Lia
A hand clamps down on my arm. It’s firm, impersonal. A campus security guard I’ve never seen before.
“This way, Ms. Smith.”
The walk to the dean’s office is a blur of gaping mouths and accusing eyes. The noise of the gala fades behind me, replaced by the ringing in my own ears. Each step feels like I’m walking through water. My navy dress suddenly feels cheap and conspicuous.
The dean’s office is wood paneled and smells like old books and lemon polish. It feels airless. Dean Miller sits behind a desk large enough to land a helicopter on. His face is a tight mask of professional concern, which is somehow worse than anger.
Serena is already here. She’s curled up in a leather armchair, a gray cashmere blanket draped over her shoulders. She looks small and fragile. She looks like a perfect, broken doll.
“Lia. Please, sit.” The dean gestures to the chair opposite Serena. It feels like an interrogation room.
Serena flinches when I move, a tiny, theatrical jerk. Her eyes, red rimmed and glistening, find mine. There’s nothing but triumph in them.
“It’s fake,” I say. My voice comes out as a croak. I clear my throat and try again. “The video. It’s been edited.”
Dean Miller steeples his fingers. “Our IT department verified the footage. It’s from the west wing security server, Lia. The timestamp is legitimate.”
“But it’s not,” I insist, leaning forward. “If you look closely, the pixels around my arm blur for a fraction of a second right before I… before the shove. It’s a splice. A very good one, but it’s there.” I know it is. I taught her the software that could do it.
Serena lets out a soft, watery sob. “I don’t understand why she’s still lying.” Her voice is a whisper, designed for maximum pity. “I thought we were friends. I knew she was jealous, but I never thought… Dean, I’m scared to be at school with her.”
The script is flawless. Every word is a knife.
“Jealous?” The word tastes like acid. “I built your entire brand, Serena. The strategy, the editing, the… everything. You’d be nothing without me.”
Dean Miller holds up a hand. “That’s enough. This is not the time for petty arguments about social media.”
“This isn’t petty. This is the motive,” I plead, looking at his impassive face. “She cut me out, and now she’s trying to destroy me.”
“What I see,” the dean says, his voice losing its patient edge, “is a student who feels threatened and a video that supports her claim. In light of the public nature of this incident, I have no choice. You’re suspended, Ms. Smith. Effective immediately, pending a full disciplinary hearing.”
The words hang in the air. Suspended. Hearing. It’s real.
“You can’t,” I whisper.
“Your parents have been called. They’re on their way.” He stands up. A clear dismissal. “I suggest you go home and think about your actions.”
Serena sniffles into her cashmere blanket, a perfect final punctuation to my execution.
The ride home is silent. My parents don’t ask questions. My mom just keeps gripping my hand, her knuckles white. My dad’s jaw is a hard line as he stares at the road.
When we get inside, the quiet of our small house feels suffocating. My phone buzzes nonstop on the kitchen counter, a hornet’s nest of notifications I can’t bring myself to look at.
I walk down the hall to my brother’s room. The door is slightly ajar, the only light inside the cold blue glow of his phone screen.
“Noah?”
He doesn’t look up. “They sent me the link at school. Like, fifty times.”
My heart sinks. I walk in and sit on the edge of his bed. He finally turns the phone towards me. It’s a screenshot from the livestream chat. The words are a venomous swarm.
Psycho. Monster. Expel the charity case. I hope she rots.
“Noah, I…” My voice breaks. I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry I ruined everything? I’m sorry your hero is a liar?
He finally lifts his head, and his eyes, so much like my own, are steady. He looks past me, toward the poster of Serena smiling benevolently from his wall.
“She tripped, didn’t she?” he asks, his voice quiet but certain. “On her dress. And you reached out to try and catch her.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. I can only stare at him, stunned into silence.
“How did you know that?”
“Because you’re you,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. He looks back at his phone, his expression hardening with a resolve that looks so much older than his twelve years.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He turns the screen back to me. He’s in the comments section of the gala video, which already has over a million views.
His little profile icon is buried in a sea of hate, but his words are there. A tiny shield against a hurricane.
‘You’re all wrong. My sister would never do that. YOU DON’T KNOW HER.’
My vision blurs. He looks up at me again, his fierce loyalty a beacon in the crushing darkness.
“I know you wouldn’t do that,” he says again, his voice firm. “And we’re not going to let her get away with it.”
He says ‘we’.
And just like that, a tiny, hot spark of anger burns through the shock and despair. He’s right. Serena may have written this scene, but I’ll be damned if I let her write the ending.
