The clock says there’s only a half hour left before the dismissal bell rings. I pick through the pile of essays, selecting students whose writing I believe I’ll be able to grade the fastest. The next one I pull looks as though it has largely been lifted from the internet. I sigh and shake my head, marking the paper as a reminder to search for plagiarized portions online later.
I pull another piece of paper and immediately sigh in frustration. It’s only one sheet, and there’s not even writing on the back. We’ve devoted an entire day to these essays, and one of my students has only managed to produce a few lousy paragraphs. My frustrations build further when I realize there’s no name on the paper, either. I understand we’re nearing the end of the semester, but is it too much to ask for minimal effort?
I start reading, almost nervous to see what poor topic this student must have chosen:
We go outside. She stumbles, no longer fit to run.
I sit back and shake my head. What the hell is this? Why is it shuffled in between stacks of research essays?
People see her beauty. People see her wealth. I see her meanness. Behind the pretty purple, there’s nothing but weak.
Purple. Darcy flashes before my mind. Her satin gown with that bronzed leg poking out, the same leg that was slashed hours later. Is someone writing about her?
I’ll make her feel her ugly. The world will see her meanness.
I throw down the paper, tears falling from my face. This is the attack. All the details the school is unsure about, all the details Darcy can’t remember, are written on this paper. This is someone’s confession. But they’re not trying to clear their conscience. They’re trying to disturb mine.
I refuse to continue reading. I don’t want to know the details; it’s too painful. High school students can be ugly to each other, and, on occasion, their teachers. But I can’t imagine any of my students making fun of Darcy’s situation, especially considering the dim light the school has shed on the matter. Their cruelty would typically be saved for their peers, a crude joke when they think no adult is watching.
No, whoever wrote this essay is trying to bother me. They’re dangling their confession in front of my face, hoping I won’t be able to figure out who wrote it. I recall my rosters. I’ve had most of these students in class for weeks; I can’t imagine any of them would write something like this. Adam, the person everyone believes attacked Darcy, was noticeably absent today.
In the past five years, there has been only one student whom I consider cruel enough to write such a letter. Only one student has ever reminded me of Brian. Zoey. It must be. She’d only been at Victory Hills for a week when Darcy was attacked. She’s managed to get her classmates and other teachers to like her, but the charade doesn’t fool everyone. It doesn’t fool me. When people heard Darcy Moore was assaulted at a party, their minds—even mine—went to a male perpetrator; unfortunately, the story is far too common. Based on the circumstances of the attack, a female could just have easily stabbed Darcy.
My mind goes back to first block dismissal and Zoey’s smug threat as she left the room. Happy reading, she’d said, that glib smile covering her face. Knowing at some point, whether this afternoon or later this weekend within the comfort of my own home, I’d find her confession and freeze. I slam my elbows against the desk and drop my head into my hands. My gut tells me not to trust Bowles with it; he’s already adamant about ignoring Darcy’s ordeal. Pam would see the seriousness, but I remember she’s not here today; she’s with Darcy. Telling the police crosses my mind, but I decide to wait. I should see what Pam has to say first.
Guilt rages, again, when I realize Zoey intended this letter for me. There’s a reason she isn’t messing with Marge or Coach Gabe. I recall my conversation with Zoey earlier in the week when I overheard her make a wry comment about girls not being believed. I revealed my buttons and now she’s pushing. Zoey wants me to be bothered. If she knows about Brian, she knows I won’t confront her from fear she’ll out my past.
As much as I want to never read the letter again, I realize there might be some clue tangled up with the other sickening words. I take a deep breath and lift the paper. It’s only a few paragraphs, but the contents disturb me. Much like reading all those articles over a decade ago. I read as the disgusting writer—already in my mind it’s Zoey—describes violating Darcy, slicing her leg. The essay stops abruptly, as I’m imagining the event did in real time. Maybe this was when the police arrived? Perhaps Zoey was interrupted?
By now, I can hardly read because I’m crying so hard. My contacts are blurry. Because, again, I’m not only imagining these events happening to Darcy, but to all those girls back at Sterling Cove University, too. Except this time, Brian isn’t the only abuser who enters my mind. Zoey’s there, too. Hurting and slicing, smiling at the pain she’s caused.
The dismissal bell rings, and I can hear the thunder of feet as students stampede the halls. I’ll have to wait several minutes to leave, now. Otherwise my co-workers and students will see my splotchy face and know something is wrong.
I close my eyes, as Dr. Walters has
