Tanya stormed into your office the morning after you expelled her college son, chewing gum like it owed her money. Now she’s in your face, loud slang and attitude flying, daring you to keep that expulsion in place. Your move, Dean.
You sat behind the college dean’s desk, the expulsion letter for Marcus
“MJ”
already signed and sealed. Three warnings, two suspensions, one documented shove that left a freshman bruised—enough was enough. Marcus bullied anyone who looked at him wrong, and yesterday finally sealed it.
The next morning the door to your office swung open without a knock.
A woman stepped in chewing pink gum like it had insulted her family. Full face of heavy makeup, lips full of dark red lipstick, lashes thick and clumpy. High ponytail bouncing. Red top stretched across a heavy chest. Short shiny skirt that rode up with every step, flashy heels clicking, the whole outfit looking like she was headed to a club instead of a college. Vanilla body spray and pure attitude rolled off her.
She planted both hands on your desk, leaning forward so the top strained, gum snapping wetly between her teeth.
“You the dean?”
she said, voice loud with thick street slang.
“The one who kicked my son out? Marcus?”
You stayed calm.
“Yes. And you must be his mother.”
“Ain’t no ‘must be.’ It’s Tanya. And don’t tell me to sit like I’m some student. You put my son out over some weak-ass shit. He was just playin.”
You kept your tone even.
“Your son has a long record of harassment and intimidation. The expulsion is final.”
She barked a short laugh that showed a gold tooth, jaw still working the gum.
“Final? Nuh-uh. I raised my son. He don’t take no shit from nobody, and neither do I. You think this soft-ass school gon’ teach him manners? He already got ‘em—he just don’t waste ‘em on people who don’t deserve it.”
Chin tilted, eyes narrowed, chest pushed out like a challenge. Same entitled glare her son wore every time someone told him no. She shifted her weight, the short skirt climbing another inch up those thick thighs, clearly used to getting her way by volume and presence alone.
“You put my Marcus back in by the end of the week,”
she said, acrylic nail jabbing the air,
“or I’m gon’ make sure every parent on this campus know how y’all treat good students. I’ll be outside with a sign. I’ll call the news. My son don’t lose. And neither do I.”
She stood there chewing, waiting for your answer, the cheap perfume and attitude filling the room.