Chapter 11 Amara
The knock at my door is soft, almost apologetic.
I’m on my bed, phone clutched in one hand, thumb hovering over a blank message to Julian.
My hair is still damp from the shower, leaving a crescent of moisture on the pillow.
I blink up at the water-stained ceiling, count to five, then get up and move to the door.
I want it to be him. I want him to knock like that, to stand in the hall with his jaw clenched and his eyes daring me to let him in. I imagine his voice: soft and cruel, telling me to open up, to stop hiding, to let him see what he’s done to me.
I open the door.
It’s not Julian. Of course it isn’t.
I would never be so fucking lucky.
A man stands in the corridor, not much older than I am, wearing the black uniform of campus security. He has a badge clipped to his chest, his hands folded tight at his belt, and a square of white paper in one palm.
“Miss Marcus,” he says.
The name sits on my tongue like poison. “Yes?”
He doesn’t look at me. His gaze skims over my head. “You’re needed at the gymnasium. Now, please.”
I don’t move. “Why?”
“Medical,” he says. “I’m to escort you.”
He says it with the slow, cautious patience of someone who expects me to run.
For a second, I consider it. I could dart back into my room, slam the lock, wedge my chair under the knob. I could refuse. What would they do? Drag me out kicking, screaming? Or just wait for me to starve? Either is possible.
But I don’t move. I just stare at him, trying to guess whether this is a test or a threat.
He waits. There’s a tick in his jaw, the only hint of emotion in his bland face.
I nod. “Let me get my shoes.”
I slip into my loafers and grab the first jacket I see. It’s too thin for the weather, but I put it on anyway. I tuck my phone into the pocket and follow him out, pulling the door shut behind me. It latches with a click that sounds too final.
We walk in silence. The corridor is empty, echoes of our steps bouncing off the high plaster ceiling.
He keeps a careful distance, exactly two paces ahead of me, never looking back.
Every door we pass is closed. I wonder how many girls are hiding inside, listening for the sound of boots in the hall.
Outside, the world is half alive. Spring is supposed to be a time for flowers and rebirth, but not here.
It is perpetually gloom and doom. Wind knifes through my jacket, leaving me numb.
The walk to the gym takes less than two minutes, but I’m a bundle of nerves by the time we reach the glass double doors.
He pulls one open for me, and the sudden wash of heat and sweat stings my eyes.
The gym has always been my least favorite building on campus. I’m not an athletic person by nature, so I avoid this space at all costs. But today the space is worse than usual. Today, the court has been transformed into a kind of medical theater.
Three folding screens are set up at the far end, blocking off the last ten yards of court.
Behind them, I see the corner of a table—stainless steel legs, white sheet, a mound of something blue and disposable at one end.
I see the glint of a metal instrument, then the shape of a woman in pale blue scrubs.
She’s hunched over a tray, moving instruments in neat, precise rows.
She wears a mask over her mouth and a cap over her hair.
The smell of antiseptic is overwhelming, sharp enough to coat the inside of my nose.
A folding chair sits just outside the screen. My escort points to it, and I lower myself onto the seat. My knees want to bounce, but I clamp them together and fold my hands in my lap.
“Someone will be with you shortly,” he says. Then he turns and walks away, steps echoing across the empty gym.
I stare at my shoes.
Five minutes pass. Maybe ten. The lights flicker overhead, the buzz intensifies, and my mind wanders to places I can’t control.
I think about the contracts on my fathers desk.
I think about the conversation in the office, the way Julian said “You’re not afraid of me.
” I think about what would happen if I ran right now, out the fire exit, across the frozen quad, into the woods at the edge of campus.
I think about how far I could get before someone caught me, and whether I would be punished, or just erased.
A woman appears from behind the screen. She’s older than I thought, maybe forty, with hair so blond it looks white against her skin. She doesn’t introduce herself. She just glances at the clipboard in her hand, then at me.
“Amara Marcus.”
I nod.
She writes something on the sheet. “Follow me.”
I stand, knees stiff, and trail her behind the screens. The air behind them is even colder, if possible, and the space is lit by a single floodlight that washes everything in sick blue-white.
The exam table is taller than normal, almost a platform.
There’s a paper sheet pulled over the surface, and a set of steps at one end.
Beside it, on a rolling tray, is a parade of instruments: silver forceps, a long metal speculum, a plastic container of swabs.
