Emily balances her tray with one hand while checking her phone with the other–three missed texts from her ed psych study group, a Class Portal notification about tomorrow's history exam, and a text message from her mother. She's not paying attention to the cafeteria line until she bumps into the person ahead of her.
"Whoa, sorry–" She looks up. Billy James, red MAGA hat slightly askew.
"No worries." Billy nods, then does a double-take when he recognizes her. "Emily, right? Brenner's class?"
"Yeah." She shifts her backpack higher on her shoulder. "Front right seats, both of us."
Billy grins. The confidence in it tightens something in her chest—something she shouldn't feel, something her friends would definitely give her shit for. Billy James. The Campus Patriots guy. The one who shows up to counter-protests looking for a fight. Exactly the type she's always been drawn to despite swearing she'd stop.
"The good side of the room."
Emily's lips quirk despite herself. "Is that what we're calling it?"
He holds her gaze, steady and unblinking, until she has to look away. He's tall, built solid from warehouse work, the kind of physical presence that takes up space without trying. The MAGA hat should be a turnoff–she voted for Trump, her whole family did, but the hat itself feels like theater, like a performance of certainty she's not sure she's buying anymore. Yet on him it somehow works. It is, sort of. And yet it isn't.
They move forward in line. Billy grabs a burger and fries; Emily opts for a salad and soup—she's been stress-eating since the Dear Colleague Letter dropped last week, and her jeans are already tight. The cashier rings them up, and Billy lingers instead of heading off. She notices the way his shoulders fill out the canvas work jacket, the casual competence in his movements. This is stupid. Her roommate's warned her about this exact pattern—and here she is, falling into it again.
"You eating alone?" he asks.
Emily glances toward her usual corner table–empty right now. "Yeah, study group canceled."
"Sit with me? Unless you're one of those people who can't stand being around someone with a MAGA hat."
There's a challenge in his tone. Something else underneath it. Loneliness, maybe. And underneath that, a kind of crude directness she finds herself attracted to despite every rational argument against it. The bad-boy thing has always been her weakness. She knew it in high school, knew it in her first year of college, keeps swearing she'll grow out of it. Billy James is exactly the type: rough around the edges, no filter, someone her parents would disapprove of on sight.
Emily thinks about saying no, about protecting her afternoon from an argument she doesn't have energy for. But then she remembers what Dr. Brenner said last week: We have to be able to talk to each other, or this doesn't work. And also: she wants to see what happens.
"Sure," she says. "But if we're going to talk politics, you buy the coffee."
Billy laughs—genuine, not performative. "Deal."
They claim a table near the windows, far enough from the lunch rush that they won't be overheard. Billy dumps ketchup on his fries—precise, practiced. Emily opens her soup, letting steam rise while she decides how to start this. She catches herself watching the way he moves, the unselfconsciousness of someone comfortable in his body. This is dangerous. She knows better.
"So," Billy says, not looking up from his food. "You've been quiet in class lately. Figured you'd be going at it with Nisha about something."
"I'm not Nisha." Emily stirs her soup. "I don't… perform, I guess. I'm just trying to understand what's happening."
"What's happening is Trump's fixing what the left broke. Education, borders, all of it."
Emily sets her spoon down carefully. "Billy, I'm going to be a teacher. In two years, I'll be standing in front of a classroom. So when I hear about executive orders on education, it's not abstract for me. It's my job."
Billy leans back, arms crossed. "Okay. What's your problem with it?"
"Which one?" Emily's voice is sharper than she intended. "The curriculum restrictions? The vaccine mandate ban? The $600 million in teacher training grants that just got canceled?"
"See, that's the problem right there." Billy points a fry at her. "You're calling them restrictions. Trump's calling them protections. He's protecting kids from teachers who want to push radical ideologies."
This is the conversation she's been having with herself for weeks, the one that keeps her up at night. Now she's having it with Billy James, who thinks every Trump action is divine intervention.
"Okay," she says slowly. "Let's start by breaking this down. 'Ending Radical Indoctrination in K-12 Schooling.' It threatens to withhold federal funding from schools that teach critical race theory or 'gender ideology' curricula."
