“As you can see, my proposal is to do a deep dive into some of the fallacies of the private school system, particularly the lack of diversity at Preston Prep.” I take a deep breath. “As you know, a long-standing social club was disbanded last winter after a cover-up of illegal behavior, vandalizing school property, and bullying a member of the school community. The bullied person is black and identifies as genderfluid, making him a sitting target at a school that had previously ignored such behavior. I thought an investigation into why the school finally felt now was the right time to shut down the Devils, and if that action will really make a difference if the school itself has or hasn’t made any changes in welcoming diverse students.”
I finish in a rush and my heart hammers in my chest, like I’ve just run a race. It’s a bit strange, actually feeling things again. Without the pain pills, every emotion feels sharper and unused, clumsily rushing into all my cracks. I know the topic is risky. It’s calling out the school on a long-held weak spot, but when the headmaster took action against the Devils, and Hamilton Bates made it clear he was finished with the group, it showed that maybe, finally, it was time for change.
With his elbow resting on the desk and his forefinger tapping on his chin, I wait for Mr. Lee to react to my story idea.
“It’s an interesting concept, Vandy.”
I breathe, shoulders losing some of that tight tension. “Thank you.”
He pauses for a moment, seeming to choose his words. “You don’t worry about this sort of topic coming from—well, to put it as delicately as possible—someone who’s the exact opposite of a target for discrimination here?”
I raise an eyebrow. “You mean, because I’m white and cis and straight.”
He makes a complicated head bob. “For starters. You also come from a wealthy family, particularly one that has significant influence in the world of journalism. You see where I’m going with this.”
I only just barely stop my jaw from dropping. “Mr. Lee,” I begin, battling down a bitter laugh. “First of all, I’m not able-bodied. Second of all, I’m not a guy. I’m not sure if you’ve been watching lately, but being a female student at this school can be actual hell.” I level him with a look, and I don’t need to say any names, but I could. The Adams girls. The Playthings. Even Sydney. “That said, you’re absolutely right. Despite my adversity, I am incredibly privileged, which puts me in a position to put voice to these issues without fearing for my own security. So, to answer your question, no. I don’t worry.”
He nods, sighing. “You’re not wrong about that, I suppose.” His lips form a thin line. “The problem is, I’m just not sure it’s the right…tone…for the Chronicle this year.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
He exhales and shifts in his seat. “What happened last spring was a wake-up call for the administration. As you know, it was a controversial move. The Devils were a long-standing tradition at the school and there were definitely some alumni who were not happy with the decision. Some patrons have even gone so far as refusing to support the school once the decision was made.”
“You’re kidding.” I blink, processing that information. “Well, that just makes me think this is an even more relevant topic than before.”
“I understand that point of view—and frankly, don’t disagree with it, but…”
“But what?” I demand. “What is the problem?”
“The problem is that the administration wants topics like this to go away, not to be dragged through the school paper. They want the alumni happy. The donors content. Their endowment secure. They want a year without a scandal, or at least without a scandal being dredged back up.”
I swallow, feeling gut punched. Numbers game. “So, you’re saying you don’t want a real investigative story.” I smile tightly. “You want a fluff piece.”
“What I want,” he gently explains, “is for twenty students from unprivileged backgrounds to receive a scholarship here next year, just like they always do. That can’t happen if donors keep pulling their funding. I know this must seem like a great injustice, but tell me. What’s the best way of helping them? Because make no mistake, these are real kids we’re talking about. They’re more than just a story or a feather in the cap of your college application letters.”
I bristle. “I don’t think—”
He holds up a hand. “I didn’t mean to imply you felt that way, I just want to be clear about where our priorities are. It’s a good idea, Vandy. But it’s just not something I can approve right now. In an institution like Preston, change must come slowly and quietly. I realize that must be difficult to hear.” He pushes his glasses up his nose, smiling wistfully. “I was quite the activist in my day, too.”
I carefully ease myself from the chair without even replying, gathering my things to leave.
Before I can, he says, “Miss Hall, you must know from your mother’s work how these things go. Journalism is tricky. We have a duty to cover the facts, to give voice to injustice. But we also have to perform those duties responsibly, in a way that won’t harm people who are already vulnerable. Do you understand?”
I swallow around the lump in my throat, managing a tight nod, and I know I should say something professional, like ‘thanks for listening’, or ‘I’ll try again later’. But I limp as quickly from the office as I can before the hot prick in my eyes turn to fat, angry tears. I’d waited an hour to present my idea, sitting behind three other students who were also competing for the piece. Had he rejected theirs too?
I cross the parking lot toward Emory’s truck, thankful that the campus is empty enough that no one is around to see me. I’d spent the last three weeks of the summer working on the idea and in a few short minutes, my goal for the year—my motivation—is gone.
Just like that.
I unlock the truck and I’m so frustrated and unstable that it takes me three tries to climb inside. I stomp on the running board when I do, as if it were actually capable of feeling my wrath. Thankfully, Emory isn’t here yet. I know him. He’d see me upset and get absolutely furious. He’d probably demand that I go back inside and try again—or worse, he’d go back inside and force Mr. Lee to reconsider. That’s why I’ve been keeping this to myself. It’s well known that everyone at school babies me. From the lunch lady giving me extra dessert, to my teachers allowing tardies or weak excuses for missing classes, everyone folds for me. That may be one reason I’m in such shock that Mr. Lee said no. Basically no one at Preston Prep says no to me.
Damn, it hurts.
The more I think about it, the angrier I get. This is what I get for trying something new, for weaning off the meds. The sharp sting of disappointment isn’t something I’m used to feeling so acutely anymore. I run my hands up and down my legs, growing more and more agitated. The back of my teeth are clenched, grinding, and I’m distantly aware that part of this is the ever-present wane and ebb of withdrawal. I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, and it was supposed to be easy by now. I was supposed to be okay.
I don’t even notice Emory walking across the parking lot. I jump in surprise at the loud clang of him tossing his equipment in the bed of the truck. I hurriedly swat my tears away, straightening my skirt and allowing myself one final, long sniffle.
He opens the door, and my nose is instantly assaulted by the sweaty stench of his practice clothes. My eyes prick again, this time from the odor. “God, you reek,” I say, rolling down the window.