he'd have no reason to fear a thorough investigation into each pillar of our article.

Clearly some people didn't understand that. People like Adam Whittaker, for Fox News, who seemed so convinced Truman Vaughn was being attacked by female collegiate journalists that he'd sat outside the student union for who knows how long just to point his phone at my face and accuse me of being a liar.

I let out deep breath in a great whoosh and scrubbed my clammy palms against the front of my sundress. Then I went riffling through the emergency snack reserve at the bottom of my backpack, even though I knew food wouldn't ease the sudden ache in my gut.

This wasn't hunger. It was anxiety.

Sure enough, I took two bites of a Nature Valley bar before I felt nauseous.

I sighed and looked out across the pavement in front of me, towards the hedges boarding the other side of the walkway. The leaves rustled. A lone squirrel emerged, his tail twitching and his beady little eyes fixed on me.

I snapped off a tiny corner of my granola bar and chucked it at him.

And so, when Andre arrived a few moments later, it was to find me sitting cross-legged on a bench, dutifully distributing granola crumbs to a gang of four squirrels who were circling me like little, furry sharks on the hunt.

"This some Snow White bullshit," Andre said, arms folded over his chest.

"It's not funny!" I cried. "They won't leave me alone!"

"Because you fed them, dumbass."

"I have a big heart, okay? Can you just, like, scare them off or something?"

Andre rolled his eyes. One of the squirrels made like he was going to hop up next to me on the bench. I let out a squeal of terror. Andre finally came to my rescue and stomped his feet until the squirrels scattered.

"Thanks," I mumbled, swinging my legs back over the edge of the bench but eyeing the bushes warily.

Andre plucked the remaining half of my granola bar out of my hand and took an enormous bite of it.