Good night, Grace. And I left quietly. I walked home. Singing those songs from the radio. It was a beautiful night. My feet barely touched the spring earth.
I texted Grace, Hope all’s well. And then I texted Hugo, Cum over. We fucked furiously until sunrise. I saw the dawn break beautifully from my window as I rode him like a horse.
* * *
Now the door of the dean’s office opens. Enter Briana. Fauve draws a breath. So does the dean. But I am the picture of fortitude as I watch Briana enter, hobbling even more than yesterday, leaning heavily on her mother. Her father trails soberly behind, hands in his pockets. I see the hospital bracelet around her wrist. Her hair, still lank and unwashed, the color of mud, hangs around her bloodless face. No panic inside me as I watch her traverse the room, dragging that dead leg behind her.
Fauve rushes to help her—of course—even though she’s already being assisted by her parents. I watch Briana pause many times to cry. Meanwhile, her mother and Fauve whisper, “Be brave, be strong.” Briana shakes her head, then nods. She will be. We watch her rally, gather herself. Hobble bravely to her chair, which she then falls into. She sits there crookedly, glaring at me. It’s truly a spectacular performance, the whole thing. I nearly applaud.
I look over at the dean, who’s attempting to look discreetly at his watch.
“Sorry to be late like this,” Briana’s father offers. “Bit of a rough morning, huh, kiddo?”
She doesn’t answer him. Just glares into the middle distance.
“We went to the emergency room,” her mother offers gravely.
“Uh-oh,” the dean says. “Everything okay?”
“No,” spits Briana just as her father says, “Yes. Just a panic attack. Nothing to worry about.”
He wears a corporate plaid today. A pale blue that only accentuates the redness of his face. I think of golf courses, rare steaks eaten in restaurants like dark, glimmering caves, a pitcher of ice-cold lemonade that’s mostly gin. He smiles mirthlessly at his daughter, at all of us, puts his phone in his inside breast pocket with a sigh. He should be in his office, his face says, upturning the global economy, setting the Amazon on fire. Not here. A shame he can’t throw a credit card at this.
Briana glares up at him. Her face contorts with a cry she holds in.
“Oh, well,” he says, looking down at her like she’s an alien. “We could have rescheduled.”
“She wanted to come today,” her mother says, clasping her hand. “Didn’t you, dear?” The mother is clearly day-drunk. Wearing dark-tinted Jackie O glasses. Her dyed burnished hair tucked behind tiny ears studded with diamonds. Capris （of course） and a boatneck sweater （of course）。 Pearls always. She reminds me of my mother in her inebriated state, except with far more money and less style. Even with her waitress salary, my mother always dressed to the nines. All the world’s a stage, Bunny, she’d say, painting her lips with a shaking hand. Remember that. I think of her in a vintage dress, her dyed red hair like a fountain of fire, reeking of alcohol and Chanel N°5, staggering toward my high school, ripped out of her mind, to see me in the play. To clap loudly for her daughter. To stand up and clap. Why are you all still fucking sitting? she’d mutter at the audience of frightened parents. To complain to anyone who would listen—my drama teachers, the administration—that I didn’t have enough lines, why were they giving me such minor roles? When it was clear to anyone with eyes that I was a star. And she should know—she worked in a hotel dining room after all, Talk about theater! Banging her fist on the desks.
Ridiculous, she’d hiss. Fools. All of you.
Thank you so much for your feedback, Ms. Fitch.
Briana nods now at the floor. I take the sight of her in as she used to take me in. Briana hunched in a dark sweatshirt. Hospital bracelet hanging from her wrist. Gold cross on her neck. Good job with the props, as always. Flanked by her parents—the mother glaring too, but softly, drunkenly, uncertainly. The father looking away. Of course she wanted to come today. I’m not panicking at all. Because it’s absurd that I did this, that I’m culpable. Did I mouth-breathe like this? Were my lips ever this bloodless?
Now the dean ahems. “Well, let’s get this started, shall we? Now, Briana, you’ve raised some very concerning accusations.”
Fauve reaches across and grips Briana’s hand fiercely. “Go on, dear,” she says gently.
Laughter begins to rise in my throat. I almost crack up.
“Briana, do you want to tell us what’s brought you here today?” the dean urges.