Page 44 of For Your Own Good

“Everybody’s in the Porter Room,” Frank says.

“Is there a meeting? I didn’t get a notice—”

“No meeting. They set up a TV down there.”

Sonia purses her lips. School was the one place she’d expected to escape the madness, but apparently not. With a sigh, she puts sweetener in her coffee and leaves the lounge with every intention of going back to her classroom. Instead, she ends up in the Porter Room.

It’s wall-to-wall packed with faculty and staff, all of whom are staring at a giant screen. The reporter on TV is a woman with platinum hair and so much makeup.

“...awaiting the arrival of the assistant district attorney and the defense lawyer. Courtney Ross is not expected in court today for the first pretrial motion, or during jury selection. We don’t expect to see her until the trial begins.”

When they cut to a commercial, the talking starts.

“Are those reporters going to be outside for the whole thing?”

“Shouldn’t they be at the courthouse?”

“They are. They’re everywhere.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Sonia seconds that. After the holiday break, just as everyone had started settling into the new semester, it had all exploded again. The case, the trial, the media. It’s even worse than when Courtney was arrested.

Jesus Christ, indeed.

A furniture commercial is playing when the TV goes silent. Ms.Marshasteps in front of the screen, the rustle of her tweed skirt echoing through the room.

“If I can have your attention for a minute,” she says. “This will not be an easy time for our students. The school will be under a spotlight until this... event is finally over, and many reporters will try to interview both you and the students. We prefer that you do not speak to them, though of course that choice is yours to make.” She pauses to look around the room, making a threat with her eyes. “Downstairs, the counseling room is still fully staffed for anyone who needs it. It will be open until six every evening, and on Saturday mornings.”

Someone coughs. Behind Ms.Marsha, the reporter is back on TV, but no one can hear her.

“Last but not least, please refrain from discussing the trial during class. Students will be checking their phones throughout the day and, no doubt, will be talking about it. Let’s keep class time limited to your regular agenda.” Ms.Marsha takes a deep breath. Sonia notices how tired she looks. Everyone who works at Belmont appears to have aged ten years over the past couple of months. “Does anyone have questions?” Ms.Marsha says.

No one does.

The first bell rings. At least one thing hasn’t changed. Ms.Marsha still has impeccable timing.

Sonia’s first class goes about as well as expected. Belmont enrollment is down by at least 10 percent—no one knows the real number, and no one in admissions is talking, but all the classes feel smaller.

As directed, she doesn’t mention the trial, or Courtney, during class. But the students do, both before and after. Throughout the day, she hears snippets about what’s been on the news, what the pundits predict will happen, and what the kids think.

“She did it.”

“Totally.”

“No way. Courtney wouldnever.”

“Did you ever meet her mother?”

By the time the day is over, Sonia feels so heavy. And sheisheavy. None of her clothes fit; some are even too tight to wear. Stress eating. That’s what her husband called it as he handed her another stress ball. She has three now: one at work, one at home, and another in her car.

They haven’t helped much.

Also, she prefers to eat.

At home, she doesn’t turn on the TV. She has no desire to hear— again—what happened today at the courthouse. She doesn’t want to hear about the charges against Courtney, or how they suspect she killed her mother. Maybe intentionally, maybe not. It depends on which reporter is talking. Some say she drugged Ingrid Ross, others say she poisoned her, and a few describe what Courtney is accused of doing as “tampering.”

And everybody’s read the text messages—at least the ones that have leaked. Courtney repeatedly saying her mother was driving her insane convinced a lot of people she’s guilty.