Not Here to Be Liked: Chapters 5–10

On Monday morning, I'm in a contemplative mood as I cut across the quad to the newsroom, threading absently between the lunch tables.

I considered boycotting the Bugle—you know, showing up only so that I could then storm off dramatically, maybe brandishing a big sign that said I’M TOO GOOD FOR SEXISM, or something.

Instead, it has elected yet another male to do a job that, on just about every criterion, should have gone to a far more deserving female. I'm disappointed, I'm indignant, and I'm insulted—but maybe I'm not surprised.

Yeah, but maybe this is what the Bugle needs. Some chutzpah. Something in your face. We’re apparently at risk of becoming ‘establishment,’ and we can’t have that.

“Does this mean Eliza is in trouble?”
The room erupts in murmured speculation.

“Why don’t you tell us why you voted for Len?”
“Actually, how about not?” Len’s interruption is nonchalant, like a throwaway joke, but I learn that he, too, can turn bright pink.

I wave a resigned hand at the News team. “If no one has any updates, I guess we’re done,” I say, and they scatter like a group of hostages suddenly released.

Right now we’re making our way down Palermo Avenue, the neighborhood’s central thoroughfare.

“No way.” Winona’s incredulity is flat-out chipper.

Mr. Wilson, a colossus of a man with broad shoulders and an even bigger smile, is a former college football player and current vice president at an apparel company—the kind of success who believes he owes everything he’s achieved to God, country, and decorum. “Never get noticed for the wrong reason,” he likes to say.

Since that first Spanish class project, she’s become a lot more well-known at Willoughby for her videos, nearly all of which have garnered rave reviews (the sole exception, a satirical piece on climate truthers, is a work that Winona feels has been misunderstood to this day).

She’s also known for being “nice,” which Winona has always considered a mild form of acquiescence to the patriarchy: “She smiles too much to ever be told that she needs to smile more!”

Apparently, however, Serena has now had the gall to request a favor from Winona.

Sai leans forward, his face imperturbable. His hands remain still.

By the next morning, Natalie’s post has, to my consternation, gone positively viral by Willoughby standards.

Even though I know I shouldn’t, I scroll obsessively through the latest comments, each one a platitude sharp as a knife.

I stare at my locker, which has been newly emblazoned with a single word, written jaggedly with permanent marker: FEMINAZI.

“Let’s talk later,” she says to Len. And then, for my benefit, she adds, “Hi, Eliza,” before flouncing away.

He smiles at me, wryly, and walks away.

Instead, I just stand there, watching his loping gait reveal slivers of white sock at his ankles.

“We all know that the two oldest—and, some might say, most venerable—student groups on campus are the Willoughby Student Council and the Willoughby Bugle. Most Willoughby students who go on to the Ivy League and other elite colleges invariably pass through one or the other. But did you know that girls rarely get elected to the top leadership position of either organization?”

I spent yesterday afternoon in the Willoughby library, trawling through old yearbooks with a spreadsheet, and as a result, unearthed some very interesting numbers.

“This conversation isn’t meant to be punitive, Eliza. I’d just like to have a discussion.”

“It’s also my job to make it clear that there is a time and place to express rational dissent. And, unfortunately, Eliza, the morning announcements, hijacked in the manner that they were, is neither the time nor the place.”

I just wanted to posit, however, that perhaps your cause would be better served by a less antagonistic approach?

I inspect the button, which lies there like an arraigned criminal.

“We live in extremely pugilistic times, Eliza. Proponents on both sides of every issue are increasingly entrenched, often with little to no space for reconciliation. I worry sometimes what impact such a culture has on young people.”

It is my hope, you see, that your generation will emerge as a new vanguard of civility and compromise.

“So, no, my dear, it is not antagonistic to be a feminist, per se. But perhaps think about all the ways you have presented your arguments so far, and evaluate whether you have done so from a place of exclusion or inclusion. For example, encouraging girls to run for school president is one thing. But demanding Len’s resignation is quite another.”

I mull this over. “That’s fair,” I say.

But frankly, I was disappointed with your own lack of judgment in perpetuating the offense.

I even had a whole maneuver worked out to retrieve a pad in class without anyone knowing (reach into backpack under innocuous pretenses, tuck pad into the extremely roomy arm of my sweater, raise hand to go to the bathroom without anyone knowing what I’ve got up my sleeve).

“As I was just telling Eliza,” Dr. Guinn begins, “given everything that has transpired, it would be a good idea for you both to put aside hostilities and establish, if not a friendship, then at least a collegial working relationship. Especially since Mr. Powell tells me that Eliza will likely be the managing editor again next year.”

I start to object to what is clearly a de facto (not to mention premature) demotion, but Len beats me to it.

But Len is watching me, as if waiting to see if I’ll say exactly that, his curiosity draping over me like a poised net.

Dr. Guinn looks from me to Len. The pause feels interminable.

But when he notices my contemplation, he gives me a little smile back, and for a hot second I’m almost sorry that his ploy to foil Dr. Guinn’s plan actually worked.

He leans so far back that his shiny head almost touches the back wall, and his chair creaks with foreboding.

Most of the class stays inert, but Serena Hwangbo, sitting one desk cluster away from me, nods.

When no one responds with enough zeal to match hers, she sighs.