Apparently, my worry about making enemies was all for nothing. People were more likely to hug me than hit me.
Other than a few minor grumblings about missing the out-of-control parties, the overall opinion on campus was unanimous: Hazing sucks, and you absolutely do not fuck with someone’s dog.
All week long I’d been attending my classes, using my cane, riding the bus, and accepting rides from Kayla whenever she could drive me. I tried to keep my head down, but I couldn’t avoid the concerned questions people kept bombarding me with.
Are you okay? Where is your service dog? Did you really get beat up by a dozen Pi Kaps at the same time?
Obviously, that last one was pure fabrication. The rumors had taken on a life of their own, and I’d done my best not to feed into any of it. If anyone was particularly persistent, then I simply told them to come by Drawing 101 on Thursday at 9 a.m.
I didn’t give them a reason. Didn’t warn them about what they would see. I just tossed out the invite and waited to see if their curiosity would get the best of them.
I just had no idea so many of them would show up.
There were literally hundreds of students here.
Heat crept up my neck as I took in the packed room. All the seats were taken, and people bunched together wherever they could find a place to stand.
The large audience had left several art students shaken as they’d made their presentations, confusion evident on their faces. They didn’t understand why so many people were here.
But I did.
Wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans, I shot Kayla a nervous glance and she returned with a confident nod. Rob was next to her, here as my lawyer and for emotional support. He gave me a thumbs up.
I could do this.
Using my passion, I could grant Kayla’s wish to show people what I went through. I could tell my story with nameless, faceless drawings. I could make people react, feel, and experience.
For as long as I could remember, art had been my sanctuary, my happy place, and now it was going to be my weapon. There was a freedom in it. I could express whatever I wanted, without compromising the case.
I was used to drawing beautiful things. Things that made me happy. Things I loved.
But that wasn’t going to change anyone. Pleasant things made people comfortable, and comfortable wasn’t always memorable. If I wanted to make a difference, I was going to have to make people squirm.
And that was why I was sure my presentation would make an impact.
Now I had a new understanding for Ed. Maybe he wasn’t a psycho. Sure, his slideshow had been gross, but I would never forget that shit. That was the kind of stuff students would be talking about for years.
As soon as I’d decided what to do for my presentation, I got to work. When I wasn’t at class, I was feverishly drawing the scenes from memory.
I’d spent the last several days drowning in it. Every now and then, I was somewhat aware of Kayla pushing food under my nose. She and Pierre hung out with me, patiently waiting for me to come up for air, then let me go back under when I was ready.
And when it became too overwhelming, too difficult to relive, Kayla was there to pull me back from that dark place with her kisses, her words, her touch, her body.
On Monday, I’d emailed Ed, telling him of my plan and requesting to go last. I also invited the dean, and he was front row and center, right next to Kayla.
Nodding at me, her face was serious when she mouthed, “You can do it.”
Her confidence gave me the strength I needed to follow through with this. The issue at hand was too important to ignore.
So far, the investigation had led to all kinds of allegations. Former—and current—members were coming forward with accusations of hazing, their own stories as bad as my own, if not worse. And other more sinister things had come to light. Things like date rape, drugs, and a member’s near-death from alcohol poisoning.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed the button that projected the first drawing onto the large screen.
We weren’t supposed to give explanations before our presentations, letting the art speak for itself. And my art had a lot to say.
When it came to the events that occurred, I showed the unfiltered truth. The sheer ugliness of it. I didn’t spare any detail, except for the faces. Those were just shapes and shadows of contorted features. It made the scenes even more haunting and disturbing.
Reactions came in the form of sounds as I flipped from one slide to the next.
Silence when Patrick was forced to drink The Mindfuck. Some shocked laughs when Aaron gave his strip show. A few sympathetic groans when I switched to the picture of Patrick getting puked on at that party.
These could all be interpreted as harmless fun. My guess was, most people had been to parties where things like that happened.
I hit the ‘next’ button.
Gasps filled the room at the image of guys being sprayed with the hose in the dark basement. Four figures sat on the floor with slumped shoulders. I’d drawn a timer on the wall with an eight-hour countdown.
I heard a couple gags at the scene with the onions, vomit buckets, and the aftermath. One student uttered a horrified, “What the fuck?”
