Free Against the Wall by Jill Sorenson Page B

in the trash can, knocked it over, and fell down with your dick out.”
    “Que cabrón,”
I say, shaking my head. “Who was with us?”
    His face grows solemn. “My sister.”
    Now I remember. It was my eighteenth birthday. A bunch of us went to Avenida Revolución to celebrate, and Junior kept buying me drinks. Junior’s sister, Cristina, was our designated driver. I feel a pang of guilt when I think about how young she was. She was pretty and wild, taken too soon.
    We don’t speak much after lunch. Junior drops me off at the transit station. He gives me his number and I say I’ll call.
    But I won’t.

Chapter 9
Meghan
    On Thursday there’s a nasty surprise waiting for us outside the women’s resource center.
SLUTS
    The word is written across one wall in huge spray-painted letters. Around the corner the message is even more sinister:
STAY HOME
    I meet Kelsea by the front entrance and we stare at the vandalism in horror. She takes pictures with her phone while I scroll through a slew of messages on social media. Apparently the event has created quite a stir—and not just among SDSU students. Last night someone linked the news of the slut walk to 4chan, an online community known for sexist trolls. The Men’s Rights Activists had responded. Big-time.
    There are hundreds of comments on the event page and various social media sites. Slut walk is trending on the SDSU forum. Students are milling around the center, studying the graffiti and chatting about likely suspects.
    I’m appalled by the message on the wall and offended by the slurs on social media. It feels like a personal attack.
    Kelsea’s first reaction is rage, and she’s not shy about showing it. She paces in front of the wall, cursing the MRA and the KKK and any other hate-group she can think of. Then she stops and grabs my arm, brightening. “Let’s take selfies.”
    “Selfies?”
    She nods. “We’ll treat this like an advertisement for the slut walk and rub it in the haters’ faces.”
    “They want attention.”
    “Yeah, but they want us to be scared and upset, not laughing and hamming it up.”
    Kelsea has a point, and her bubbly positivity is infectious. If she’s happy about this giant spray-painted threat, I’ll go with the flow. “Okay.”
    “Take off your jacket and try to look slutty.”
    I toss my jacket aside, giggling. I’m wearing jeans and a tank top with three little buttons, which I undo at Kelsea’s urging.
    “What about you?” I ask.
    “I don’t even have tits.”
    “Sure you do.”
    “A-cups are never sexy.”
    I roll my eyes at the claim. “Show your stomach, then.”
    She’s wearing loose sweatpants and a sleeveless T-shirt. She ties a knot under her breasts. Her tummy is tanned and toned. I’d trade my C-cups for her perfect stomach any day. She adjusts the waistband of her pants and rolls up one leg, hip-hop style.
    “Nice touch,” I say.
    We pose in front of SLUTS , turning the hate speech into a photo op. Kelsea does two backward peace signs, celebrating the word and reclaiming its power and mocking the naysayers all at once. I make a silly duck face.
    Another student offers to help us take some wider shots. We stand on opposite ends of the graffiti, smiling for the camera. Kelsea rests her back against the wall, one foot propped up, and makes a vulgar gesture with her tongue sticking out between her fingers. I’m too busy laughing at her audacity to strike my own pose. Then we take a couple of shots together. Kelsea throws her arms around me and licks my cheek.
    She posts the best photos on Instagram and the response is amazing. We get a ton of compliments, likes, and shares. On impulse, she tweets an open invitation for students to visit the wall and take their own pictures.
F*ck the haters! Stop by the women’s center for a sexy selfie! Support the #slutwalk with a #slutshot!
    It gets retweeted like crazy.
    “We’re going to need more flyers,” Kelsea says.
    I have to cram for midterms, so I can’t