That evening, I received a message from an unknown number.
Come to the auditorium tomorrow at nine. Don’t tell Vanessa.
I stared at my phone.
There was no name.
No explanation.
I almost deleted it.
But the next morning, I went.
Inside the auditorium, several college administrators were gathered near the stage.
My mother stood beside them, looking bewildered.
Vanessa and her friends were there too.
Vanessa smiled when she saw us.
“How nice,” she said. “The whole family came to apologize.”
But nobody laughed.
A gray-haired woman stepped forward.
Her name was Dr. Helen Brooks, the college president.
“Vanessa,” she said calmly, “before we discuss your complaint, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
An elderly maintenance supervisor emerged from behind the curtain.
I recognized him immediately.
Mr. Walter Harris.
He’d worked at the college for nearly thirty years.
He looked at Vanessa.
“Yesterday, you asked me to unlock the storage room,” he said. “You told me the theater department needed to move some equipment.”
