Page 33 of Pride and Protest
“How do you mean ‘play up,’ sir?” Dorsey was an expert at making his tone unaffected.
“The little girl that started this whole thing. Maybe a photo of you two being friendly. It would make it seem like you’re hearing their concerns.” The senator pulled the monitor back. “Make it seem like you’re being responsive.” Murmurs of agreement washed over the room.
“So a photo op?”
“Not a photo op, aviralphoto op. Use social media to either discredit her or prove that you’re a bleeding heart.”
“That’s gross,” Dorsey said coldly. The room went still.
“That’s politics. If you don’t have the stomach for the ugly underside of progress, you’re in the wrong profession.”
Dorsey stopped short at that. Perhaps hewasin the wrong profession. He didn’t enjoy smiling and glad-handing with people he had no chance of ever liking. His mother would have thought of a better way. She would have tried to understand.
“The developments are a net positive for the communityandthe district,” Dorsey insisted. “The facts should speak for themselves.”
“Ha.” The senator slapped the oak table. “You need to come down off your high horse, son. People don’t deal in facts and figures. They know how a thing makes themfeel. And pushing a boulder through the projects while little Black and Brown kids watch and cry is bad for business. Like a damned SPCA commercial.”
“I’m sorry, everyone is just going to have to grow up. I will not associate myself with Liza Bennett”—he took a thoughtful pause—“justfor the sake of building more buildings in DC,” Dorsey said. He wouldn’t mind being huddled up in the cold with her half straddling him again. But the senator thought people’s lives were chess pieces. Not to mention he’d just compared Black children to those sad anti–animal abusecommercials. He had the strength of his mother’s convictions about this. He would not use Liza.
“That’s a lot of money to throw away for the sake of your pride.”
The senator’s marriage-counseling email gave him an idea. “Self-respect is a perfectly good cause to spend your money on.” He rose and closed the buttons on his black tartan sport coat, which had stayed remarkably wrinkle-free.
The senator looked him over. “And when it’s all gone, can your self-respect keep you dry in the rain? Can you eat your pride?”
With his hand still on the doorknob, Dorsey asserted calmly, “It would take me seven lifetimes to run into that problem.”
THE HOTEL WASHINGTON TREATY
You’re live with Liza B., The only DJ who gives A jam.” Liza put her feet up on the desk. The DJ booth was less cluttered now, and Liza could finally see the walls behind the posters, the only upside of massive layoffs.
“It’s Friday night, Liza. Could you give us some energy?”
“Hey, I have to play what’s on the list.”
“Well, I can listen to dad rock on my own. I like your mixes.”
“Say no more. I’ll have some Louisiana bounce after a few words from our sponsor. P-Pem—oh no.” Liza rubbed at her temples. She saw a nervous woman tap on the Booth G window across from hers. She saw the DJ’s shoulders slump, and the woman led him down the hallway. Another pink slip. This man was the king of assholes.
“Pemberley Development, s-saving DC one c-community at a time. Call the care line if you have c-concerns about Netherfield. That’s 1-800-Care4Yu.” Liza choked out the words. This man was appalling. Liza looked at her script schedule. Dorsey was a gold sponsor! Did he know the station was in trouble? Would he risk expanding her show just to humiliate her withcommercials? Liza wanted to be furious, but the blockhead didn’t know that he had likely saved her show.
Liza laughed for a full three minutes before it was time to go back on air.
Liza looked at her calendar. It was definitely Wednesday. She paced at the busy intersection, dodging waves of cold slush as cars rushed past her. She would be an army of one today. The municipal building was supposed to be the site of a rally. But Liza had been here for an hour already. She was cold, her fingers red and swollen. TodaywasWednesday, right? It was just another example of people not showing up for a cause.
Lately, her charm seemed to be wearing thin. Dorsey had laughed at the thought of dancing with her, and WIC hadn’t really been returning her texts. It was confusing because she and WIC had such a vibe. He was just the type of man she thought sheshouldlike. But in activism and in love, it seemed like her enthusiasm was never returned, and she was alone at a rally (again), texting a guy who rarely texted back (again).
In the meantime, she couldn’t go long without thinking of the tiniest interactions with Dorsey. He was permanently part of the things that took up space (rent-free) in her head:
Who was the first person to realize we could drink cow’s milk and, like, what were they actually up to?
InMean Girlswhy did everyone believe Cady wrote the Burn Book? She was new!
