The Brightest Star in a Constellation

35: The Denial Stage

☽ Peter ☽

I wouldn't classify myself as claustrophobic. In fact, it's the inverse. Large rooms are imposing, but like a corn maze, there is ample space to hide within them.

Coach Hayes' office, on the other end of the spectrum, is cramped. It doesn't help that his room is currently occupied by six other people, all of whom are huddled around Hayes' desk in mismatched chairs, staring at me from the corner of their eyes.

I scratch my nails against the side of my seat. It sounds like a vinyl notebook cover; like the way static would feel. And even though I don't particularly like the noise, it's almost an involuntary motion. If I stop, it would only make the fidgeting worse.

My mind is tangled. I keep my eyes forward, as turning even slightly to the side sends me into a frenzy of worries. I don't want to make eye contact with Sam or his father, but I also don't want to look at Coach or my mother. As for Evan, his arms are crossed over his bright red sweater, and it distracts from the bruises on his face. His father—(trying to) hide a pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket—shares somewhat of a resemblance to Evan. They have the same face shape and similar hair types. But Evan is burly, though right now, his shoulders are slumped, and he sinks into the fabric of his sweater.

"Let's get started," Coach Hayes says, grabbing a pen. An amoeba-shaped blot of blue ink appears on the white page. "I want you to explain this to me from the beginning. What was said? What was done? Mr. Fields, you can go ahead."

Sam's father is staring at me. I know without even looking in his direction. My hand clutches the side of my chair and digs into the plastic until I can feel my heartbeat thudding through my wrist. I'm sure that he recognizes me from the hotel—knows that I know—and the illusion that I was nobody is gone. "Frankly, I think this is ridiculous. My son"—he points to Sam—"was attacked."

"Attacked," Evan's dad repeats under his breath. "Really? Who threw the first punch?"

Hayes taps his pen against the paper and waves his hands to get them to quell the discussion. "That is not what we're here for. If we could try to keep it... civil, that would be appreciated."

Evan scoffs, shifting restlessly. I tilt my head to see what the logo on his sweater says, as the second half of it is upside down. It looks like an art university.

"Would we say that this started in September?" Hayes asks.

"I think it goes back further than that," my mother answers, glancing at me. It's what she usually does when we leave the house and head to a restaurant, for example. I always read the menu beforehand, and I know what I want. But just like today—sometimes the words extinguish before they can form, and I'm left hopeless. There are times where my mother speaks for me instead of waiting for permission, but this time I welcome it.

"I can't see how this is relevant," Sam's father says. "And please excuse me, Mrs. Delacroix, but I can't see how you've become part of this."

"Doctor," my mother corrects with a sneer. "Are you really going to suggest I don't need to be here? Unless you don't have an accurate version of the events."

"Can I ask you something? Why was nothing done before?" Evan's dad interrupts.

Hayes has fallen into a lull. He buries his head into the notes as he writes. Without looking up, he flips the page and says, "That was off school grounds, as I understand it."