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This Shouldn't
Have Happened
Whitney was trying to be more honest. When her therapist first suggested the idea, she took offense. She certainly wasn’t a serial liar or manipulator. But, as she carried the advice with her over the next week, Whitney started to notice all the little white lies she told everyday. And she found that her anxiety went down as she cut out more and more of these minor dishonesties. She found that the discomfort of telling an awkward truth was often preferable to the stress of keeping a ruse going. So, Whitney explained that she was looking for her truck and gave the Vice Principal a detailed breakdown of the whole fiasco.
VP Denton listened calmly and attentively. She didn’t get the sense that he was empathizing with her as much as trying to hold onto as many details as he could. He asked a couple clarifying questions, and they always pointed Whitney in useful directions that really did help her explain her current situation in this hot parking lot. She realized that he probably had to deal with drama like hers every day.
Once they had pretty much wrapped up their conversation, the Vice Principal asked whether Whitney’s ex had been a student at Bellevue East. When she said yes, Denton asked for their name. Whitney realized that Dillon hadn’t started using that name until college. For a flash, she wondered if she should use their deadname with the VP, but quickly decided against it. He recognized Dillon as soon as she said their name.
“Oh, I’ve been friends with Dillon’s dad for years. Great folks, aren’t they.”
“I mean, they are my ex's parents, so…”
“So you’re not really hanging out.”
“No.”
Whitney had finished her story and was expecting the Vice Principal to leave, but he seemed to be settling in for even more chatting. As she started to get up the nerve to excuse herself, he pivoted to a new conversation.
“You know, Dillon isn’t at the football game.” Whitney looked at him dumbfounded as he continued. “They’re inside the school. Or at least they were the last time I saw them.”
“Was that time today?”
“Oh yeah! You see, a few months ago, a few of our former students got in touch about renting out the South Gym basketball court. They were looking for a place to have some house shows. I had to look up what that meant, but it seemed harmless enough. They run the door, they work out the schedule with the janitors and pay better than we do. And everybody who goes signs a pledge promising not to do drugs, so in many ways we’re making the community safer. I’d hate to think what would happen if they went up to a house show in Omaha. I hardly ever even go to Omaha anymore. It’s so loud and messy and I always end up seeing someone on drugs. It’s sad really. But it’s good luck for us. Our paper budget ran out in March last school-year. These shows are gonna mean paper year-round.”
Whitney did her best not to roll her eyes at his Omaha-bashing. Instead, she was as polite as possible and convinced the Vice Principal to point her in the direction of the South Gym. She could tell this story to friends later and they could all roll their eyes together.
As she approached the external door to the South Gym, she saw that the windows had been covered with old copies of the school paper. At the far door, she noticed a folding table staffed by two teenagers in t-shirts and basketball shorts. They couldn’t be any older than 16.
Hanging off the front of the table was a large red paper banner with HOUSE SCHOOL painted on it in blocky white letters. Rather than greeting her, the teens just said, “You know it’s $25, right?” Luckily, the teens took Venmo.
Before entering, the teens asked Whitney to sign a pledge promising to “abstain from tobacco, drugs, alcohol, and sexual activity.” Whitney thought for a moment about the inclusion of sexual activity. Growing up in the Nebraska public school system, she had sat through the terrible abstinence-only sexual education that regularly crossed the line into actively lying to children. But this pledge seemed to be promising lifelong celibacy.
“You know,” one of the teens offered, “you don’t need to mean it. You can just sign it. These pledges, they only really mean something when you choose to sign it. When they’re making us sign stuff like this, it’s just bullshit.”
Whitney snapped out of thought and signed the page. The teens went back to ignoring her and Whitney made her way to the gym door.
The gym was dark with red and white lights flashing against the walls. A few disco balls scattered some light, but, with the windows covered and the lights turned off, the basketball court felt more like an underground bunker.
The dance floor reeked of mushrooms. Whitney wondered whether the Vice Principal had ever actually come to one of these shows. Maybe he didn’t even know what mushrooms smelled like. But everyone was pretty obviously high. You’d have to be pretty gullible or pretty desperate for printer-paper not to notice.
With the music pumping, Whitney started doing what she did best at places like this: Walk in awkward circles looking for someone she knows.
The darkness didn’t make anything any easier. After about five minutes of searching, Whitney felt a tap on her shoulder. Turning around, Whitney found a six foot tall woman with a mesh tank top and metallic blush. Whitney could only make out flashes of her face, but the glitter on her cheeks lit up the darkness.
Whitney waited for the shoulder-tapper to say something. Or, at least, Whitney waited to hear something. It seemed like this woman was silently dancing in her direction, but with the loud music and the overwhelming darkness, she couldn’t be sure.
“HELLO?” Whitney shouted.
“HELLO!”
“WHAT’S GOING ON?”
“DANCING!”
“WHY DID YOU TAP ON MY SHOULDER?”
“YOU HAVE TO SPEAK UP!”
“WHY DID YOU TAP ON MY SHOULDER?”
“WHAT?”
“MY SHOULDER…”
The dancing woman rested her head on Whitney’s shoulder. Whitney had mixed feelings about this.