"Good," Billy says immediately. "Kids shouldn't be taught to hate America or think they're the wrong gender."
"Nobody's teaching kids to hate America." Emily's frustration leaks through. "I'm in the education program. We're learning how to teach reading, math, classroom management. We spend hours on literacy instruction and differentiated learning. Nobody's teaching us to indoctrinate kids."
"Then why does Trump need an executive order?"
She meets his eyes. "Because attacking teachers plays well politically. It makes people like my parents—who voted for him—feel like someone's fighting for their values. But I'm going to be one of those teachers, Billy. And you're telling me I can't acknowledge that racism exists when I teach the Civil Rights Movement? That's not indoctrination. That's history."
Billy's jaw tightens. "You can teach history. You just can't teach that America is fundamentally racist."
"I'm not going to teach that America is fundamentally racist. But I am going to teach that slavery happened. That Jim Crow happened. That redlining happened. Those are facts." She leans forward. "The Dear Colleague Letter from February 14th–it prohibits using race in 'all aspects of student, academic, and campus life.' How do I teach accurately without mentioning race?"
"You teach the facts without making white kids feel guilty."
"I'm not trying to make anyone feel guilty!" Emily's voice rises, then drops when she notices people glancing over. "I'm trying to teach all my students. And research shows—actual education research, not political talking points—that students learn better when curriculum reflects their lived experiences. I can't teach that if I can't mention race, gender, any of it."
Billy shrugs. "Figure it out. Teachers are supposed to be smart."
The dismissiveness stings. She picks up her coffee cup.
"What about Title I schools?" she asks quietly. "The ones in poor districts? They can't afford to lose federal funding. So they comply, even if it means worse education for their students. Who does that help?"
Billy's expression shifts—something flickers that might be doubt, but it's gone before Emily can be sure. "Schools that take federal money have to follow federal rules. That's how it works."
"Right. And when those rules say 'don't teach accurately about history,' what happens to the kids?" Emily picks at her salad. "My ed psych professor keeps saying we have to meet students where they are. Build on what they know. But these orders—they're not about education. They're about culture war."
"Everything's about culture war," Billy mutters. "That's the whole point. The left used schools to push their agenda for decades. Now it's our turn."
"But I'm not 'the left,' Billy." Her voice is earnest now, almost pleading. "I voted for Trump. My family did. I'm not some radical trying to corrupt children. I just want to teach kids to read and think and understand the world they live in."
Billy looks at her properly for the first time since they sat down. "You voted for Trump?"
"Yeah." She nods. "My whole family did. My parents love him. They think he's finally standing up for people like us."
"Then what's the problem?"
"The problem is I'm watching him attack the profession I'm about to enter. And I'm trying to reconcile that." Her hands tighten around her coffee cup. "My family thinks these orders are protecting kids from indoctrination. And I get that concern—parents should have a say in their kids' education. But…" She flips through mental notes from her education classes. "Students learn better when they see themselves in the curriculum. When their experiences are validated. How do I do that under these restrictions?"
Billy leans forward, elbows on table. "You teach the basics. Reading, writing, math. Leave the social justice stuff out of it."
"But history isn't 'social justice stuff.' It's history. And English class isn't just grammar–it's helping kids understand human experience through literature. You can't separate content from context."
"Sure you can." Billy's voice is flat, certain. "That's what they did when I was in school. We learned reading and math. Nobody told us America was evil. We turned out fine."
Literacy rates. Achievement gaps. College readiness scores. Billy's trajectory–high school dropout, GED, community college, now here at 26 trying to prove something.
She doesn't say any of that.
"What about the vaccine mandate ban?"
Billy sits up straighter, pointing a fry for emphasis. "Finally, some common sense. No more forcing kids to get vaccines they don't need."
Her stomach clenches.
"Billy, schools have required vaccines for decades. Measles, mumps, rubella—all of them. You know why? Because outbreaks happen when vaccination rates drop. Kids die. It's not theoretical."
