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“And... sent.” With one last tap, Emory leans backwards in his seat, eyeing his laptop, hands positioned behind his head.
The juicery’s mellow music rings in the background, and Yasmine nods, eyes still on her phone as Laura’s eyes scope the laptop.
“So, what’s the plan?” Laura asks, from across the round, neon-green table, hands clasped.
“Well, I emailed the video to the principal, so I guess she’ll decide what’s going to happen to Brett after he’s fessed up to everything. I also anonymously submitted it onto the school blog, so people should see it in seconds.”
“And the elections?” I ask, eyes finding Laura’s as I hold my smoothie cup between my hands.
Yasmine hums, opening her mouth to pitch in when the usual jingle of the juicery chimes ring throughout the space, drawing all attention to the entrance.
Amber Wesley is standing at the front, arms folded, lips twitching when her gaze finds us.
“She’s coming our way,” Emory mutters in a sing-song voice, eyes narrowed as he eyes the dirty blonde who comes to a halt at our table.
“I can’t believe this,” Amber says, grin widening as she slides into a spare seat at our table.
“Can’t believe what?” Laura asks, stirring her mango smoothie with a straw.
Amber holds up her glossy phone screen. Squinting, I see Brett, hockey jersey glinting underneath the lights, eyes angry as he stares directly into the camera.
“This just got submitted onto the school blog.” Amber says, shaking her phone screen, Brett’s angry words cutting through the audio.
“His campaign is over,” Amber emphasizes, hair falling over to the side, hands running through her waves. “It has to be.”
Yasmine clears her throat, and Amber’s head snaps up from her phone, raising a hand to her chest to quickly muster fake sympathy.
“I am so sorry about what happened to you, Emory.” Amber says, holding her phone to her chest, her green eyes dripping with faux emotion.
Emory coughs, a badly-concealed laugh peeking out from his tone. “Well, things happen.”
So, you had no idea?” Yasmine asks, tilting her head to the side as Laura narrows her eyes at Amber.
Amber shrugs, muttering quickly. “I mean, someone mentioned something at the table, but I didn’t really catch on to it.”
“What?” Laura asks, and Emory blinks rapidly. Like that one blinking white guy gif. I’d laugh if Amber’s statement wasn’t so ridiculously unfunny. Any laughter I might have falls dead in my throat and dies there. Like a shriveled butterfly crushed underfoot.
“Well, I thought it’d be better to get the full story.” Amber attempts to amend, making everything a million times worse.
“What full story?” The question slips out of my lips in a second. It’s tentative, but the confusion is still hanging from my tone.
Someone got physically attacked by a group of cowards, without any provocation. The full story?
All Brett did was confirm what we already knew. He physically attacked someone without provocation. Not like provocation would justify what happened, anyway.
The thing that makes my blood run cold is the fact that Amber knew. Amber knew the entire time, had the information secured in the back of her mind. She chose to brush it away, chose to ignore it until it was convenient for her.
Amber’s eyes land on the ceiling, leaning back against her seat, arms sliding over her chest, gaze unimpressed, dripping with some patronization. “The full story, okay? All parts of what happened. Not just what Emory claims happened.” A glance towards Emory, a toffee-sweet smile. “No offense.”
A beat, before Laura hums. “What do you mean?” An innocent question, before she troughs on. “It seems like you were aware of it, but chose to ignore it.” Her eyebrows are scrunched as she stirs her smoothie.
After all, had she really wanted the full story, she would have researched, looked into it. “The full story” is some lousy excuse for bystanding. Always has been, always will be.
Makes me sick.
Pink tinges at Amber’s cheeks as she opens her mouth to shoot out an indignant reply.
“That’s what it sounded like,” Yasmine clarifies, eyebrows perfectly arched.
“Yeah, well,” Emory cuts in, giving Amber a wry grin. “That’s the full story. Thanks for the sympathy. It’s over and done.” He claps his hands together. “Thanks for dropping by.”
“Just here to check in,” Amber says, smoothing down her skirt. When no one else makes a move to say anything else, she speaks up again. “Well, anyways.” She turns to Laura, “You’ve got this election guaranteed. Most importantly, Brett is finally getting exposed for the fraud he is.”
