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The dean is so absorbed in his speech that he hasn’t noticed the change in the audience, the low murmurs that sweep the crowd. I can see a few of the other administrators who are sitting off to one side of the auditorium standing up and putting their heads together, clearly trying to decide how best to handle this.
My fingertips go numb, my pencil stilling on the sketchpad as I stare blankly at the screen.
I feel nothing when more pictures of me flash past. I’m not so bloody in these, but the images are followed by intimate details of a sexual assault by one of my foster brothers in the house I was in before Brody’s. Then my testimony to the cops. My physical records following the doctor’s examination.
And I feel… nothing.
The black hole in my chest expands outward, and I let it. I do my best to push it into every corner of my body, swallowing up each emotion that tries to rise inside me.
The administrators are finally making their way up to the stage, a small group of them clustered together, still whispering frantically among themselves.
The slide changes again.
This time, the screen shows CT scans and doctor’s notes about my dizzy spells and brain damage, presumably from when my mother still had custody of me.
His neatly typed report breaks me down into nothing more than a list of symptoms and ailments.
There’s the likelihood that I’ll have increasing issues with my long-term memory as I get older. The potential for short-term memory loss as well,
especially in moments of high stress. The suggestion that I should have a proper psychiatric evaluation and potentially be medicated.
Every fucking thing the doctor wrote down is on display for the entire school to see.
The whispers around me aren’t whispers anymore, and the admins have finally reached the dean on stage. He cuts off mid-sentence, holding a hand over the mic as he turns to talk to them, confusion clear on his face.
Now that Dean Wells is no longer speaking, the voices around me grow louder. Words like “crazy,” “mental,” and “unstable” drift through the crowd. I can hear pity in some people’s voices because, “Oh, how awful that she was—”
My mind blanks out the rest. I don’t need their fucking sympathy. I don’t have room in my heart, my body, or my mind for their misplaced pity for an orphan girl, any more than I have room to process the snorts of laughter and stupid-ass jokes that are already being told at my expense.
It doesn’t matter, I tell myself.
It doesn’t matter what they think. What they think doesn’t change reality, and my reality is that I’ve already gotten over it all. I’ve already accepted the shittiest parts of my life as unalterable facts.
It doesn’t fucking matter.
That mantra plays like a drumbeat in my chest, keeping time with my numb heart.
It doesn’t fucking matter.
The dean and the other admins are in the middle of a hushed, hurried discussion, and he glances at the screen behind him, which is still cycling through images of me.
He gestures, and two of the administrators disappear into the wings. A moment later, the projector turns off.
“What is the meaning of this?” Dean Wells turns back to the microphone, staring down the crowd. He looks genuinely angry, and I wonder if he’s pissed about the violation of my privacy or the fact that this might reflect poorly on the school.
Actually, I don’t wonder at all.
“This kind of behavior, these kinds of pranks, are beneath the dignity of this hallowed institution,” he continues, his voice booming through the speaker system. “We expect better of you all. We expect excellence, both in your academics and in your personal conduct. When immature behavior like this happens, it lets down all of us at Hawthorne University. If this kind of incident is repeated, there will be consequences for those found to be responsible. Do you all understand?”
There’s a subdued murmur from the crowd, although from my vantage point in the back, I can see that students are still whispering and joking with each other. No one seems to give a shit if the dean is “let down,” especially since he doesn’t seem all that interested in doing more than issuing a half-hearted warning at the moment.
No one will pay for this.
No one will get in trouble.
Someone tracked down my Child Protective Services file, my fucking life history, and bared the horrors of my upbringing to the entire school.
And they’re going to get away with it, without even a slap on the wrist.
