Page 12 of Pride and Protest
Dorsey shook his head. “If someone does not want to dance, then maybe that’s just the entire story. You don’t have to invent some ego crisis.”
“Look around, Mr. Man Bun. This is a dance party. Anyone herenotdancing is here on nefarious business, in which case my earlier statement—part B—still stands.” She put her hand on her hip—an old trick of her mother’s when she needed to take up more space.
“So we’ve both made fun of each other’s hair. Let’s call it even.” He patted his head, and a flush of pink spread across his cheeks.
“Even? For you, a man with that much power, to punch down? We will never be even.”
Dorsey’s eyes tightened around the corners. He turned to David. “Why don’t you go find that pretty little lady you were dancing with”—Dorsey’s gaze slipped back to hers—“and I’ll finish up with this one?” He guided David’s confused face away.
“This one?” Liza repeated. She noticed glances and murmurs. She had been standing with him too long, and people would talk. For the fortieth time in an hour, she regretted inviting all of Southeast to the gala. “No, we’re noteven, Dorsey, but let me tell you how we’re going to geteven. I’m calling the big boys: city council. They are going to be all over this cheap trick you guys are trying to pull. And don’t think I won’t have the equal-housing folks up your ass.”
“We are revitalizing this neighborhood, inviting business, and paving sidewalks. There are a lot of benefits,” Dorsey countered, but his enthusiasm seemed to sputter. Liza didn’t even thinkhebelieved in the snake oil he was peddling.
“Who do you think is going to move into those fancy town houses, huh? The actual community members? Blacks? Latinos? No. The type of people who carry dogs in their purses and stand in line for vegan cupcakes!”
There was a small flick of Dorsey’s eyelashes going up and down her frame, as if taking her in all over again. Dorsey put his hand over his mouth, honest-to-goodness looking like he was trying to hold in a laugh.Is he that callous?Liza pressed on anyway. He was gonna hear it all today.
“Andyou burned my signs!” Liza shouted. “And”—this was the most offensive by far—“you’re not even a real Latino!” His shoulders shook gently, and Liza was so furious she was sure steam was coming out of her ears.
Just then, a perfectly shellacked news anchor, perhaps smelling blood in the water, signaled for the camera. And for a moment, Dorsey stood there frozen. She saw him collect his breath and plaster on a bright smile. He greeted the man with a firm hand on the shoulder.
“Do you mind if we get a few questions in while we wait for the festivities?” The anchor’s eyes flicked over Liza in a kind of naked appraisal. She saw him do the mental calculus in his head—that a person like her couldn’t be with a man like that. He was wondering if he needed to call security.
“No, not at all. I’d love to answer your questions,” Dorsey said. He lifted his elbow to subtly signal for Liza to leave. Liza blinked prettily into the camera. She was sensing an opportunity.
“Should we get Jennifer Bradley, Mr. Fitzgerald?”
Jennifer must be the woman he came with, the icy blonde who was actually a part of his world. She looked like the villainous stepmother in every Disney movie Liza had watched as a child—the one who wanted to send the heroine off to boarding school as soon as she got her hot dad to fall in love with her.
“They are giving out door prizes to residents near the DJ booth,” the reporter told her.
Am I hallucinating, or did I just see his fingers make the shoo motion?
When Jennifer approached, Liza could see that she looked excruciatingly ready to leave. She wore a lovely floor-length halter-top dress with minimal accessories, effortlessly elegant. Liza wondered if that was something they taught at whatever elite liberal arts college the woman had obviously attended. With Jennifer’s hand resting comfortably on Dorsey’s shoulder, their bodies close but not indecent, the reporter began the interview.
“Is this just the beginning of your redevelopment plans for Merrytown?” he asked, almost immediately forgetting Liza.
It was slowly sinking into Liza that she had lost. Whatever her plans were for tonight were being pushed aside just like she was.Why do people like this always feel they can take advantage of the powerless with no consequences? Why does he not even give me the human decency of a greeting?Wasn’t she in the same world breathing the same air as him?God, this is so unfair!Dorsey’s elbow nudged at her side, ever so slightly pushing her out of the frame. This was, as Liza would later recall it to her sisters, “The. Last. Effing. Straw.”
Liza looked in her ridiculously tiny purse—not large enough to fit anything bigger than her lipstick—which gave her an idea.She grabbed a thick white cloth napkin and scribbled furiously. When she was done, she held the large napkin up behind Dorsey Fitzgerald, photobombing his entire live interview. He spoke earnestly and gestured dynamically, never knowing what the whole world behind him saw scratched out in deep red lipstick:
Netherfield Must GO!
#Southeastgivesajam
MR. MEME
From: [email protected]
Hi, all.
I have been forwarded all manner of memes involving the events of last night. Some of them lean toward the inappropriate. I can understand the novelty of such an event as this but would thank you all to cease all company forwards or/and communications regarding a certain napkin and unnamed protester.
BTW, Sharon, DFitz is my email. DFatz is your office gossip buddy. Let’s not make this mistake again.
Dorsey clicked the link for what was at least the thirteenth time today. His DC offices were not so well-appointed as the ones in Philadelphia. The city had some weird ordinance against skyscrapers, so the brutalist, bureaucratic buildings stared you right in the face. The day did promise to produce some first-rateweather. As a child, he’d always loved to look at storms and stare the intensity down.
