You don’t understand. Lockers get scratched all the time. Little notes stuck to them. Stickers and decorations.
“Defaced?” you ask, because none of this makes sense.
Dr. Matthews’s face is already kind of ruddy, but it turns redder.
“With an offensive word,” he says.
One word.
“So I wanted to make sure you knew you were… supported here. For who you are.”
One word.
Oh God, is he trying to tell you he knows?
This is a nightmare.
“Dayton reported it,” he says, sounding… impressed? “Which showed great integrity.”
You blink at him.
Dayton stood up for you? It doesn’t make any sense.
“I’ll have to tell your parents, but I wanted to check, ah… how much you were comfortable with me discussing with them.”
Oh.
He’s not sure if your parents know.
Is he worried about you? Does he think they’d disown you or something?
“They know,” you say quietly.
“And you’re doing okay?” he asks again.
“I’m okay.”
You’re not okay.
You’re a nervous wreck is what you are.
That one word. Scrawled across your locker. You didn’t see it but you can picture it, the sharp angles and broad curves against the red metal.
You want to run, you want to scream, you want to hide, you want to hit something.
You don’t know what you want.
Except that you want out of this stifling office, with this grown-up who’s trying to act like he understands you, with the lingering notes of Dayton’s cologne, like he’s still right there next to you, with yourself, because you thought you were so brave yesterday but you’re not. You’re still afraid.
You hate being afraid.
But you say it again: “I’m okay.”
One, one, three, you say to yourself. Jab, jab, left hook.
One, four, five, four. Jab, right hook, left uppercut, right hook.
You pound the bag, sweat dripping down your temple, stingingyour eye where it hits the crease, but you ignore it. Your arms have gone leaden, your fists are throbbing in their wraps and gloves, but you don’t stop.
