We were on our way out of the building when it happened. The halls were almost empty; the usual after-school rush had faded. The three of us cut through the wing by the theatre to save a few steps on the way to the parking lot. It should have been nothing.

Halfway down, Anna stopped to tie her shoe. I slowed beside her and shifted my backpack on one shoulder. Kath leaned against the wall, phone glowing in her hand. 

Then, the theatre door burst open around the corner. A stream of voices poured out—girls laughing, sneakers squeaking, the scattered energy of a meeting letting out.

A man’s voice cut through their noise–clear and confident: “I swear, she’s too heavy to keep up with half the dances. Always out of breath, always sloppy. Alice, you’d be a much better fit. Maybe she’ll finally give up her president’s throne.”

The girls giggled. Someone asked, “Who’d replace her, Mr. Dendy?”

“You all could split it,” he said brightly, like he was offering candy. Laughter again—thin and nervous.

One of them muttered something I couldn’t catch, and Mr. Dendy answered, “She talks big, but she’s lazy. Honestly, she’s lucky I haven’t replaced her already.”

The door thudded shut, and their voices carried further away. 

My stomach turned. A teacher—an adult—mocking a student’s weight and plotting to strip her of something she’d worked for. Brenda. The hardest worker I knew, the one everyone called theatre girl. To hear her reduced to a punch line by the very people she trusted—it shattered me.

“Did you hear that?” I asked.

Anna stood. “Yeah, but… It’s not our problem.”

“It is our problem,” I shot back. “We heard it. It’s beyond gossip! That’s her presidency, her reputation, her scholarships!” 

Kath’s eyes flicked up from her phone, uneasy. “Keep it down! They might hear us.”

“She should know,” I pressed. “Maybe not about the weight part, but she deserves to know he’s planning to take her down. And we could go with her to the principal. A teacher shouldn’t be saying things like that with students.”

Anna rolled her eyes. “You’re blowing it out of proportion. We don’t know the full story. Maybe she’s not doing her job. He’s the adult here.”

“Exactly, Anna. He’s an adult. They’re minors.” I couldn’t prevent my voice from rising. “If he’s doing this in public, what does he do in private?” 

Silence. 

Kath hugged her phone to her chest. “I don’t want to get involved. It’s safer to stay out of it.”

I looked at them—Anna’s dismissive shrug, Kath’s nervous retreat. The weight of their indifference pressed hard. I wasn’t going to win.

So I turned, walking fast down the hall, anger burning into shame. Behind me, Anna changed the subject with ease. Kath probably returned to her phone.

But his words stayed with me. They followed me out the door, into the car, and into the dark of my room.

We all heard them. We all walked away.

And that silence was louder than anything he’d said.