Emory and I exchange glances, and Yasmine coughs. Laura, however, maintains a poker face, ever-the-politician. The irony of Amber’s statement causes me to poke a tongue in my cheek.
I mean, Amber cyberbullied Millie, yet launched her campaign as if she was against bullying. In fact, one of the slogans still rings in my head: Amber Wesley to make Elkwood a more inclusive space. Not to mention the complete 180° she did with Brett. One day, she was kissing his feet. The next, she was enlisting us to take him down.
“Things are definitely changing around here.” I finally say, a half smile rising to my lips.
“Definitely,” Amber agrees, rising from the table. “Anyways, I’ve got to go.” She leaves the chair untucked as she takes a few steps away, before calling over her shoulder. “Good luck.” Then, she giggles. “Not like there’s any more competition.”
She stops by the counter, placing money forward, and grabbing a cup, taking a generous swig out of the drink as the door shuts behind her.
When she’s gone, Yasmine purses her lips. “Well, that was... interesting.”
“It’s like she’s out for Brett’s blood.” I say, brushing my thumb over my bottom lip.
“Which is ironic,” Emory adds, leaning back in his chair, “seeing as just a few weeks ago, she was completely sucking up to him.”
Laura claps her hands together. “I’m guessing I have her vote?”
Yasmine bites her bottom lip, staring after the exit. “I’m guessing you do.”
“Which wouldn’t matter anyway,” Emory says, “because half of the original candidates won’t be running.”
“You’re certain that Brett will drop out of the race?” I ask, tilting my head to the side.
Laura snorts. “He’s not about to drop out, but he’ll definitely be kicked out.”
“So, it’s you and Walt.” Yasmine murmurs, resting her chin on her fist.
“The student body is just gonna have to choose between the lesser of two evils.” Emory shrugs, his lips twitching slightly.
Laura shoves him to the side, almost instantaneously and he shoots a show-stopping grin, dripping with amusement.
“That wasn’t very cash money of you,” I state, eliciting laughter from Yasmine who’s seated next to me.
“I’m kidding.” Emory laughs, taking a slurp of his juice, giving Laura a firm nod. “The elections are yours.”
“Well, time to see what the school says, come Monday.” Laura nods slowly, eying each of us knowingly, and we all mirror the look, because once Monday comes, judgement day comes.
***
Monday morning, I’m seated in the office, Laura next to me. Class starts in just under 10 minutes, and the principal—Ms. Anderson— eyes the two of us from underneath her horn-rimmed glasses.
No sooner had Laura and I stepped foot in the school—earlier this morning—had Ms. Anderson ushered us to her headquarters, catching our eyes and leading us to the most despised room in Elkwood.
Her office.
Ms. Anderson’s room is plain. The center consists of a black chair behind a mahogany desk. Pictures of her and a balding man are placed on varying parts of the walls. An empty glass vase is positioned towards the corner of her desk, intricate designs crawling up the object. Finally, a plain silver laptop sits atop her desk. Everything in the room is stiff, not unlike the navy pantsuit the principal is wearing, a red blouse peeking from the blazer, emphasizing cherry red lips and cold, narrowed eyes.
“So, yesterday, I received footage from Emory Richards.” Ms. Anderson says, adjusting the collar of her blazer. “Brett M. was depicted in this video.” Pause. “I’d be talking to Emory right now, but it appears that he has a conflicting appointment this morning.”
“It’s a doctor’s appointment,” Laura says, raising a hand. Her expression is passive, almost emotionless. He’s supposed to get medications for his burns.
I purse my lips. Brett’s claim about Ms. Anderson doubting Laura’s eligibility for StuCo president is undoubtedly the cause of Laura’s heightened level of indifference, with her passiveness straying into standoffish territory.
Ms. Anderson rests her arms on the back of her office chair, staring us down. “Well, the next time you see him, let him know that I’d like to meet with him.”
Silence. Laura and I slowly nod, letting the quietness consume the small room.
“So, uh,” I exchange glances with Laura, her dark eyes shining underneath the bright lights. “What about Brett?”
