Page 119 of The Jack*ss in Class

“Diego,” Dr. Navarro began, but he held up a hand.

“I’ve read Tempest’s—Miranda’s—books,” he repeated. “All of them.”

Tempest looked stunned. “Papá? You have? Mamá said something about the first one, but she said you thought it was...silly.”

“When a colleague mentioned a new adaptation of Taming of the Shrew set at an American university, I was naturally curious. It was quite good, actually. Clever modernization, maintained the thematic core while addressing the problematic, and frankly misogynistic elements of the original.”

I felt Tempest trembling beside me, but this time I didn’t think it was from fear.

“As a Shakespeare scholar,” her father continued, “I recognize that he was essentially writing the popular entertainment of his day. His plays were not considered ‘high art’ at the time. They were meant to engage and entertain the masses, including plenty of ribald humor and, yes, sexual content.”

“Diego.” Dr. Navarro looked genuinely scandalized.

“It’s true, Luz,” he said calmly. “The idea that Shakespeare is somehow above the fray of popular entertainmentis a relatively recent academic construction. In reality, he was writing for a broad audience, and his humor was often quite bawdy.”

“Are you honestly comparing Shakespeare to—to—” his wife sputtered.

“To our daughter’s work? In some ways, yes,” the professor said. “Her adaptations show a real understanding of his themes and characters, reimagined for a modern audience. I found them quite insightful.” He looked directly at Tempest. “You have a gift for storytelling, mija. I may not be that familiar with your choice of genre, but I cannot deny your talent.”

Tempest looked like she might cry. “Papá...”

Dr. Navarro stood abruptly. “This is absurd. I expected better from you, Diego. Our daughter has embarrassed this family with her...her pornography, and you’re encouraging her?”

“It’s not pornography, Luz,” Abuela said sharply. “It’s romance. There’s a difference.”

“A meaningless distinction,” Dr. Navarro snapped. “The point is that our daughter has chosen to sully our family name with this... trash. And I expect her to put an end to it. Immediately.”

Outside, Burrito brayed, clearly sensing the sudden fucking drop in temperature. Tempest went rigid beside me.

“What?” she whispered.

“You will cease this Miranda Milan nonsense,” Dr. Navarro said firmly. “You will issue a statement denying the rumors, complete your degree properly, and pursue a respectable graduate program as we’d planned.”

“I will not do that,” Tempest said, her voice quiet but firm.

“You most certainly will,” her mother insisted. “I am still your Mamá, and I know what’s best for you.”

“No.” The single word hung in the air between them. “I won’t hide who I am anymore, Mamá. I won’t pretend to be ashamed of work I’m proud of.”

Dr. Navarro’s expression hardened. “Then you leave me no choice but to?—”

“Enough!” Abuela’s voice cracked like a whip. “Enough, Luz!”

Everyone froze as Abuela rose to her feet, her eyes flashing with anger I hadn’t seen before. Without another word, she stormed from the room, her heels clicking sharply on the hardwood floors.

The silence that followed was deafening. Tempest’s hand found mine, gripping tightly.

A moment later, Abuela returned, clutching a stack of worn paperbacks. She marched directly to Tempest’s mother and dropped the books onto the table in front of Dr. Navarro.

“Tell me, Luz Ximena Ramirez Navarro. Are you ashamed of these too? Are you ashamed of your papá’s books? His writing career?”

“It’s not the same. Papá doesn’t write... filth.”

“Perhaps,” Abuela said, her voice dangerously quiet, “you should remind yourself of your own past before judging your daughter so harshly.”

Her mother’s expression shuttered. “I grew up and chose a responsible path.” Her spine straightened. “As I expect you to do.”

Tempest shook her head slowly. “I’m not giving up my writing. It’s who I am, Mamá. Whether you approve or not.”

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