Whistleblower ✓

48 | the walkout

I wish I could say it was the first time I was running a little late to class, but my dad didn't raise a liar.

November had arrived, and with it came the drizzly Southern California rain. I tried to angle my umbrella to shield my backpack as I bounded up the front steps of the biological sciences building.

Bodie looked up from his phone when I burst into the lobby.

"Finally," he huffed.

"I know, I know," I chanted.

He started down the hall to the dimly lit alcove where the elevator sat, framed by a potted shrub in the corner and a cork board on the wall. I followed after him, falling a little behind as I wrestled my umbrella closed and shoved it back into its protective sleeve.

I barely noticed when Bodie stepped into the elevator without me.

The doors were a half a second from closed when I stuck my arm out. The safety mechanism kicked in and they bounced open.

Bodie's smile was the picture of innocence.

"Sorry," he said. "Are you going down?"

I grabbed a fist-full of the front of his shirt and tugged him down so I could cover his mouth with mine. Bodie humored me by stumbling backward until he was flat against the elevator wall.

It was a frustratingly short ride to the basement.

The lecture hall was buzzing with chatter and laughter when we slipped through the double doors. Bodie led the way to my usual spot, third row from the back, where Olivia and Ryan were sitting. Andre sat on the other side of the room with Scott Quinton—the linebacker with the thick neck—and some other players.

I plopped down in the seat beside Olivia, who was busy texting. For a moment I worried the contact name on the top of her screen would be CAN GO TO HELL, but it was Mehri Rajavi (with a pink heart).

Nick took the stage.

His hair was just long enough now to twist into the tiniest of man buns, and he'd opted for a real button-down shirt today instead of his usual graphic tee. His aesthetic was evolving.

"Let's get to our first group of the day," he said.

Three guys and a girl in the second row stood and made their way to the podium. Kyle Fogarty was the last of them. The green in his hair was gone, leaving behind a blonde that was pale and dull.

The first slide of their presentation appeared on the twin projector screens.

Sexual Assault on College Campus.

Unease twisted my stomach.

The girl took the lead for their group, walking us through their introduction. Their PowerPoint slides were poorly designed. The font choices were so atrocious that I was sure I felt Andre's soul leave his mortal body on the other side of the room.

By slide three, I realized they were just dumping information—statistics and data points and dictionary definitions—in an attempt to prove they deserved a passing grade.

It wasn't going well, to begin with.

But then Fogarty grabbed the mic.

"Of course, we should take those numbers with a grain of salt," he said. "Girls do accuse men falsely, like, all the time."

Beside me, Bodie bristled and tensed in his seat. I settled my fingertips on top of his wrist, a silent command for him not to say or do anything dumb.