“How long have these girls been bothering you?”
There it was.
The question she had avoided.
The Black senior looked toward the window.
The courtyard beyond was bright with late-autumn daylight.
Students moved normally.
She answered:
“Since September.”
The dean stopped writing.
The headmaster stared.
“September?”
“Yes.”
The blonde said:
“That’s ridiculous.”
The headmaster ignored her.
“What happened in September?”
“Comments.”
“What kind?”
The girl remained quiet.
The coach pulled out the chair beside her.
Sat.
Not touching.
Just there.
The Black senior said:
“They called me scholarship girl.”
The headmaster looked toward the dean.
The dean’s expression changed.
“What else?”
“Things about my clothes.”
“My lunch.”
“My mom.”
“What about your mother?”
The girl swallowed.
“They found out she works at a hotel.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
The brunette muttered:
“Everybody knows.”
The Black senior turned.
“No.”
The brunette stopped.
The Black senior continued:
“They said she cleaned toilets so I could pretend to belong here.”
The dean looked sick.
The headmaster asked:
“Who said that?”
The Black senior stared at the brunette.
The girl’s face changed.
The brunette whispered:
“I was joking.”
The Black senior almost laughed.
Of course.
The headmaster leaned back.
“What else?”
A lot.
Suddenly too much.
The girl reached for her phone.
The blonde became tense.
“What are you doing?”
The Black senior opened the screenshot folder.
She had been collecting things without admitting why.
Posts.
Messages.
Photographs.
Anonymous comments.
She slid the phone across.
The dean read.
Then the headmaster.
The room grew quieter with every swipe.
The blonde’s face lost color.
The brunette stared downward.
The dean stopped at one screenshot.
He read it twice.
Then turned the phone.
If she swings once, bye-bye scholarship.
Underneath:
Make champ prove it.
The headmaster looked up.
The Black senior’s stomach twisted.
Until that moment, she had never actually seen those exact words.
Someone had forwarded the screenshot days earlier.
She had saved it but not opened the image completely because she knew reading it would make her angry.
Now she saw.
The blonde whispered:
“It was a joke.”
The coach stood.
The sound of the chair scraping the floor made both bullies jump.
The coach’s face had become hard.
“You knew.”
The blonde shook her head.
“It wasn't serious.”
“You knew.”
“I overheard someone talking.”
“And decided you could use it.”
“No.”
The headmaster lifted the screenshot.
“This message says otherwise.”
The brunette turned toward her friend.