"Yes, but I'm in the middle of?—"
"We have a special musical message for you!"
What follows is three minutes of exquisitely crafted public humiliation. The quartet launches into a barbershop version of "No Scrubs," with lyrics modified to address Brad's specific offenses—living off his girlfriend, cheating with another man, and claiming to be an ethics expert while displaying none. Students are recording on their phones, some laughing openly.
Brad's face cycles through confusion, shock, anger, and then a sickly kind of resignation as he realizes resistance is futile. He stands frozen at the podium, knuckles white against the wood.
I sink lower in my seat, filming the whole thing while trying not to draw attention to myself. I created a fake account on one of those video apps and am live-streaming this with all kinds of hashtags. This is everything I hoped it would be, except for one crucial detail—Lena isn't here to enjoy it.
As the quartet finishes with a flourishing harmony on "No, we don't want no scrubs," followed by a cheerful "Message delivered courtesy of Dr. Lena Sinclair," I slip out the back door, already composing a text to share the video with her.
But when I get to my car, I find three missed calls and twice as many texts from Lena.
Did you hire a barbershop quartet to humiliate Brad????
ALDER. Answer your phone.
WHAT DID YOU DO???
My stomach drops. This is not the reaction I was expecting.
I call her immediately, but it goes straight to voicemail. I send a quick text:
Heading home now. Can explain everything.
When I walk through the door twenty minutes later, Lena waits in the living room, arms crossed and expression stormy. Gordie senses the tension and scurries to his bed, watching us warily.
"Before you say anything," I begin, "I have a video I think you'll want to see."
"I've already seen it." Her voice is ice. "It's all over social media. #ProfessorRoast is trending."
"Good!" I throw my hands up. "Isn't that what we wanted? Public humiliation for the guy who humiliated you? It was your idea!"
"My idea that I didn't ask you to execute without consulting me!" She paces the living room. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"Uh, delivered perfect karmic justice to your cheating ex?"
"You've potentially destroyed my professional reputation!" Her voice rises. "I had a meeting with management this week. About professional boundaries. About the fraternization policy that could get me fired if I'm seen to be in a relationship with a player!"
I blink, taken aback. "What does humiliating Brad have to do with me? How would management link those two things?”
“Oh, gee.” She taps a sturdy finger against her red, pouty lip. “They called me in for a discussion after we were spotted at Cara's match. They weren’t exactly subtle, reminding me that I could lose my job if I was unprofessional. And what's more unprofessional than sending a singing quartet to humiliate a university professor in front of his students publicly?"
Understanding dawns, cold, and sickening. "Lena, I didn't know?—"
"No, you didn't know because you didn't ask!" She runs a hand through her hair in frustration. "You just decided to take matters into your own hands. Without talking to me first!"
"I was trying to surprise you!" I protest. "You've been avoiding me all week. I thought you were disappointed that we weren't making more progress on our revenge plans."
"I wasn't avoiding you because of the revenge plans. I was trying to create distance because I can't afford to lose this job!"She drops onto the couch, deflated. "Do you know how much student debt I have? This position with the Fury is the only way I can make payments and still afford to live."
I sink down beside her, keeping a careful distance. "I'm sorry. I really didn't think?—"
"That's the problem, isn't it? You didn't think." She looks at me, and I see genuine hurt beneath the anger. "You just went ahead and made decisions for both of us. Just like at your family dinner, announcing we're having a 'summer fling' without consulting me first."
Her words hit uncomfortably close to home. How the hell do I keep doing this–running my mouth until I fuck over everyone I care about? "I said I was sorry about that."
"And yet here we are again." She sighs, the fight draining out of her.
