“Okay. Bath,” he agrees while carrying me through the threshold.
61
FAMOUS
There isa 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 andenjoyedit 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 tobeat 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 peoplelikethose posts, believing their lies and deeming the pain I suffered asokaybecause 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?”