From my position on the weight bench, I can watch many gym screens airing early morning talk shows. Many are showing the picture Eric took and uploaded.
I don't bother to watch any closer. I already read the headlines this morning, and Mitchel was right. All the sympathy has turned his way.
Mitchel is still at home, 'recuperating.' I suppress a snort of laughter. I was told to lay low, but he's the one fake fainting at press conferences. I wasted my time hanging around for a couple of hours last night. On my way out, I told Mitchel to change his gate code. Again.
Turning away entirely, I focus on my shoulder presses, the conversation I had with Mitchel still playing in my head.
How am I even supposed to be on my guard? Avoid Mother at all times? I only went to see her to try and help him.
It's not like I was on a date; I didn't get a chance to explain myself.
Mother's subterfuge is reaching new heights, becoming more elaborate. I've asked Eric to give me a heads-up if he sees anything suspicious going on with her.
I've got my work to focus on. I don't need to worry about whether I'm a fool for thinking our relationship was a...little more.
And now...what are we outside of our agreement?
Mitchel said I can date whoever I want; does that mean he will date whomever he wants?
Frustration wells up inside of me. I hang up my weights and go get cleaned up. Class starts in a little while anyway.
I make it onto campus and my parking spot. Even though this is usually a busy time of day, more students are going in the same direction as me. Each one moving quickly. The ones that see me hurry away, whispering.
Although, many have been doing that since last week.
I hear the noise before I see the source. Boisterous and pulsating, a block of voices flood the air.
Coming around the sidewalk into the quad, the area is packed with young people. Posters and yelling identify them as protestors. They surround the fountain, cover the sidewalks, and fill the grass.
Looking around, I attempt to locate a different path to take. Then my eyes read the banner.
The long, white stretch of paper, spread out between ten or so of the protestors, reads in large, hand-drawn block letters: WILDERS SAY NO TO SKYLER COLLINS
"My, god." My voice breathes out. I lose more closely. The protestors range from barely old enough to be in high school to closer to my age. They are marching around the fountain, chanting and yelling too many things to process.
The signs that I can read from here say things like:
Protect Mitch Wild
Mitch is our HERO, Skyler Collins is a ZERO
Skyler Collins IS A 🚩
Bring Beau Back
Many posters have a grainy picture of my enlarged face, with a red circle and line through it.
Students and others push past me on the sidewalk to see the commotion. I turn my face away. Oh, my god.
Over the ruckus, the feedback screech of a megaphone rings out.
Warily turning back, I watch a young female climb up on the fountain's edge. I can just make out a picture of Mitchel on her tee shirt. Her long, wavy hair blows around her face as she speaks to the crowd.
"WILDERS!"
"YEAH?" The crowd thunders before settling to be quieter, waiting for her speech.
"Mitch Wild deserves better!"
"YEAH!"
"Who-the-fuck is Skyler Collins anyway?"
"Boo!" The low rumble of disdain pulses through the quad and shakes my stomach.
"What do we want?" The leader continues.
An unsynchronized, garbled roar fills the air. "To protect Mitch Wild!"
Turning on the ball of my foot, I head the way I came, keeping my face averted from everyone I pass. Before I reach the parking lot, I spot another group of protesters, arriving in threes and fours, all merging and heading this way.
I duck into the breezeway of the nearest building, Humanities, watching the protesters through the shaded window until they pass.
What should I do? Call Mitchel?
I picture him lying on his sofa, flipping a magazine and glaring at me over the pages.
I shake the thought out of my head. No. This...might pass. No big deal?
If I can get to my office, I can cancel my classes for the day and lay low. Except we're starting the finals review. I make them virtual?
Let's get there first.
I head through the Humanities building and out the other side. I crane my neck from side to side, watching for protesters. I make my way around and enter the library. There is an underground sidewalk that connects with the Histories building.
Passing through the library's lobby, I swivel my head around and around, searching for any angry mob members among the quietly studying or reading patrons.
A group of girls come out of the bathroom. Kids too young to be here on a school day. One holds an awkward and large poster with my face. I almost don't recognize myself with the blacked-out eyes and an added lizard tongue.
"It's you!" One of the girls booms.
