CHAPTER 8
763 Words
CHAPTER 8
Kennedy stared at her phone when it rang at her. It was a local number, but it wasn’t in her contacts list. “Hello?”
“Hi, I’m calling from the T station. Can you hear me?” The voice was familiar, but she couldn’t place it.
“Yeah. Who’s this?” She’d only been in the ER waiting room for a short time. Sandy had come to take Woong back with her a few minutes earlier. At that point, there was still no word on Carl’s condition.
“It’s me. Ian.”
“Who?”
“Ian. Ian McAlister.”
“Oh.” Kennedy pictured the journalist with his shock-red hair. She couldn’t remember how long it had been since she’d last spoken with him. Over a year probably. Why would he be calling her?
“Hey, I wanted to talk to you about something. Is now a good time?”
Ian was the kind of journalist who seemed to know every local headline a second or two before it happened. Had he already heard about Carl’s attack? Kennedy wouldn’t be too surprised to find out he knew even more than she did, although she could never guess who his sources were or how he got his information.
“I’ve got a couple minutes. Not very long.”
“I understand. You getting ready for a class?” Ian’s voice was casual, but the familiarity in his tone made Kennedy uneasy.
“No. I’m, well, I’m at the hospital with a friend.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Nothing too serious, I hope?” He sounded polite without being pushy.
“I hope not, too.” Kennedy didn’t want to give him any further details.
There was an awkward pause before he went on. “Well, I guess now’s probably not the best time to talk then, but I wanted to sit down with you to discuss your article that came out today.”
“What article?” Kennedy wondered if he’d called the wrong number. Did he think he was talking to someone else, maybe?
The roar of a passing T car in the background made Ian shout. “The one in the Harvard Voice. Your column on the feminist movement.”
“Oh. That.” Last week, the staff of the Voice had published an op-ed about the Truth Warriors conference at St. Margaret’s. It was the same bandwagon every other liberal news outlet in Cambridge had jumped on. Let’s complain about the pastor who hosts a conference for men to talk about male leadership in the home and church.
The only reason Kennedy wrote back to the editorial team was because they had personally attacked Sandy. In their editorial, they made her out to be some beaten-down housewife married to this megalomaniacal pastor who wanted to keep her barefoot in the kitchen and a perpetual slave to a never-ending line of children and grandchildren. Kennedy wrote a short email, no more than three or four sentences long, defending her friend and almost immediately received an invitation to print a seven-hundred-word rebuttal in the forum section of the Voice. So much had happened between now and then that she hadn’t even realized her article had gone to print.
“It’s caused quite a stir on campus from what I can tell. Which maybe is what you had in mind.” Was Ian accusing her? His tone was indecipherable.
“No, I just wanted to see them treat Sandy better in the future.”
His voice softened. “I can respect that. Their original article did hit a little below the belt if you want my opinion.”
Kennedy waited. She still couldn’t figure out why the journalist was calling her. Ian had graduated from Harvard years ago. Why did he care what students there did or didn’t print in the paper?
“Anyway, I wanted to know if I could ask you a few questions. Maybe get your take on what it’s like to be a conservative student on a campus like Harvard. It can’t be easy, I’m sure.”
Kennedy didn’t know what to say. She’d never considered herself all that conservative before, especially not compared to people like Carl or her dad. Up until now, she hadn’t even felt like her column for the Voice was taking a political side one way or the other. She just wanted to point out that Sandy did a whole lot more than sit around darning socks for her husband like the Harvard editors insinuated.
Kennedy’s phone beeped at her. Willow was calling.
“You know what,” she said, “I’ve got to run. There’s a lot going on right now, but maybe we can talk soon.”
“Breakfast tomorrow?”
Kennedy was fumbling with her phone, trying to disconnect with Ian before Willow hung up. “Ok, maybe.” She ended the call before either of them could say good-bye and hoped that she hadn’t missed her roommate. “Willow? Hello? Are you there?”
No response.
“Can you hear me?” she asked.
Was that someone sniffling?
“Willow? What’s wrong?”
She let out a small sob.
Kennedy’s abs tightened, and the all familiar quivering returned to her gut. “What happened? What’s the matter?”
“It’s Nick. The detective came to ask him what he knows about Carl’s accident.” It took a few sniffs and another suppressed sob before she could continue. “They think he’s the one who attacked Carl.”
- Writer
