Page 118 of The Jack*ss in Class

Catalina let out a derisive laugh. “Please. They’re glorified bodice-rippers.”

“Have you read them?” The question came not from Tempest, but from Ophelia, surprising everyone.

Catalina blinked. “Of course not.”

“Then how would you know what they are?” Ophelia challenged.

“We don’t need to eat garbage to know it’s garbage,” Rosalind snapped back on behalf of them both.

“Maybe you should read one before judging,” Freddie suggested, straightening from her casual lean. “They’re actually really good. The Shakespeare adaptations are super smart, and the hockey one made me cry. And you in particular, Cat, would identify with the heroine in book one. She’s exactly like you. But happier.”

The room went silent as everyone stared at Freddie.

“You’ve read them?” Tempest asked, looking genuinely shocked.

Freddie shrugged. “Yeah, all of them. I’m a huge Miranda Milan fan. I didn’t know it was you until yesterday when the campus news broke, and then I was like, oh my god, my sister is my favorite author. That’s so cool.”

“Imogen,” Dr. Navarro gasped. “You will not speak of this... embarrassment as if it’s something to celebrate.”

Who the fuck was Imogen?

“Mamá.” Freddie’s demeanor went from fun and casual to decidedly dark. “You will call me Freddie, or if youcannot, you may call me Fidele. But do not dead name me again.”

Professor Navarro took his wife’s hand. “You know better, Luz.”

“Fine. I am trying. But I don’t understand why you are supporting your sister’s frivolity. You’ve worked extremely hard and have Olympic prospects. This isn’t going to help.”

“That’s just dumb, Mamá,” Freddie challenged. “Tempest is amazing at what she does. Her books mean something to people.”

“They’re smut,” Rosalind interjected primly.

“They’re romance,” Ophelia corrected. “With some ridiculously hot sex scenes, yes. But they’re also about women who look like us finding love and happiness. Do you know how rare that is? To see a heroine with brown skin, who isn’t a size two, blonde, and bubbly?”

I felt Tempest inhale sharply beside me. I squeezed her hand, proud of the impact her work had clearly had, even on her own sisters without her knowing.

“I expect this kind of defense from Fidele,” their mother said dismissively. “She’s always been... rebellious. But Tempest, you were raised to aspire to more. I cannot understand how you could squander your education, your potential, on such frivolous content.”

“It’s not frivolous,” Tempest said, her voice strengthening. “Romance is the top-selling genre in publishing. It’s mostly for women, by women, about women. The stories are feminist, they battle against patriarchy, and misogyny. They help women feel seenand valued.”

“And they’re making her rich,” Abuela added with a not-so-subtle wink. “Very, very rich.”

It wasn’t like I was a millionaire or something. But it was enough to make writing a full-time career after college.

Dr. Navarro’s lips thinned. “At least that’s something. I don’t want any of my daughters to have to worry about that. Money isn’t everything. Don’t you want to be respectable?”

“It’s honest work that brings joy to others,” Abuela countered.

“Joy?” Dr. Navarro stood, her posture rigid with anger. “Is that what we’re calling it now? These books are nothing more than female wish fulfillment and sexual fantasy.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Tempest challenged, rising to face her mother. “What’s wrong with women having fantasies? With seeing themselves as desirable? With imagining a world where they get to be the heroine? Seeing themselves being with partners who treat them with respect, kindness, and honestly, the way Papá treats you.”

The room fell silent. Even Dr. Navarro seemed taken aback by Tempest’s fiery defense, and at the same time, showing how her parents have the love story many others were looking for.

I was fucking loving getting to watch Tempest standing tall, her face flushed with emotion but her voice steady. This was a side of her I’d glimpsed only in moments, like when she negotiated with her agent on the phone. Seeing her in full force now, defending her workand her passion, made my heart go all wobbly and warm with pride and something deeper, more profound.

“I think,” the professor finally spoke, in a measured way that teachers used when explaining something that should be obvious, “that we shouldn’t be so quick to pass judgment.”

All eyes turned to him, the patriarch who had remained largely silent until now.

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