"COVID vaccine's different. Kids don't die from COVID."
Emily sets her coffee down. Her hands are shaking slightly. "My grandfather died of COVID."
Billy stops mid-bite.
"He was healthy before he got it," she continues, voice tight. "Retired. Then he got COVID and six weeks later he was gone. My grandmother watched him die over FaceTime because she couldn't be in the hospital room." A pause. "So when you tell me kids don't die from COVID, I think about my grandfather. And I think about teachers who are immunocompromised. And students with asthma, like my little sister. And I wonder why we're treating public health like it's politics."
Billy's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is quieter. "I didn't know about your grandfather. I'm sorry."
"Thank you." Emily wipes at her eyes quickly. "But Billy, that's the problem. You treat COVID like it's a talking point. For me, it's family."
"Still doesn't mean we should force kids to get vaccines."
Teacher deaths. Long COVID rates. Immunocompromised students at risk. Herd immunity. Community protection. Basic epidemiology. She wants to scream.
Instead: "What happens when a teacher gets sick and dies? Who's responsible?"
"Not Trump," Billy says immediately. "People make their own choices about vaccines."
"But they don't, though. That's the point of school requirements—they protect everyone, not just individuals." She pushes her salad around. "When I'm standing in front of a classroom next year, I don't want to worry about whether I'm going to bring something home that kills someone else I love. Is that unreasonable?"
Billy doesn't answer.
The cafeteria noise washes over them—trays clattering, conversations buzzing, someone's phone playing music too loud. She thinks about leaving, about retreating to her dorm room with her education textbooks and the fantasy that maybe this will all make sense eventually.
She stays.
"Look," she says finally. "I'm not asking you to change your mind. I'm just asking you to understand that these policies have real consequences for real people. For me. For my future students. For teachers who are trying to do right by kids in an impossible situation."
Billy picks at his fries, cold now. "You think I'm a bad person."
"No." She's surprised by how much she means it. "I think you're certain about things I'm uncertain about. And I think your certainty sometimes keeps you from seeing what these policies actually do."
"And I think you're letting liberal professors convince you that everything Trump does is evil."
She laughs—exhausted, not amused. "My education professors aren't political. They're teaching us how to teach. Classroom management. Lesson planning. Assessment strategies.
Boring, practical stuff. The only reason it feels political is because Trump made it political."
"Or because teachers are overwhelmingly liberal and they vote Democrat and they don't want Trump dismantling their power."
"What power?" Her voice rises again. "Billy, teachers don't have power. We have classrooms full of kids and not enough supplies and parents who blame us when their kids fail and administrators who don't back us up and politicians who use us as culture war props. Where's the power in that?"
Billy opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again. "The unions—"
"I'm not talking about unions. I'm talking about teachers. Individual people who chose this profession because they want to help kids learn. We don't get paid enough. We work nights and weekends. We spend our own money on supplies. And now we're being told we can't teach accurately because it might make someone uncomfortable." Her voice cracks slightly. "I haven't even started yet and I'm already exhausted."
Billy looks uncertain for the first time since they sat down.
A flicker. A crack. He runs his hand across his jaw, and the uncertainty transforms him—makes him less the aggressive campus activist and more just a guy figuring things out. Emily feels her chest tighten. This version of him, the one willing to question, is somehow more attractive than the certain one.
Which is its own kind of problem.
"Maybe…" Billy starts, then stops. "Maybe some of the orders go too far."
She stares. "Which ones?"
"I don't know. Maybe the race thing. Like, you should be able to teach the Civil Rights Movement without getting your funding pulled." He shifts uncomfortably. "But the DEI stuff—that's different. That's actually indoctrination."
"How do you know?"
"Because–" Billy falters. "Because Trump says so. And I trust Trump."
"More than you trust me?"
The question hangs.
Billy doesn't answer directly. Instead, he says, "You ever wonder if maybe you're the one who's wrong? If maybe the concerns about schools are real and you just don't see it because you're in the system?"