“What about Brett?” Ms. Anderson asks, leaning forward behind her chair, eyes cutting into mine.
“He admitted to physically attacking another student.” Laura says, eyebrows raised and knitted together.
“On the clip.” Ms. Anderson challenges. “I have no idea what went on before and after the video. He could’ve been prodded, the footage could’ve been manipulated.”
“By who?” Laura asks, eyes narrowed, letting out a slightly venomous chuckle.
Ms. Anderson tilts her head to the side, eyeing Laura in an equally venomous manner. “I just don’t know, Laura.”
She’s inferring something; something she won’t put to words, but the meaning behind her vague statement is crystal clear.
“Ms. Anderson, I—” I start, eyes finding hers, but Laura rises to her feet, cool demeanor diminishing.
“You don’t know, Ms. Anderson?” Laura asks, tone smooth as honey but eyes icy. “Because the footage seems awfully clear to me.”
“Well,” Ms. Anderson says, adjusting her glasses, the faintest arrogance creeping onto her lips. “I’ll have to talk to Brett first. See what he thinks.”
“The footage kind of already illustrates what he thinks, though.” I say, eyes squinting, pulling my bottom lip beneath my teeth.
“Exactly. The footage reveals everything you need to know,” The honey is slowly falling from Laura’s tone and giving way to ice. “It’s concrete evidence.”
“We’ll see, Miss Johnson.” Ms. Anderson replies, evenly. Laura makes a move to say something, but Ms. Anderson raises her hand.
“To me,” Ms. Anderson says, eyes drifting over me. “It looks like you’re just looking to eliminate your competition, instead of working hard like the other candidates.”
Laura’s mouth parts, before she lets out a cold, dry laugh almost readying herself to shoot something back. With that, I kick her leg from underneath the table, Laura letting out a heavy breath.
Ms. Anderson smiles, slowly. We’re at an impasse. One word, and we’re out of this school. There’s no way to go from here, and every one in the room is painfully aware of that.
“You’re dismissed, ladies.” Ms. Anderson says.
She’s not going to do anything about the incident. The fact is painfully clear. Talking to Brett is just a deflection, something that won’t end with any results.
With one tug of Laura’s arm, I pull her towards the door, stepping out of the frame as the door shuts behind us.
Laura laughs, but it’s devoid of any mirth. Frustration takes the form of angry watery eyes. “This is Oakwood all over again.”
“I’m sure we’re still going to win,” I say, uncertainness dripping from my voice.
“It’s not even about that,” Laura says, whipping around to meet my eyes. Her eyes are frustrated, cheeks tinged with pink. “It’s about the fact that Emory Richards was assaulted and burned by these psychopaths, and nothing is going to happen to them.” She falls back against the lockers with a thud. “He’s not going to get justice.”
“It happens.” I say, and the words sound dead, even to myself. After all, what will people say? Maybe the kid shouldn’t have gone to the barbecue in the first place. Maybe he should’ve chosen better friends. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe there’s more to the story. Maybe he said something to them.
No one will ever look at the real issue, which is the fact that Brett and his group assaulted Emory. No one will ever emphasize that what happened was unjustifiable under any circumstances. No one will realize that Emory did nothing wrong, that really, he was the victim.
No one will care.
“No, we can’t just say that.” Laura says, fists clenching. “If Emory doesn’t get justice, it’ll go against everything my campaign is standing for.” A watery, angry laugh escapes her lips. “Everything I’m standing for.”
She sinks down to the bottom of the lockers, and I sink down next to her, legs pulled to my chest.
I sigh, looking over to her. “What do you suggest, then?”
“You tell me,” Laura says, glancing over at me, dark hair pressed against the lockers.
I tilt my head to the side. What have people always done when the ruling party was unfair to them?
There’s the cry of the unheard, something that rumbles in the background, present but ignored.
It’s how unheard voices have always been heard— a collective storm of rebellion that rattles the earth, a united front that grabs the broken system by the shoulders and shakes it, forcing those in power to see us.
Fire appears in my eyes, and I turn over to Laura, a grin appearing on my lips. “We’re going to protest.”
