only a week. In her opinion, Lydia had gotten off lightly. I give up with kids like you. This isn’t a video game. You don’t get to reset and erase your mistakes.
Lydia sat up at this. “He had two other strikes before this?” she asked, her voice rising. “He’s done this before? With other girls? And you let him stay?”
The woman closed her notebook. “I can’t discuss the disciplinary files of other students. There are privacy issues involved.”
“What about the privacy of my body?” she asked.
The woman nodded eagerly. “Exactly.”
Then Abernathy took her to the therapist’s office. Cinnamon candles sat flickering on the windowsill. On the side of a writing desk, there was a bust of someone who might have been Carl Jung or who might simply have been a younger version of the therapist himself. He said nothing at first, and Lydia felt a gnawing, queasy sense of unease. A pair of paper folders sat on the table between them. One was the pink folder, which had in it, she assumed, her disciplinary sentence. The other was black. Staring at it, she felt convinced that it held a copy of her picture. She felt ill again. Had this man—in tweed, caramel loafers, and a soul patch—seen what everyone else had seen?
“We can talk,” the therapist said, finally.
Lydia folded her arms across her chest.
“About anything,” he told her.
Down below, on campus, the school bell rang. She kept eyeing the black folder.
“But you don’t need to talk,” he said. “We can sit here.”
She felt her phone buzzing.
“You know, it’s a violation,” he said, and for a moment she thought he was talking about the phone. “We recognize that. An alarming violation. It’s a humiliation. An invasion.”
A minute passed.
“Maybe we can talk about why you took the picture in the first place.”
“I thought I didn’t need to talk,” she said.
He wrote down this sentence in a notebook. Then he picked up the black folder.
“You know,” she said, looking around, “is there another therapist I can talk to? Maybe a woman?”
Now she waited.
She’d begun to think of it as a storm. Monday to Monday. A week, basically, of public nudity. On the walkway between buildings, she was nude. In chapel, beneath the looming stained glass image of the risen Christ, she was nude. During discussions on Napoleon’s foray into Russia, or on the family structure of beluga whales, or on differential equations: nude. So often she had awoken at night having had a dream that she was naked in class and everyone could see. What did it mean when something like this actually came true?
The general socially accepted rule about nude selfies was that you were not supposed to keep them on your phone. If they were just on your phone, saved like any other picture, like a particularly adorable picture of a golden retriever, or like a picture of a really delicious plate of cinnamon pancakes you ate two weekends ago in Manhattan, then anyone could steal those pictures and distribute them wholesale to anyone interested in naked bodies. Which was what had happened to Lydia. If you wanted to send a picture of yourself topless, or topless and bottomless, to someone you were interested in, as a way to flirt, or simply as an innocent substitute for actual, genuine sex, then you did it in such a way that the pictures vanished the moment someone got them. This made the picture temporary and ephemeral, and most of all, it made it thrilling. “I can’t believe you were this stupid. It’s like you’re the only one who doesn’t know how to do this,” one of her roommates had said. Everyone pretended that her having kept this picture was a sign of some burgeoning sexual dysfunction, when instead it was simply a result of how deeply she wanted to see herself the way some fucking idiot boy did, or a symptom of her own curiosity. Or maybe just an illustration of how deep her own vanity ran. She had no idea anymore.
Abernathy left her in a long corridor
Lydia sat up at this. “He had two other strikes before this?” she asked, her voice rising. “He’s done this before? With other girls? And you let him stay?”
The woman closed her notebook. “I can’t discuss the disciplinary files of other students. There are privacy issues involved.”
“What about the privacy of my body?” she asked.
The woman nodded eagerly. “Exactly.”
Then Abernathy took her to the therapist’s office. Cinnamon candles sat flickering on the windowsill. On the side of a writing desk, there was a bust of someone who might have been Carl Jung or who might simply have been a younger version of the therapist himself. He said nothing at first, and Lydia felt a gnawing, queasy sense of unease. A pair of paper folders sat on the table between them. One was the pink folder, which had in it, she assumed, her disciplinary sentence. The other was black. Staring at it, she felt convinced that it held a copy of her picture. She felt ill again. Had this man—in tweed, caramel loafers, and a soul patch—seen what everyone else had seen?
“We can talk,” the therapist said, finally.
Lydia folded her arms across her chest.
“About anything,” he told her.
Down below, on campus, the school bell rang. She kept eyeing the black folder.
“But you don’t need to talk,” he said. “We can sit here.”
She felt her phone buzzing.
“You know, it’s a violation,” he said, and for a moment she thought he was talking about the phone. “We recognize that. An alarming violation. It’s a humiliation. An invasion.”
A minute passed.
“Maybe we can talk about why you took the picture in the first place.”
“I thought I didn’t need to talk,” she said.
He wrote down this sentence in a notebook. Then he picked up the black folder.
“You know,” she said, looking around, “is there another therapist I can talk to? Maybe a woman?”
Now she waited.
She’d begun to think of it as a storm. Monday to Monday. A week, basically, of public nudity. On the walkway between buildings, she was nude. In chapel, beneath the looming stained glass image of the risen Christ, she was nude. During discussions on Napoleon’s foray into Russia, or on the family structure of beluga whales, or on differential equations: nude. So often she had awoken at night having had a dream that she was naked in class and everyone could see. What did it mean when something like this actually came true?
The general socially accepted rule about nude selfies was that you were not supposed to keep them on your phone. If they were just on your phone, saved like any other picture, like a particularly adorable picture of a golden retriever, or like a picture of a really delicious plate of cinnamon pancakes you ate two weekends ago in Manhattan, then anyone could steal those pictures and distribute them wholesale to anyone interested in naked bodies. Which was what had happened to Lydia. If you wanted to send a picture of yourself topless, or topless and bottomless, to someone you were interested in, as a way to flirt, or simply as an innocent substitute for actual, genuine sex, then you did it in such a way that the pictures vanished the moment someone got them. This made the picture temporary and ephemeral, and most of all, it made it thrilling. “I can’t believe you were this stupid. It’s like you’re the only one who doesn’t know how to do this,” one of her roommates had said. Everyone pretended that her having kept this picture was a sign of some burgeoning sexual dysfunction, when instead it was simply a result of how deeply she wanted to see herself the way some fucking idiot boy did, or a symptom of her own curiosity. Or maybe just an illustration of how deep her own vanity ran. She had no idea anymore.
Abernathy left her in a long corridor
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