“Steven’s always been nice in the hallway, Mom,” she’d said. “He told Madison to leave me alone once, in ninth grade.”
I had heard “nice boy” and translated it into something else.
The music cut. The gym fell into that strange, breathing silence only crowded rooms can make. Steven tapped the microphone once.
“Everyone, eyes up here for a second.” He looked directly at Rosie. “Victim. That’s what they’ve treated her like for years.”
Then he pushed the flash drive into the laptop.
I tried to push past again. The boys held their ground without touching me.
But something stopped my next breath. The girls in the photo.
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Then the screen behind him lit up.
The first photo loaded slowly. Rosie in a bathroom stall, knees pulled to her chest, her face wet and red.
“Stop it,” I whispered. Then louder. “Steven, stop.”
The second photo. Rosie in the cafeteria, her jacket torn at the sleeve, her stuffed bear pressed against her chest like a shield.
