The rest of the seminar goes by peacefully, but whether it’s my imagination or not, I feel like the other students are paying more attention to me than the professor. I feel like a freak on display in the middle of a crowded room as the girl who survived. Though calling myself that seems a bit too much like a second-generation Harry Potter villain.
The second the lecture is over, I gather my belongings and bolt toward the door before anyone else can corner me. But that’s when I find Lindsey, leaning against the doorjamb, waving for me to join her. She’d saved me back there. It would be rude to ignore her and walk past now, as much as I would like to do just that.
“Hey.” I force a smile. “Thanks for shutting up that girl back there.”
“Not a problem,” she replies. “You don’t deserve that shit. Look, I have about an hour before my ride gets here. Want to grab a bite?” She glances over her shoulder toward the large vending machine area.
I hate to turn her down, but this is my first day back, and I’m exhausted. “As much as I’d like that, I really want to get home before it gets too dark.”
“I understand. Here, take this.” Reaching into her purse, she pulls out a pen and a piece of paper, scribbles something down and hands it to me. “This is my cell phone number. If you want to talk, or, whatever, feel free to text me.”
I peer down at the slip of paper in my hand. I don’t get it? “Thanks. But I have to ask… why are you being so nice to me? We barely know each other.”
Lindsey’s lips turn up in a sad smile. “Freshman year, I was in your shoes.”
“You were attacked?” I gasp.
She nods and slides her long, dark hair away from her shoulder, revealing a long scar across her neck that trails up and onto her left cheek. “Football player. I said no, and he didn’t like it. He attacked me in the parking lot of his frat house, and tried to put my face through the windshield of a car when I fought back.”
“Oh, my God!” I gasp. What else can I say? How did I not see that in the paper? Football is life here in Texas, and if this guy played for our team, it should’ve been front page news.
“It sucked ass,” she says. “But I had help. I’d like to help you if you need it.”
Her phone chimes loudly, taking her gaze away from mine, and grimaces at the screen. “Shit. My car broke down this morning, and now my ride’s bailing on me. The last bus to my apartment complex is like, now, so I gotta run.” She starts to turn, but stops. “Seriously, Blair. Call me if you want to talk.”
“I will. Thank you,” I call out before she disappears out the door.
I don’t make it far before I run headlong into Professor McCallen in the hallway, knocking the book in her hand to the ground.
“I’m so sorry, Professor. I wasn’t watching where I was going,” I apologize, but she throws up her hand, stopping me.
“It’s fine, Blair. I was hoping to run into you today. Well, not literally. Do you have a few minutes?” She gestures to her office.
“Of course,” I reply. Pivoting on her heels, I follow her through the open door of her office.
“Please, close the door behind you and take a seat.”
Professor McCallen sits behind her desk, depositing her book onto the large pile next to her. I slide into the open chair across from her. I’ve been to her office at least a half dozen times this year alone to discuss the program, and for one-on-one counseling sessions. This visit feels different, though.
“Blair, I know that you’ve been through a traumatic experience. The department and I want to make sure that returning to your studies is the best course of action for you at this time. Balancing a full doctoral program schedule is hard enough, but you’re also working as a teaching assistant. I just want to make sure you’re not only physically, but also emotionally capable of jumping back into the saddle, as they say.”
“I understand, Professor,” I tell her. “But getting my life back is the only way I’m going to get through this.”
Her assessing stare never leaves mine. She must be searching for cracks in the armor I spent the entire morning walling up to face today. I have to stay strong. My studies are all I have to cling to to take my mind off the fact that I’m facing all of this alone.
“Blair, I only want what’s best for you. You’re by far one of this year’s most talented students in the first year doctoral program. But if you need to take a sabbatical, the program committee has already agreed to hold your spot for a year if you need it.”
“And I appreciate that, but to me, this isn’t negotiable. I’m not going to let this guy take my life away from me. I’ve worked too hard to get here.”
She folds her hands together on her desk with an unreadable look crossing her face, making me second guess my decision. Am I doing the right thing?
“I thought that might be what you would say, but the offer still stands. If you find yourself overwhelmed at any point, Blair, my office is always open to you. Seeing you succeed in your work is something I take great interest in. If you, for any reason at all, need to vent, talk, unpack your feelings, I’m here for you. I hope you truly know that.”
Sincerity rings true in her voice. I’ve always felt especially close with her since the day I landed in her office as her undergraduate advisee. Today, she feels like the only person in the world who has my back, and the overwhelming urge to make her proud reverberates through every fiber of my being. Failure is not an option for me—it never has been—but now, even more so.
“I do,” I assure her. “I know that the days and weeks ahead aren’t going to be easy, but I think I can handle it. Honestly, school isn’t worrying me. I’ve wanted to be a psychologist for as long as I can remember. It’s my dream, and I’m not about to mess it up now that I’m so close.”
“Staying positive is key to recovering from trauma such as yours, but you also need to remember not every day is going to be a good one. You’ll have ups and downs. It’s natural for the mental and emotional healing process.”
“I understand, Professor McCallen, I really do. This is just a speed bump.”
“A violent one, Blair. There’s a difference,” she interjects. “Have the police made any headway in your case?”
I go on to tell her about my experience with the detective leading my case, and she gives me the name and number of a few personal contacts she has within the police department who I can contact if his unacceptable behavior toward me continues.
I really want to stay and talk to her more, but another student bursts through the door, begging to speak with her. I politely excuse myself and exit her office, starting down the hallway.
Halfway to the door, my roommate flier on the community board stops me in my tracks. After everything the detective had said to me earlier, I turn to examine it. Was it my fault? Did I advertise my vulnerability? I reach out to yank it off the corkboard when a conversation around the corner catches my attention.
“I can’t believe Blair showed her face here today.”
My heart drops. I inch closer to the corner, my ears straining, knowing full well the more I hear, the more it will hurt to listen.
“She looks like shit. Did you see her jump when someone’s book fell off their desk? I thought she was going to cry in the middle of lecture,” a second voice jokes.