Whitney took out her phone. The screen lit both of their faces. For the first time, they looked directly into each other’s eyes.
Opening the notes app, Whitney typed, “Why did you tap on my shoulder?” Her new friend took the phone and typed back, “It seemed too forward to just kiss you.”
Should Whitney:
VP Denton listened calmly and attentively. She didn’t get the sense that he was empathizing with her as much as trying to hold onto as many details as he could. He asked a couple clarifying questions, and they always pointed Whitney in useful directions that really did help her explain her current situation in this hot parking lot. She realized that he probably had to deal with drama like hers every day.
Once they had pretty much wrapped up their conversation, the Vice Principal asked whether Whitney’s ex had been a student at Bellevue East. When she said yes, Denton asked for their name. Whitney realized that Dillon hadn’t started using that name until college. For a flash, she wondered if she should use their deadname with the VP, but quickly decided against it. He recognized Dillon as soon as she said their name.
“Oh, I’ve been friends with Dillon’s dad for years. Great folks, aren’t they.”
“I mean, they are my ex's parents, so…”
“So you’re not really hanging out.”
“No.”
Whitney had finished her story and was expecting the Vice Principal to leave, but he seemed to be settling in for even more chatting. As she started to get up the nerve to excuse herself, he pivoted to a new conversation.
“You know, Dillon isn’t at the football game.” Whitney looked at him dumbfounded as he continued. “They’re inside the school. Or at least they were the last time I saw them.”
“Was that time today?”
“Oh yeah! You see, a few months ago, a few of our former students got in touch about renting out the South Gym basketball court. They were looking for a place to have some house shows. I had to look up what that meant, but it seemed harmless enough. They run the door, they work out the schedule with the janitors and pay better than we do. And everybody who goes signs a pledge promising not to do drugs, so in many ways we’re making the community safer. I’d hate to think what would happen if they went up to a house show in Omaha. I hardly ever even go to Omaha anymore. It’s so loud and messy and I always end up seeing someone on drugs. It’s sad really. But it’s good luck for us. Our paper budget ran out in March last school-year. These shows are gonna mean paper year-round.”
Whitney did her best not to roll her eyes at his Omaha-bashing. Instead, she was as polite as possible and convinced the Vice Principal to point her in the direction of the South Gym. She could tell this story to friends later and they could all roll their eyes together.
As she approached the external door to the South Gym, she saw that the windows had been covered with old copies of the school paper. At the far door, she noticed a folding table staffed by two teenagers in t-shirts and basketball shorts. They couldn’t be any older than 16.
Hanging off the front of the table was a large red paper banner with HOUSE SCHOOL painted on it in blocky white letters. Rather than greeting her, the teens just said, “You know it’s $25, right?” Luckily, the teens took Venmo.
Before entering, the teens asked Whitney to sign a pledge promising to “abstain from tobacco, drugs, alcohol, and sexual activity.” Whitney thought for a moment about the inclusion of sexual activity. Growing up in the Nebraska public school system, she had sat through the terrible abstinence-only sexual education that regularly crossed the line into actively lying to children. But this pledge seemed to be promising lifelong celibacy.
“You know,” one of the teens offered, “you don’t need to mean it. You can just sign it. These pledges, they only really mean something when you choose to sign it. When they’re making us sign stuff like this, it’s just bullshit.”
Whitney snapped out of thought and signed the page. The teens went back to ignoring her and Whitney made her way to the gym door.
The gym was dark with red and white lights flashing against the walls. A few disco balls scattered some light, but, with the windows covered and the lights turned off, the basketball court felt more like an underground bunker.
The dance floor reeked of mushrooms. Whitney wondered whether the Vice Principal had ever actually come to one of these shows. Maybe he didn’t even know what mushrooms smelled like. But everyone was pretty obviously high. You’d have to be pretty gullible or pretty desperate for printer-paper not to notice.
With the music pumping, Whitney started doing what she did best at places like this: Walk in awkward circles looking for someone she knows.
The darkness didn’t make anything any easier. After about five minutes of searching, Whitney felt a tap on her shoulder. Turning around, Whitney found a six foot tall woman with a mesh tank top and metallic blush. Whitney could only make out flashes of her face, but the glitter on her cheeks lit up the darkness.
Whitney waited for the shoulder-tapper to say something. Or, at least, Whitney waited to hear something. It seemed like this woman was silently dancing in her direction, but with the loud music and the overwhelming darkness, she couldn’t be sure.
“HELLO?” Whitney shouted.
“HELLO!”
“WHAT’S GOING ON?”
“DANCING!”
“WHY DID YOU TAP ON MY SHOULDER?”
“YOU HAVE TO SPEAK UP!”
“WHY DID YOU TAP ON MY SHOULDER?”
“WHAT?”
“MY SHOULDER…”
The dancing woman rested her head on Whitney’s shoulder. Whitney had mixed feelings about this.
Whitney took out her phone. The screen lit both of their faces. For the first time, they looked directly into each other’s eyes.
Opening the notes app, Whitney typed, “Why did you tap on my shoulder?” Her new friend took the phone and typed back, “It seemed too forward to just kiss you.”
Should Whitney:
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