Zania seemed the most engaged, even relieved, by her tasks. She was principal sorter of the unusual, pulling out her finds—a hot-pink pump, a Roman sandal. She did not immediately share her discoveries, but piled them up secretly, off in a corner, and went through them a second time, rejecting many before showing the chosen ones to others. The whole time Zania worked, she looked disdainful, her hawk-like face closed and her movements abrupt, except for the moment she found a rare shoe, and then her expression brightened like a child’s spotting sea glass at the beach.

The gallery acted as a fifth character in their play. Though the white room was designed to become an unobtrusive stage to any kind of artwork, the height of the walls and ceiling mattered to the proportions of the cathedral. The light mattered, too, where it pooled. Pearson measured everything and paced, looking across the room from different vantage points. He even pulled out a light meter and stared at it, calculating. His primary ruminative state was splayed-leg stance, his palm coursing over his bald head.

The crew didn’t talk much, so in the lull I turned to the computer and began digging into LAAC’s history. If anyone asked, I would say I was thinking of applying to school there, but in reality, I was curious about Zania’s claims about women’s experiences as students and artists. I checked the school’s press releases on its website, compiling a preliminary list of recipients for scholarships and awards. Ray was right. It appeared, from what I had so far, that more than two-thirds of the honorees were male.

I also found the archive of the LAAC campus newspaper and searched through it for pieces on campus sexual assault. There were several articles, mostly vague updates by the administration. Yet one described five cases of campus date rape, and the school’s sluggish and incomplete response to them. A flurry of letters to the editor supported and denied the claims. A few letter writers shared their own stories.

My roommate got escorted back to her dorm room by a guy because she was nauseous from drinking too much. She started throwing up in her trash can, she felt so ill, and he stayed for a while. She thought he was being nice, making sure she was well enough to go to bed, but she LITERALLY had just SPIT OUT her last mouthful of BILE when he said, “So, uh, can I just have a blow job, then?”

My friend woke up after a party with a guy on top of her and her pants down. She’s too embarrassed to tell anyone, but I know she can’t get it out of her head.