61. Famous
FAMOUS
There is a crowd of news reporters outside the school grounds. They swarm near the driveway that goes into the parking lot. Conner honks, causing those standing in front of the car to scurry out of the way while we enter the school grounds.
However, it’s not just the news reporters swarming me. People I’ve never spoken to or seen wave at me and ask how my recovery is going. Feeling uncomfortable, I bow my head, yet it’s hard to conceal myself because of the thing on my nose.
Sammy is also correct. As soon as I step inside the gates and head to my class, a group of year nine girls comes to me, and I know who they are. One girl holds a flyer Sammy showed me yesterday.
“Hey, Noya!” the girl with the high ponytail chirps.
“My name is Vicky and I am the founder of the school D.V.A., which is short for the Domestic Violence Association. But we will also talk about sexual assault, harassment, being objectified—all sorts of controversial topics.” She places her hand on her pink collared shirt and smiles brightly.
“Your story moved me. Truly. And we thought you could talk about how you overcame your trauma at our Friday evening seminar. There will be cakes, coffee, and…”
I hold up my hand and smile tightly. “Sorry,” I say, and I’m genuinely apologetic. It takes courage to create something like this, where people can talk and express their emotions without people judging them. “It’s not really what I want to do or talk about.”
Her face falters, and a part of me then knows, as she bites the inside of her lip, likely chewing the flesh, that this seminar is also for her.
“Um… I can come and listen.”
Her eyes light up. “Really? That’s not too much, is it? I can totally understand—”
“It’s the least I can do,” I interrupt as I point to the flyer in her grasp. “I will see you Friday at four, Vicky.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Sammy says as we walk away.
“I’m happy to listen. What I don’t want to do is talk about me.”
“Did you want me to come?” Conner asks.
“Don’t you have work on Friday?” I question.
Conner’s silence says it all. I know he’s struggling not to answer.
“I’ll be fine.”
“I can go,” Sammy volunteers. “I’ll be your bodyguard if those little year niners try to rope you into something you don’t want to do.”
I smile, silently thanking her.
The bell rings, and pairs of eyes watch me wherever I go.
It’s as if I can’t go anywhere without someone watching me.
Their uncomfortable gazes make me question whether I should have come to school today, taken a few days off, and mentally prepared myself.
Because I’m not prepared. I’m not used to people noticing me, and I’m not used to people knowing anything about my life.
But that has all changed.
I’ve seen the news. Conner can try to shield me from all that he wants, but my story—I haven’t even spoken about—is all over social media, interviews with neighbours who watched but never acted.
Students in my year who barely knew me or knew me at all talked about me as if we were best friends and wished they had seen the ‘signs’.
I’ve learned from social media and the news that I enjoyed being abused and enjoyed it when Dad hurt me.
Through social media, I learned it was because I came out as bisexual and my parents are Catholic, and they wanted to beat it out of me.
Through social media, I discovered that I was a troublemaker.
I went out smoking and drinking with my friends, so Dad would beat me to keep me in line.
What sickens me more is the thousands of people like those posts, believing their lies and deeming the pain I suffered as okay because Dad was doing it for a cause.
And the worst part is I can’t stop reading it. It’s hard to stop. Turn off my phone or switch off the channel. It’s hard to escape it because it’s not only online. I see the mixed faces of wary, sympathetic faces to those who believe I am this terrible, horrible daughter, so I deserved it all.
I turn to Sammy before we enter the classroom.
“Um… I’m not feeling…” My focus darts to Miss Moore waiting on the other side of the door. Once we make eye contact, she walks over to us. “Morning, Miss Moore,” I murmur.
Sammy looks between us. “I’ll see you in class.” She eyes me a moment longer, her eyes widening slightly. I nod, and she presses her lips together and enters the classroom.
“Good morning, Noya,” Miss Moore chirps. “How are you feeling?”
“Um… actually, I was thinking of heading to the nurse’s office.”
“Oh, are you okay?”
“I’m, um…” I furrow my brows and say, “What are you doing here, Miss Moore?”
“Principal Rahman wanted me to bring you to her office, but if you aren’t feeling well, I could—”
“It’s fine,” I mumble.
I follow Mrs Moore down the stairs and towards the office.
