Legends of Mirandis Academy

Chapter 8: Witness, Please Rise to the Stand

Iridia paced to try and steady her heartbeat, or at least give it a reason to be racing. She never paced, but she was doing so now.

She should tell Brielle, shouldn't she? That she saw everything? But what if Brielle thought that everyone was repeating a rumor because Iridia had shouted it from the rooftops? What if she got angry at Iridia for seeing what she had, or seeing how much she had? No, she didn't want Brielle to think that. She didn't want Brielle to hate her.

Would hatred even be different, Iridia wondered, from the cold separation that she had already experienced? It had been six years since the death in the Prescott family, since Brielle had withdrawn; but Iridia felt as if time had not healed the hurt, but instead allowed it to congeal into fear. Iridia couldn't face the prospect of Brielle's scorn. The idea of those pale eyes, which had once been so bright and so pretty, somehow piercing Iridia with spite, with blame—Iridia shivered. The closet was filled with dense, hot air, but the sweat on her neck felt like ice.

Mr. Duval was right, she scolded herself. Brielle had a right to know that Iridia saw what happened. Kelam did too, but quite frankly, Iridia couldn't care less about what he deserved. He wasn't getting booed and jeered at in the middle of a pep rally, he wasn't getting called every synonym of "slut" known to man, he wasn't getting his name tarnished and dragged through the mud! Brielle was! Even if the events of that night were mutually decided, even if Kelam wasn't the perpetrator, Brielle was still a victim. Victims deserved justice.

Iridia wanted to cry, pacing her little circles in the tool closet. It was undoubtedly strange to be comforted by the presence of sledgehammers and power drills. The singular lightbulb hanging in a small metal cage above her flickered and hummed as if it was thinking too. She had to find Brielle.

How does one comfort a person whose life has been blown up like special-effect artillery?

Iridia hadn't even been a part of the scene. She shouldn't have even been at the party. And yet, flashbacks to all she saw were racing through her head and sending electric shocks under her skin, as if her wires were frayed. She sat down, hugged her knees to her chest, and begged her heart to slow. Objectively, none of that night was her fault, but god, she wished she'd stepped in. "Brielle, Kelam, stop!" she would have cried out, and pulled them away from each other. "You two are drunk, and I know you'll regret this!"

She wanted to vomit up all her memories of that party. Even through her panic, through the indecision that tore at her, a more rational part of Iridia knew that Brielle was probably doing just fine. She was always better at being collected than Iridia, who only knew how to bottle up until the bottle became a rocket. Iridia had more muscle, but Brielle was a million times stronger than her in that regard.

She had to find Brielle!

No, this wasn't fair. This wasn't good. She was getting nothing done by staying in her little hidey-hole and crying to herself. Iridia stood the fuck up, wiped her dumbass tears, and got her shit together to go and right a wrong, the only one she could. Victims. Deserved. Justice.

Iridia had a pretty good idea where Brielle was, so at least she had a start. She paused with one hand on the doorknob. Without much thought at all, she snagged her toolbelt off the wall, made sure a mallet was on it, and then left.

Once she told Brielle the truth, she was going to beat the shit out of Samson Clef for starting this fire.

The chess club met up once a week on Friday, every single week. Brielle loved chess; it was her favorite "sport". Throughout their time at school, Iridia had always seen the pictures in the yearbook or the school newspaper: Brielle, captain or president or otherwise the leader. There were plenty of photographs of Brielle seated, with her calm authority, before a chess board. Iridia paused outside the door to the classroom. She took a few breaths, composing about a paragraph of mental encouragement to build up her bravery. She broke into the painfully silent room—another student dropped their recently captured bishop from the sudden noise—and stared right at Brielle Prescott. She looked mortified, to say the least.