All's Well(76)

“Where did she touch you?” he asks.

Briana draws in a breath. This is her big reveal. But it’s not much of a moment—it can’t be, she realizes that now. She looks away from us all. Breathing more quickly. She’s frustrated. We’re all fucking fools. But she already knows she’s lost.

“On the wrist,” she says at last, limply.

“On the wrist,” the dean repeats.

Even Fauve looks confused.

Briana cries. “It was so horrible.”

We watch her crumple into herself and weep.

I look at the dean, helpless. I look at Briana’s father, who’s got his arms folded in front of him, looking up at the ceiling. He’s embarrassed for his daughter now, embarrassed for me that I have to sit through this. But what is he supposed to do? She’s ill and she’s throwing a fit. He’s indulged her all his life. He can’t not indulge her now.

“So let me get this straight,” the dean says now. “You’re claiming that Professor Fitch touched you on the wrist. And then somehow, by virtue of doing that, she hurt your… is it your leg? Or your back?”

“BOTH!” Briana screams through her tears.

“And that she also gave you some kind of… flu?”

Briana looks down at the floor. She nods.

Silence now. I feel the energy in the room shift. The sunlight pouring down on me is the light of reason. I sit bathing in this light. I recross my legs at the knee this time. My top leg swinging. I lean back in my chair. I have to press my lips together to keep from singing.

“Can you explain to me a little about how that works?” the dean asks.

“No,” Briana spits.

“No?” the dean repeats.

“How can I? I’m not the witch.”

The dean coughs. Her father clears his throat.

“Briana,” chides her mother softly. And I hear the booze, the Valium, in her gravelly voice. She’s humoring her too, I realize. They both are.

Briana ignores her. Instead she looks at me, sickly and triumphant. “I’m not the witch!” she says again, as if she’s just getting started. “Ask the witch!”

The dean is embarrassed for her too now. Her father is red in the face. Only Fauve and her mother look at me like perhaps, just perhaps, I have something to hide.

I turn to the dean. I smile. “Am I supposed to respond to this?” I ask him gently. In my gentlest voice. I’m a creature of reason in my poppy dress. Really? I’m supposed to respond to this? Surely now you see what I’m dealing with.

The dean looks thoughtfully into space. “When you say witch,” he begins, “what do you mean exactly?”

Briana frowns. “What do you mean what do I mean? I mean witch. As in she did witchcraft on me. Black magic. Satanism. She made me sick!”

“Well, now, witchcraft isn’t necessarily synonymous with black magic, am I right?” the dean says.

“And Wicca is also very different from Satanism,” her father offers. “Whole different kettle of fish there.”

“Oh, you bet,” the dean says seriously.

“Do you see my leg?” Briana shrieks. “I’m limping! She touched me on the wrist and now I’m limping how she used to limp.”

The dean frowns. “Let me get this straight: you felt Satanism?”

“HOW SHOULD I FUCKING KNOW? I just know what she fucking did. I know what I felt! I know and she fucking knows she did this to me, don’t you, you BITCH?”

“Briana!” shouts her mother.

Briana’s panting, out of breath now. Shaking with rage. Her pale little hands gripping the armrests like she’s trying to keep from collapsing.

“She needs to be fucking FIRED,” she seethes. “She needs to go to JAIL! She needs…” But she’s exhausted herself. I watch her upper body cave into itself a little. She grips the armrests tighter, her white knuckles pointed in my direction like sad little swords.

“Briana, that’s enough, you’re making a scene,” her father says.

“It’s all right,” I say calmly. And beneath my rib cage, my heart continues its slow, rhythmic thud. Voice smooth as a lake. Body light as a feather. My smile serene. “I’m used to scenes.”

“Apologize,” he orders.

But Briana will not apologize. She clamps her trembling lips tight like a child in protest. She looks down at the floor. I gaze at her greasy scalp full of dark, unwashed locks. She is going to cry again.

“It’s really okay,” I say gently, generously. My voice full of forgiveness and understanding, full of empathy, really. Totally unruffled. Still smooth as the surface of water on a windless day. “I forgive Briana. She’s obviously upset. Anxious. Under a great deal of stress, who wouldn’t be?”

Anxious. Stress. I’ve said the magic words. I’ve rung the bell.

Briana looks up at me like I’m a nightmare she’s trapped inside of. I’m the thick, dark forest. I’m the lightless sky. I’m the hunter dogging her every step. I’m the heavy air and the sucking mud beneath her feet that make it impossible for her to run.

“Stress!” the dean says eagerly. “Yes. Stress is a terrible thing.”

“Yes,” her father says immediately, “stress. She has been. Under a lot of stress.”