“HOW SHOULD I FUCKING KNOW? I just know what she fucking did. I know what I felt! I know and she fucking knows she did this to me, don’t you, you BITCH?”
“Briana!” shouts her mother.
Briana’s panting, out of breath now. Shaking with rage. Her pale little hands gripping the armrests like she’s trying to keep from collapsing.
“She needs to be fucking FIRED,” she seethes. “She needs to go to JAIL! She needs…” But she’s exhausted herself. I watch her upper body cave into itself a little. She grips the armrests tighter, her white knuckles pointed in my direction like sad little swords.
“Briana, that’s enough, you’re making a scene,” her father says.
“It’s all right,” I say calmly. And beneath my rib cage, my heart continues its slow, rhythmic thud. Voice smooth as a lake. Body light as a feather. My smile serene. “I’m used to scenes.”
“Apologize,” he orders.
But Briana will not apologize. She clamps her trembling lips tight like a child in protest. She looks down at the floor. I gaze at her greasy scalp full of dark, unwashed locks. She is going to cry again.
“It’s really okay,” I say gently, generously. My voice full of forgiveness and understanding, full of empathy, really. Totally unruffled. Still smooth as the surface of water on a windless day. “I forgive Briana. She’s obviously upset. Anxious. Under a great deal of stress, who wouldn’t be?”
Anxious. Stress. I’ve said the magic words. I’ve rung the bell.
Briana looks up at me like I’m a nightmare she’s trapped inside of. I’m the thick, dark forest. I’m the lightless sky. I’m the hunter dogging her every step. I’m the heavy air and the sucking mud beneath her feet that make it impossible for her to run.
“Stress!” the dean says eagerly. “Yes. Stress is a terrible thing.”
“Yes,” her father says immediately, “stress. She has been. Under a lot of stress.”
“She has been working herself up a lot, haven’t you dear?” her mother adds. “She hasn’t been able to sleep.”
“BECAUSE I’M SICK! And I’ve never been unwell before! I’ve never been sick!”
“Apparently, she’s not sick now either,” her father adds.
“Jim,” Briana’s mother hisses.
Briana looks at him, eyes flashing with betrayal. She could kill him, strangle him, her own father. Right here, right now, with her small, frail hands.
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” her father continues, unfazed. “How many doctors has she seen now. Six?”
“Seven,” her mother says, patting Briana’s greasy hair, but Briana shakes her off.
“Seven.” He looks at me. “We’ve had all kinds of tests done. They all say there’s nothing wrong with her. That she’s healthy as a horse.”
“No one’s said that!” Briana protests.
“They say that maybe she had some kind of virus,” he continues, talking to me and the dean now, “but that stress is what’s keeping her immune system out of whack.”
“What about my leg, then?” Briana demands. “What about my back?”
She’s looking right at her father, pleading, but he’s a wall. He continues to address me and the dean.
“They say her back is probably just messed up because she’s been in bed for so long. That her leg is messed up because her back is messed up.”
“Only one doctor said that! And he was an idiot. He didn’t even listen to me!”
“But it makes sense, doesn’t it?” her father presses, looking at us.
“A domino effect,” the dean says happily. “Absolutely. One time, I hurt my ankle. Next thing it was my shoulder. Next thing I knew I had a headache. That’s your domino effect.”
My phone buzzes in my lap. I look down. Hugo, sending me texts.
Last night my god
Can’t stop thinking about it
Jesus ur fucking hot. my god.
Meet me in wkshp now?
I hide my phone under Briana’s sick glare.
“All compensatory,” the dean is saying. “Weakness begets weakness. And stress can play terrible tricks on us.”
“Sure it can,” says her father. “That’s what we’ve been telling her.”
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here! I hate when you do that! I’m right here! Right here in this room!” Her voice is wavering wildly. She looks less angry, more desperate. Her sweaty white face punched in with self-pity and fear, real fear. Fucking look at me! Am I invisible?