Chapter 4A: Exposed Math Equation

As I stepped into the classroom, a palpable shift enveloped the atmosphere. The once-bustling room, alive with the low hum of chatter and the rustle of papers, abruptly succumbed to a profound silence. It was as if time had paused, and the air grew heavy with an eerie tension that made the cold air from the vents feel even more biting against my skin. I stood frozen at the doorway, uncertainty wrapping around me like a shroud, and my heart raced, thundering against my ribcage—a relentless reminder of my vulnerability in this moment.

Mr. Smothers, my Algebra II teacher, noticed my arrival and immediately took control of the room. His deep, commanding voice broke through the silence like a trumpet call. “Class,” he announced, rising from behind his desk, “it seems we have something ... unusual to address today. As all of you can see, Emma has become a living art canvas for our Graphic Art Living Project.” His words sliced through the tension, spotlighting my insecurities and flaws, and illuminating every fear I had ever harbored. With a sweeping motion of his hand, he beckoned me to the front of the class. “Come up here, please.”

Each step I took felt like an eternity, the stares of my classmates piercing me, holding me captive as I made my way toward the front. The heat of embarrassment surged in my cheeks, and I could almost hear my heartbeat, a frantic drum echoing in my ears. The words and drawings scrawled across my body from earlier in the day felt like a mockery, an open display of my shame, an exhibit for all to scrutinize. Whispers floated through the room like dark clouds, the low murmurs barely audible yet painfully clear, as students exchanged glances, dissecting the phrases etched on my arms, legs, and chest. Some stared wide-eyed, filled with confusion or curiosity—or worse, amusement.

“As you can see,” Mr. Smothers continued, addressing the class, “laid out on Emma’s body are words written by her peers. Now, the more interesting question—are any of these writings from people in this classroom?”

The air thickened with tension, wrapping around me like a vice as I stood there, feeling utterly exposed—not just in the physical sense but emotionally bare. My palms grew clammy, and my throat tightened at the realization that someone in this very room was responsible for at least a few of those words. My heart raced, urging me to curl inward, to shield my body from their prying eyes, but I forced myself to stand tall.

Then, the voice I had dreaded the most sliced through the silence. “I did,” Madison declared, her hand shooting up confidently from the middle of the room. My heart sank as she rose, a sly smile curling on her lips, resembling a cat playing with its caught prey. “I wrote ‘brave’ on her.”

A fog of confusion and disbelief rolled over me, reminding me of the mind-numbing moment when Vice Principal Ms. Blunderbuss had made me endure this humiliation while several students scrawled on my body. The memory sent a jolt of shame through me, the ink burning beneath the weight of their scrutiny. Mr. Smothers nodded, his gaze shifting between Madison and me, the weight of his attention unbearable. “Very well, Ms. Foster. Could you come up and point out where you wrote it on Emma?”