I covered my mouth with my hand.
“So I started taking pictures,” Steven added. “Every time. Every hallway. Every cafeteria. Every cruel little joke you thought no one saw.”
Madison’s face had gone the color of paper.
“I needed everyone here to see it at the same time.”
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“That envelope I had tonight,” Steven said, holding it up, “it’s labeled After They Laugh. Because that’s when I took most of these. After. When they thought she couldn’t see them anymore.”
A teacher near the door was already moving toward Madison’s group.
Steven looked out across the crowd, then directly at Rosie, who stood at the edge of the dance floor with her hands clasped in front of her, confused and still.
“Rosie,” he said softly, “I’m sorry I didn’t show you this earlier. I needed everyone here to see it at the same time.”