"Shh," I hurriedly say, holding my hand up. "This is a library."
For a stunned moment, we just look at each other.
Without glancing away, one of them pulls their phone out of their back pocket.
I don't wait to see if they will take a picture or check the weather; I bolt. Darting around them, I zip towards the stairs, taking them down two at a time.
A garbled mash of "Get him," "Stop him," and "Quiet down, please" follow me into the echoing, modern concrete pass-through. I hear the slap of several pairs of feet behind me.
I take off in a dead sprint when I get to the bottom. I tuck my bag under one arm and pump my legs as fast as possible.
"Watch out!" I yell to people as I maneuver through the tunnel traffic. "I'm so sorry."
Anytime I have to look back, I can see the determined pursuers coming for me.
I reach the connection to the Histories building. Charging in, I take the stairs, stretching three steps simultaneously. The girls' feet are further behind me when they enter the stairwell. They fall further and further behind against my longer reach.
Slamming into the hallway on my floor, my steps shake the walls. I burst into my office, saying a silent thank you that it was unlocked and slamming it behind me.
I immediately jerk it back open and rip my nameplate out of its slot by the door before closing it fully and locking it.
"Professor Collins." A deep voice behind me speaks.
"Arghuh." Whirling around, I tip backward, falling against the door harshly. Hand on my chest, I watch the dean spin around in my desk chair.
Seeing no one else, I take a huge breath of relief. Dropping my bag, I put my hands on my knees.
"Oh," I say in between gasps for air. "Dean Matthews, hello."
Thomas Matthews comes around the desk. He's dressed neatly as always, in a three-piece suit. Each one of his salt and pepper hairs are perfectly in place.
He pulls out a chair at the study table beside me and sits down. With a gesture, he invites me to sit across from him. I drop into the chair, briefly resting my pulse-pounding head on the tabletop before haggardly sitting upright.
"Are you okay?" He asks.
I nod, breathing air out heavily.
"You know," he sits back in the chair, dusting the knee of his pants with one palm. "Outside right now is the third largest protest I've seen on campus throughout all my time as dean."
I nod again, my brow furrowing along this line of conversation.
Dean Matthews takes a deep breath through his nose, letting it out with a slow shake of his head. "It's not political. Not environmental. Not about any moral or social grounds."
He skewers me with his eyes. "It's about one of my goddamn professors dating a celebrity."
Swallowing uncomfortably, I sit straighter and fight to hide my rapid breathing. "I'm sorry, sir."
"What the hell, Collins?" He points his hand in the direction of the quad outside. "It's bedlam out there."
"Yes, I'm sorry." I gulp, apologizing for the lack of any other forthcoming explanation.
"Finals are around the corner, and you've provoked the most asinine protest I've ever known. Your personal life is infringing on campus."
"I know. I'm sorry." The apologies are slipping out rapidly. "It's...temporary."
"How?"
"What?" My brain is blank.
"How is this protest temporary?"
"They're Mitchel's fans-I mean, Mitch Wild's fans, and they just need to...get used to me."
"Collins, you worked here as a grad student, correct? So, how long have you been here?"
"Uh, six years total."
"Are you aiming for tenure here?"
"Sir?"
"And your name is on the shortlist for the Ylamne excavation next semester, is that right?"
"Yes, sir," I say slowly, realization dawning.
"Then, tell me. What is your plan to deal with this?"
***
I stay a couple of steps behind Dean Matthews on our way outside. The girls that chased me are nowhere to be seen, but the entire mob of protesters have shifted to right outside the Histories building's main entrance.
Security is out here as well, too. They're not interfering, but their presence makes me feel more at ease. And there are no reporters yet, thank god.
The crowd is restless as I sidel out the door behind the dean. The sensation resembles what approaching a wild wolf pack would feel like.
"Hello," Dean Matthews calls out. The entire group gives us a wary side-eye. "Welcome to campus."
A murmur runs through the group. The dean steps to the side and gestures to me. "You all know Professor Collins."
"Boo!" A jeer rises up from the crowd.
Dean Matthews beckons for silence with a smile on his face. "Now, now. Can I ask a representative to come and speak with Professor Collins and me personally?"