"Every day," Emily admits. "I wonder if I'm naive. If I'm not seeing something my parents see. If my professors have blind spots." She meets his eyes. "But then I look at the actual policies—not the rhetoric, the actual text—and I see them restricting what I can teach, threatening funding for schools that need it most, banning health measures that protect vulnerable kids. And I can't make that fit with 'protecting children.'"
Billy looks down at his tray. Burger barely touched. "I don't know what to tell you."
"You don't have to tell me anything." She gathers her things, stuffs her barely-eaten salad back in its container. "I just wanted you to understand why I keep pushing back in class. It's not because I'm some liberal plant. It's because this is my life."
She stands. Backpack heavy. Billy looks up, something like regret crossing his face. He's quieter now, less sure of himself, and it hits different. The cockiness is a shield; underneath it he's just a working-class guy trying to make sense of a world that doesn't make sense.
"Emily—"
"Yeah?"
"You're still wrong about Trump. But…" He hesitates. "I get why you're worried."
It's not much. It's not agreement or understanding or anything that will change how Billy votes or what he posts on Twitter. But it's something. A crack of light through armor. And more than that: it's a moment of real connection, the kind that happens between two people when defenses drop.
"Thanks for sitting with me," she says.
"Thanks for not calling me a fascist."
She almost laughs. "Would've been hypocritical, given I voted for him too."
Billy stands too, walks her toward the cafeteria exit. For a moment they're just two people in a crowd, not representatives of opposing ideologies. His hand brushes her arm as they navigate through the lunch crowd, and she feels the contact more than she should.
"Hey," Billy says as they reach the doors. "You eat lunch here next Thursday?"
The question is casual but his eyes aren't. Emily knows exactly what she's doing when she says: "Probably. Why?"
"Maybe we could do this again sometime. I mean, if you want. Seems like we actually talk instead of just… screaming past each other."
There's vulnerability in the offer, the kind of thing Billy James probably doesn't do often. Emily can see her future self making bad decisions with this guy. She can already hear her roommate's lectures about patterns and self-sabotage. She can picture the disapproval on her parents' faces.
"Yeah," she says. "Maybe we could."
Billy's smile is genuine, relieved. "Cool. I'll, uh, see you in class?"
"See you in class."
She leaves Billy at the table edge; he watches her go. There's a question in his expression that matches the one in her chest: What just happened here?
Outside, the February cold bites through her jacket. She pulls out her phone, opens her mom's text thread, stares at the message she drafted last night:
To Mom:
Mom, I need to talk to you about the education executive orders.
To Mom:
Mom, I need to talk to you about the education executive orders.
Mom, I need to talk to you about the education executive orders.
She deletes it.
Not today. Maybe not ever. Some conversations cost more than she can afford tonight. And besides, her mind is somewhere else right now–back in the cafeteria with a guy in a MAGA hat who maybe, just maybe, is more than what his politics suggest.
Instead, she texts her ed psych study group:
To Study Group:
Back on for tonight? I need to talk about classroom management strategies under hostile policy environments.
To Study Group:
Back on for tonight? I need to talk about classroom management strategies under hostile policy environments.
Back on for tonight? I need to talk about classroom management strategies under hostile policy environments.
Three thumbs-up arrive immediately.
She walks toward the library, weaving through students arguing about the latest executive order. Near the fountain, the Students for Social Justice table is swarmed with people signing petitions, while twenty feet away, a guy in a MAGA hat shouts something about fake news.
Billy's face when she mentioned her grandfather. That moment of genuine doubt. The way his guard dropped.
Maybe not enough to change anything.
But enough. The person under the red hat is still human. And there's something beneath the crude certainty—something that responded to her, that maybe she can reach.
She'll think about that next time they argue in class. She'll probably think about it a lot before next Thursday.
Her friends will be horrified. Her parents would be appalled. But something about Billy—the roughness, the willingness to listen despite disagreeing, the vulnerability that flashed across his face—calls to the part of her that's always been drawn to guys like him.
Maybe that's a problem for another day.
For now, she's already thinking about Thursday.
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