A few stragglers duck their heads, racing to their classrooms. Blue eyes, brown eyes, green eyes, grey eyes, they all notice me to where I want to be nothing more than jelly—a puddle hiding on a cloudy, rainy day.
Yet, it’s not raining. The sky is clear, and the sun glares upon us, burning my back.
We enter the office, and the office ladies—names I can never remember—notice me. Their brows soften, and they look at me sympathetically. Everyone is looking at me. Aside from my friends, who treat me the same, everyone else looks at me like a broken, fragile doll.
It’s funny, actually. I wouldn’t have minded that treatment when I was hurting. But I’m not hurting anymore. I’m no longer afraid of my life, and that’s when sympathy and sadness sweep over me. When it’s already too late, and when I want everyone to leave me alone.
Miss Moore knocks twice. The principal calls us into her office, and Miss Moore opens the door and gestures for me to enter. As soon as I’m inside, Miss Moore closes the door behind me, leaving only me in the room with Principal Rahman.
“Noya, good morning.” She gestures toward the seat. “Please make yourself comfortable.”
I sit and place my hands on my legs, my fingers clenched, tightening on the grey tights. The last time I was here, I exposed myself to Principal Rahman to take down a high school bully—Sarah Jane.
“I brought you here because I wanted to make your school experience as comfortable as possible,” Principal Rahman declares.
I like how she doesn’t beat around the bush and outright says what she’s thinking.
“I can reschedule your classes if it’s too much or you want to be isolated.
I can put you in a room with a teacher’s aide, and you can work privately.
Or, if you wanted, I could get the teachers to make up worksheets—at least for the rest of this year—and you can pick up a work bucket once a week from the office if coming to school is too much. ”
I shoot my brows up at the offer. “Can you do that?”
“Of course.” She smiles. “I’ve been working on a program, actually, for students with learning difficulties.
I know how difficult it is to get to school.
Some days, students won’t want to go. And so I created work buckets.
You have already been through a lot this year, even though you aren’t in that category.
If you want to work from home for the remainder of the year, no one will hold it against you. ”
“Are you sure?” I persist.
Principal Rahman’s eyes soften, and she nods once, firmly.
“It’s just…” I bite my lip. “I thought I could do it, but I’m petrified.”
“Honey, this school is protected well. I ensured more teachers were on school grounds and even hired security because of those parasites swarming outside the gates.”
“No.” I shake my head. “You have it wrong. I fear what I might do if someone says something insensitive to me. I think it’s too early for me to come back here.
I’m not really in my right state of mind, and people who are gawking at me are getting to me more than I thought.
” I lean forward, and my brows knit together.
“I’m really sorry for being a burden. But is it okay to accept that offer and go home now? ”
“Of course. I will contact the teachers, and we will work out a plan.” She goes into her drawer and takes out an early leave note.
“Conner gave me your number already. When the work buckets are done, I will message you. After that, come by the office and the front desk. They will give you the work bucket. As for today.” Principal Rahman signs off on the note. “Go home and rest, Noya.”
“Thank you,” I say as I take the note.
I wait in the office, not daring to leave the school grounds and call Mrs Jones.
I don’t want to bother Conner, and I know that if I send him a message now, he’ll run straight into the office and bludge the rest of the day.
I don’t want him to miss more school than he already has.
His exams are next week. He needs to concentrate on them and not on me.
Mrs Jones enters the office, and we head to the car park. I apologise for calling her. She brushes it off. We head out, and as we head out, my heart skips when she turns right and away from the apartment.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“To my place. Your birthday present is there.” She leans into me, reminding me of how Conner always leans in and smiles. I see where he gets it from. “I’m sorry I didn’t visit on your birthday. Conner told me he wanted you all to himself.”
“Oh… sorry.”
“Noya, it’s okay. I know my son.”
“He’s a weird one,” I admit while looking over the cars that drive past us. My throat tightens when I imagine my dad’s car following us. Taking a deep breath, I tear my sights away. “Thank you for bringing me into your life, Mrs Jones.”
“Thank you for being part of my family, Noya. I’ve always considered you one of my own, even when I was your therapist. You were such a ray of sunshine.” Mrs Jones sighs, her face grave. “I’m sorry I never got to you in time. I should have persisted when the file I submitted got rejected.”
“You aren’t to blame. Even after my dad was fired, his allies protected him.”
“You’re too kind, Noya.”