Page 11 of 3rd and 4
“My girl here had her stuff stolen out of her locker in the women’s cheer locker room.” Brody turns to me and holds out his hand.
“Brody Zeigler. Head of security.”
“Daya Moul. Head of…missing clothes.” I stumble over the joke, but they both chuckle anyway. I run through what happened, which isn’t much. I showered, when I got out all my things were gone out of my locker. Brody writes up a report, takes my contact information and double checks Addy’s, then says he’ll look into it and get back to us. We thank him and start walking toward my dorm.
“He’ll have to review footage, but there aren’t any cameras in the locker rooms or showers.” That’s good to know. “Brody’s a good guy; he’ll do what he can to help you.”
“Thank you.” I whisper into the night, clutching his hand tight as we cross the campus. He squeezes my hand, and we walkin comfortable silence for a couple blocks. “You think I can convince the desk clerk at my dorm to let me into the building and unlock my dorm room?”
“They’ll probably recognize you, but they should have a back up system in place for lost or stolen key cards.”
“You didn’t live in the dorms?” I ask, glancing up at him, admiring his strong profile. He’s just as solid and steady off the field as he is on it.
“I did, but they changed the ID and key card system after I’d moved out my sophomore year. I’ve lived in campus apartments since. I didn’t enjoy sharing a bathroom with 15 other people.” His face screws up in distaste making me laugh.
“My roommate and I have a private bathroom—” I stop talking. My feet stop moving. Addy pulls me a few steps before realizing I’ve stopped.
“Daya?” I lift a shaky finger and point at the lamppost to the right of the dorm building entrance displaying my bra and underwear. My tiny, useless bra, flapping in the breeze. With a picture of me taped above it. I swallow down the bile that rises rapidly up my throat. I want to puke. Embarrassment like I’ve never experienced muffles my hearing and blurs my vision. You remember that picture of Beyonce during a concert, where she looks like she’s gone beast-mode…
This is worse.
Addy 8.
Motherfucker!
I press the button to alert campus security that sits about waist level on the lamppost. I take out my phone and snap pictures of the despicable display, then tear down the picture of Daya, her bra, and panties. I’m shaking with anger, having to retake a few of the pictures.
Fury. White, hot, all-consuming rage.
With a deep breath to calm myself, I grab Daya and turn her into my side and cover her while she cries. It hurt to listen to her at the stadium, to feel her little body tremble, but this…deep, shuddering sobs…
I want them to burn for this.
I don’t say anything, don’t try to quiet her. There is nothing I can say to make this better. She was violated and I can’t take away or fix the damage this has done to her. She’s mentioned more than once that others have always treated her differently, keeping her at a distance. She’s focused and driven and incredibly talented and that scares people. Intimidates them. And when you’re dealing with kids and teens, it’s easier to lash out than deal with your own insecurities.
But we’re in college. You’d think the young adults who attend university would be capable of dealing with their inadequaciesin a more constructive way. Not stealing someone’s clothes, ID, keys, and phone and plastering their undergarments and unflattering pictures for all to see.
Daya hasn’t done anything to anyone. She’s kept her head down, remained polite, respectful despite a few of the cheer squad giving her a hard time. And I know that those same individuals are responsible for this. This is beyond a harmless prank, this is ruthless and unnecessary. Daya is gifted, but she works so hard, she pushes herself to be better than she was the day before. Many others on the team have responded well to that, pushing themselves a little harder.
Fucking Shaye. Lindsay. Jillian.
A campus security vehicle approaches with their lights flashing. I don’t know either of them, but I hope they are understanding and helpful. Daya can’t take anymore shit today and I’m about to lose the paper-thin control on my temper.
“Did you call for assistance?” The man asks, his tone calm, reassuring.
“Miss? Are you alright?” The female questions in a soft voice, inching closer to where Daya is burrowed into my body. Her body shakes, her head shifts back and forth against my chest.
I explain what we found and show them the pictures I took on my phone and where I discarded the evidence. I also mention that we filed a report with Brody Zeigler at the stadium and he’s looking into the security footage.
“Daya? I’m sure he’s very warm and comfy, but could you talk to us for a minute?” Daya sighs, so loud it makes me grin, then detaches herself from me and wipes under her eyes as she faces the security guards. “I’m going to ask you for some personal information. I need to verify your identity with the campus database. Once I do that, we’ll get you into your building andinto your dorm room so you can relax.” Daya gives her full name, date of birth, social security number. The guards successfully pull up her student profile, including her photo, then unlock the main doors of her building. The desk clerk is kind, giving her a temporary key card to access her room.
“We’ll call you as soon as we have a chance to review the footage outside the dorms. And we’ll confer with Zeigler since this started at the stadium. If we are able to find out who’s responsible, do you want to press charges with the police?”
Daya looks up at me with doe eyes, an immense sadness in their depths that breaks my heart all over again. I nod and answer for her, “Yes, we do.”
“Go on up, then. Relax, try to get some sleep. We’ll let you know when we find anything.”
“Thank you.” Daya whispers, her head resting against my chest, my arm tight around her shoulders.
