Skin Deep Enough
Copyright© 2026 by Danielle Stories
Chapter 12: Witness List
November arrived not with a fanfare, but with a cold front. The desert chill was a shock to the system, a sharp, clarifying bite in the air that mirrored the feeling in my chest. The languid stagnation of summer was over. Every day now had a purpose, a countdown: T-minus 10 days to trial.
Janelle’s dining table, which had been a staging ground for legal briefs, was now a war room. It was buried under a new kind of paper: the witness list.
It wasn’t just my name and the school administrators anymore. The list had mutated, grown into something alive and terrifying. Janelle had subpoenaed them. Every single one.
For the Plaintiff:
Amara Delane
Lena Martinez (Character witness, re: school climate)
Micah Thorne (Witness to plaintiff’s state of mind/expression)
Dr. Anya Sharma, PhD, Clinical Psychologist (Expert witness on trauma, PTSD, symbolic expression)
Mr. Robert Granger, English Teacher (Witness to plaintiff’s academic engagement & classroom impact)
For the Respondent (School District):
Principal Evelyn Bloom
Vice Principal Kenneth Daniels
Nurse Theresa Phelps
Cynthia Houston (Perpetrator)
Mason Riddle (Perpetrator)
Emmy Salinas (Perpetrator)
Jessica Jacobs (Perpetrator)
Flora Levine (Accomplice/Bystander)
Oliwia McGrath (Accomplice/Bystander - Video)
Dr. Felix Warren, Ed.D (District’s expert witness on educational disruption & adolescent psychology)
Seeing their names typed out in crisp legal font was a visceral punch. Cynthia. Mason. Emmy. Jessica. Flora. Oliwia. They were no longer just shapes in a memory or faces in a blurry video. They were sworn participants. They would be in the same room. They would have to raise their hands, swear to tell the truth, and answer for that day.
“They’ll lie,” I said flatly, staring at the list. “They’ll say it was just a joke that got out of hand. That they didn’t mean to.”
“Probably,” Janelle agreed, not looking up from a deposition transcript. “That’s why we have Oliwia McGrath.”
Oliwia. The girl who filmed it. Janelle had subpoenaed her phone. The raw, unedited footage was now evidence. Exhibit A.
“And the others? Flora?”
“Flora Levine stood guard. She facilitated it. She’s an accomplice. Her testimony will be about the planning, the intent. She’ll crack under oath. They all will. They’re kids, not criminal masterminds. They’ll contradict each other. They’ll minimize. And the jury will see it.”
“Jury?” My head snapped up. “There’s a jury?”
“In a civil trial for injunctive relief? Usually, no. But we petitioned for one. Judge Morrison granted it. Given the nature of the allegations and the public interest, she agreed a jury of peers should decide if the school’s actions were reasonable.” Janelle finally looked at me, her eyes hard. “It’s a gamble. Juries are unpredictable. But I’d rather put this in the hands of twelve ordinary people than leave it to one judge who’s already shown her conservative stripes.”
A jury. Twelve strangers would sit in a box and look at me. Listen to me. Decide if my nakedness was protected speech or a disruptive nuisance. The reality of it was staggering.
My mother, who was making coffee in the kitchen, let out a soft sound. “A jury. Oh, Amara.”
“It’s better,” Janelle insisted. “The school’s argument is all about ‘community standards’ and ‘disruption.’ Let’s see what the actual community thinks.”
The next week was a blur of final preparations. I met with Dr. Sharma, the psychologist. She was a small, intense woman with kind eyes. We didn’t talk about my “mental state”; we talked about trauma as a lived experience, about how the body holds memory, about how my refusal to wear clothes could be seen as a refusal to let the trauma be compartmentalized and hidden away. She was going to testify that forcing me to cover up could be re-traumatizing, could hinder healing. She was going to give clinical language to my gut feeling.
I met with Mr. Granger, who was nervous but resolute. “I’m not taking sides in a legal sense,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “I’m simply testifying to your conduct as a student in my class, and to the ... unique pedagogical dynamics your presence created.” He was going to say that, far from being a disruption, my situation had sparked the most engaged, difficult discussions about justice, shame, and literature his class had ever had.
Lena was a ball of nervous energy. “What do I say? What if they ask me if I think you’re crazy?”
“Tell them the truth,” I said. “Tell them I’m your friend who got hurt, and the school made it worse.”
Micah was typically taciturn. “I’ll say I draw you because you’re a compelling subject. That your expression is clear and consistent. That’s it.” His art would be entered as evidence, too, sketches of me in the box-room, on the stand, on our walks. A visual diary of my “expression.”
And then there was I. I had to be ready. Janelle drilled me. Not just on my story, but on cross-examination.
“They will ask about your mother. They will imply she’s a bad parent for ‘allowing’ this. They will ask if you’re sexually active. They will ask if you’ve ever been diagnosed with a mental illness. They will ask if you’re doing this for fame. They will ask why you didn’t just ‘get over it.’ Your job is to stay calm. To answer the question asked, not the accusation behind it. To be a human being, not a symbol.”
I practiced in front of my mirror. Neutral face. Steady voice. “I am not doing this for fame. I am doing it because I have no other way to be honest.”
The weekend before the trial, a package arrived for me. No return address. Inside was a simple, long, grey scarf, incredibly soft. Folded within it was a note.
For the walk from the car to the courthouse. It’s cold. Not a surrender. Just a scarf.
M
Micah. I held the scarf to my face. It smelled like cedar and graphite. It was an act of kindness that acknowledged the battle without trying to stop it. I would wear it.
The night before the trial, I didn’t sleep. I lay in the dark, the names on the witness list scrolling behind my eyes. Cynthia. Mason. Nurse Phelps. Dr. Warren. Jury.
My mother came in and sat on the edge of my bed. She didn’t turn on the light.
“I am so sorry,” she whispered into the darkness, her voice raw. “I didn’t know how to fix this for you. I’m sorry, I was angry. I’m sorry, why do I want you to be small and quiet and safe?”
“You wanted me to have a future,” I said, my own voice thick.
“This is your future,” she said, her hand finding mine in the dark. “And it’s braver and fiercer than anything I ever imagined for you. I’m proud of you. I’m terrified. But I am so, so proud.”
We sat in the dark, holding hands, until the first grey light of dawn began to outline the window.
The day arrived. The courthouse steps were a scrum of media, despite a limited pool arrangement. I wore Micah’s scarf looped around my neck, the ends trailing. The rest was me. My skin. My truth.
Flashbulbs popped. Shouted questions melted into an unintelligible roar. Janelle and my mother flanked me, a human shield. We pushed through the heavy doors into the relative quiet of the lobby.
Inside, the gravity was different, heavier, drier, more solemn. This was the main event. The courtroom was larger, more imposing, paneled in dark wood that absorbed sound and light. The jury box sat empty to one side, twelve vacant chairs waiting to be filled with my judges.
At the defendant’s table, the district’s lawyers were already seated, along with Principal Bloom and VP Daniels. Their faces were set in masks of professional solemnity. At our table, it was just Janelle, my mother, and me.
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