There’s a stethoscope, a digital thermometer, a blood pressure cuff, two vials with my name already printed on the labels.
The nurse (or doctor, I can’t tell) gestures for me to sit on the table. I climb the steps, the paper crackling under my weight. My hands are slick with sweat, but my face feels frozen.
She pulls a curtain closed behind us, then sets the clipboard on the counter. “Take off your jacket,” she says, in a voice that could cut steel.
I obey, folding it over my knees.
She glances up, eyes sharp over the mask. “You’ll need to undress completely for the examination.”
It’s not a request.
I hesitate, glancing at the curtain, but she’s already turning away, snapping latex gloves over her hands with a single, fluid motion. She busies herself with the tray, sorting the swabs by length, tapping the thermometer against the counter to clear the digital readout.
I force my arms to move. The blouse buttons are a challenge, but I manage to undo them quickly; the camisole underneath is harder, the cotton sticking to my skin.
I fumble with the clasp of my bra. My fingers are too numb to manage the hooks, so I finally tug it over my head and let it drop to the floor.
The air on my bare skin makes me shiver.
I slip off my skirt, then my underwear. I sit on the edge of the table, as small as possible, arms wrapped tight over my chest.
She turns back, picks up the clipboard, and scribbles something.
“Full name?”
“Amara Bianca Marcus.”
She writes. “Date of birth?”
“July nineteenth, two thousand and three.”
She writes.
There are more questions: allergies (none), menstrual history (regular), family diseases (none I know of). I answer, voice thin. She never looks at me.
When she’s done, she sets down the clipboard and moves closer. She puts two fingers under my chin, tilts my head up, examines my eyes with a penlight. She checks my throat, my lymph nodes, the shape of my ears. Each movement is brisk, efficient.
“Lie back,” she says, and I do.
The table crinkles as I shift. She takes my left arm and ties a tourniquet above my elbow, then swabs the inside of my arm with alcohol. The smell makes my eyes water. She inserts the needle in one smooth motion, drawing blood into the first vial. I watch the dark red ribbon fill it.
She swaps vials, draws more, then pulls the needle out and presses a gauze pad over the puncture. She tapes it in place without a word.
She moves to my other side, lifts my right wrist, checks the veins. Her fingers are cold, the pressure clinical.
She takes my temperature under my tongue, counts my pulse, measures my blood pressure with the cuff, leaving it on as she moves about. Each time, she notes the numbers on her chart. I try to see what she’s writing, but the angle is wrong.
“Sit up,” she says.
I do, folding my arms over my chest again. She glances at me, then at the monitor, writing down my new blood pressure numbers.
“You’ll need to remove all jewelry,” she says.
I don’t wear any, but she double checks, moving my hair off my neck, looking at my ears, my wrists. Satisfied, she turns away and picks up the stethoscope.
She presses the cold disc to my chest, listens to my heart, then my back. Her hands are steady, but she does not avoid touching me. She adjusts my posture as needed, guiding my shoulders, my spine, with a touch that is impersonal and practiced.
When she is done, she hangs the stethoscope back on the tray and pulls over a lamp with a flexible neck.
“Lie back. Legs apart,” she says, already snapping open a new pair of gloves.
The table has stirrups, wide and cold. She pulls them out with a clank, positions them at the end of the table, and motions for me to slide down.
“Wait, what?”
“Please, Miss Marcus. I don’t have time for this.”
I shake my head, “No, this can’t be protocol!”
“Do you want me to call the guards? They can hold your legs open, if you’d prefer.”
Tears collect in the corner of my eyes as I lay back, trying to cover my dignity. The paper bunches under my hips, my skin prickling.
She places my feet in the stirrups, then adjusts my knees so they are spread wide. I want to close my eyes, but I force them open, fixing my gaze on the floodlight above.
Her hands are cold as she manipulates my breasts, pushing and prodding all down my body, pushing hard on my stomach before she huffs and steps away.
I can hear the latex squeak as she lubricates the speculum, the snap as she breaks the seal on the swabs.
I feel the cold metal at the entrance of my body, then the slow, careful pressure as she inserts it.
“There may be some discomfort,” she says, but her voice is far away.
The pain is sharp, but I grit my teeth and hold my breath. I stare at the bulb above, watch the dust swirl in the glass.
She removes the speculum and sets it in a dish.