The fans start looking around. Several of them call out the name 'Santria. '
One person steps from the crowd, followed by two others.
The first is the megaphone girl from earlier. Around the picture of Mitchel on her shirt are the words 'Wild for Life.'"
A woman old enough to be primarily gray is closest behind. Her same tee shirt is worn over a collared blouse. The last is a young boy, close in age to the girl. His flop of dark hair covers most of his face, and his tee shirt just has a picture of Mitchel with tiny rhinestones glinting around it in the sunlight.
The dean speaks as they step up. "Thank you for allowing a conversation. I'm Thomas Matthews, dean of the university. And what may I call you?"
"I'm Santira," the girl's voice is strong and confident even without the megaphone. "I'm the president of Mitch Wild's Official Fanclub of Los Angeles."
"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." She accepts the dean's handshake but gives me a withering look when I offer mine.
The dean next turns to the older woman, shaking her hand. "And you are?"
"Maggie Barnes, how do you do?" Maggie doesn't bother shaking my hand, either.
"She's our treasurer," Santria chimes in. "And, sometimes, we need an adult to see Mitch Wild's films in the theatre."
Next, Santria jerks her head towards the boy. "This is Arrow, one of Mitch's mega-fans."
The dean also takes Arrow's hand in greeting. "With that settled, may I ask what this protest's objective is?"
Santria raises her hand high, a signal to the crowd. "Break up with Mitch Wild!"
"Break up with Mitch Wild! Break up with Mitch Wild!" The crowd chants behind her.
The dean motions for quiet again.
"How old are you?" I ask Santria.
"How old are you?"
We glare at each other, not answering.
Maggie nudges Santria. She loses the glare but not the attitude. "Because of you, our great star has been physically and emotionally damaged."
"He's fine." I wish I could tell them that their 'great star' is sitting comfy at home, taking a day off for no reason.
"He should be perfect," Santria accuses. "And taken care of properly. Not suffering because of lies made up about him."
My eyebrows raise at her fierceness. She states," He doesn't need you or your money. Mitch Wild got where he is today because of his talent." Maggie and Arrow bob their heads in agreement behind her.
Their unwavering support of Mitchel is touching.
"I understand where you are coming from. However, I need to ask you to have your protest eleswhere. Off-campus and where it doesn't get in anyone's way."
The crowd boos again.
Santrai takes a bold stance before speaking. "I've not committed my life to suit your conveniences."
Some of the others in the crowd holler or cheer in encouragement.
I look to the dean to see if he understands. His eyes questioning, he leans over and whispers, "You don't know that quote?"
I try to place it but don't recall it from any era I've studied. I shake my head.
Santria's mouth gapes open. Maggie and Arrow shake their heads sadly.
Turning back to the protesters, Santria hollers, "He doesn't even know the line!"
Renewed and raucous uproar fills the air.
Whispering to me again, the dean says, "Even I know that it was all over the internet. From a Revolutionary War movie, Mitch Wild starred in. The film won awards. What kind of history professor doesn't watch war movies?"
I shrug helplessly.
"God, do you even know the pick man?" Santria speaks sharply, huffing with derision at my blank expression. "Arthur Void? The sick child? Farthington?"
The dean doesn't bother to whisper in my ear anymore. "These are all roles Mitch Wild has done. Don't you know this?"
"I-I'm not," clearing my throat, I address everyone. "I'm not dating him because he's an actor."
"What do you know about him?" One of the protesters yells.
"Um, I know what he can bench?" I offer hesitantly.
"One-sixy." The answer rolls off Santria's tongue. "We all know that."
"You do?" I mumble. Arrow nods vigorously.
"Look," the dean speaks out. "Professor Collins is a good man. Also, he's someone Mitch Wild chose." He places his hand on my shoulder. "What can he do to prove to you that he is deserving enough?"
Santria exchanges glances with the other two. They nod towards the group and leave to discuss amongst themselves in hushed tones, visibly heated.
"What if they come back and have some crazy demand?" I whisper to the dean.
He spares me a glance over his shoulder. "You're a billionaire, aren't you? Throw some money at the problem. Just get them placated and away from my university."