On Sunday, I’d had Jeff come over to describe what it was like so I could be as accurate as possible. According to him, Aaron had cried like a baby when puke came out his nose.
Then I made it to the last picture.
Several girls in the class started crying at the image of hands trying to force a beer bong into Pierre’s mouth, his brown eyes wide and full of fear as he resisted. One girl ran from the room with her hand clamped over her mouth.
I left it up, letting people study it. That one had been particularly hard to draw. Putting it to life on paper, being able to visualize it… It was painful and emotionally taxing.
But at least I’d done it justice.
Minutes passed as tense faces stared at the screen. I looked out at the crowd and saw clenched jaws, red-rimmed eyes, and gaping mouths.
And I knew I’d done the right thing. I’d stood up for myself and many others using the tool that had always gotten me through hard times in life.
“Thank you,” I said, ending my presentation, but I deliberately left the picture of Pierre on.
Several hands shot up, and Ed stood from his chair. “No questions, please.”
Nodding at him, I began stepping back to my chair, still needing to lean on the cane for support.
“Is your dog okay?” The voice came from a tearful blonde in the second row, wiping at her eyes underneath her glasses as she tried to compose herself.
My heart warmed at how much everyone seemed to care about Pierre. He was the real hero here. After decades of abuse and illegal activity within an organization, it was a dog-knapping that was the catalyst for their downfall.
“He’s on the mend,” I assured her, keeping my answer vague. Everyone was still watching me, but it didn’t feel like they were judging me. It was admiration. I had their respect. And while I had their undivided attention, I wanted to ask a question of my own. “There’s something I’ve been thinking about…” I pointed at the screen. “Why is it so upsetting when this happens to a dog?”
The girl who asked the question quickly answered, “Because pets are gentle, innocent creatures. They’re unable to consent or defend themselves.”
I saw many heads bob in agreement.
“I feel the same way,” I told the class. “What about a girl who’s too intoxicated to speak up? What about a guy who just wants friends so desperately, he’ll compromise his beliefs and go against his instincts to get it?”
Silence. I didn’t expect to get answers. I just wanted everyone to be left with something to think about.
Ed cut in with a dramatic slow clap, but everyone was too lost in thought to join him. “That concludes today’s class.”
Quiet murmurs and hushed whispers filled the room as everyone shuffled toward the door.
Blowing out a breath, I walked over to Kayla and Rob while trying to slow my heart. Now that it was over, adrenaline was hitting me like a wrecking ball.
I felt alive—dizzy and close to passing out—but alive nonetheless.
My lips tipped up. “I can’t believe I did that.”
Kayla engulfed me in a hug. “You totally kicked ass.”
“Yes, you did.” Rob clapped me on the back.
Dean Campbell cleared his throat and straightened his gray suit. “Mr. Johnson, that was really something. Thank you for inviting me.” He stuck out his hand and I shook it. “I’ve got some work cut out for me around here, but you have my word that nothing like this will happen at McAdams again.”
“I appreciate that.” I watched him go, and as the last of the lingering students left, Ed came over with a goofy grin on his face.
“Ezra, this was the most successful turnout I’ve ever had for this project. I’m not just talking about attendance, but the reactions. Truly moving material.”
“Thanks. I just wanted to provide an eye-opening experience.”
“You certainly succeeded. Do you have any other material like this?”
“Not like this, no.” I thought about all the other subjects I’d wanted to draw, but hadn’t yet. Childhood bullying. Discrimination. Homelessness. If he wanted moving material of social injustice, I could provide it.
“I’d have to talk to the head of the department, but I bet I could get you an opening at the gallery next year.”
My eyebrows went up. “Really? The college gallery isn’t usually available to undergrad students.”
He nodded. “That’s correct. I think we could make an exception though.”
I grinned, because even though art wasn’t something I wanted as a career, I could still make it useful.
After a celebratory lunch at Rocky’s, Rob and Kayla drove me back to campus for my pottery class. I was still coming down from the high of this morning when I got out of the car and Kayla stepped out with me.
“I’m so proud of you.” She jumped up on her tiptoes to give me a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you at home.”
Happiness filled my chest as I watched them drive away. It was a slip of the tongue, her calling my apartment home. But it told me what I loved to hear.
I was her home.