“We refuse to accept it,” I say again, as loudly and more firmly, over the crowd. “I don’t have to ask you to imagine what you’d think if the gender roles were reversed—there’s a reason Jack wasn’t called here today. Jack was onstage with us, performing next to us, a part of our burlesque club. Is there a reason he’s not standing next to us?”

The dean glances at the door, and Jack, standing next to Taylor, gives him a thumbs-up. Behind them, kids I recognize—Zoe and Grace and Halim and Max, with photos in their hands. The ones we’ve posted all over campus. Taylor gives me finger guns, and I have to cough instead of laugh, and it takes me a second to go on.

“Maybe you remember when the soccer team won their match and ran naked across the quad?” I continue. “And none of them, I believe, received serious punishment. Or an immoral-conduct charge. Because boys will be boys, right?”

I stop for a second, and Nevaeh squeezes my hand.

“If for no other reason, the discrepancy in the severity of the punishment is clear and should be enough to make this all moot,” I say. My voice has gotten loud. After I finish, for a moment there is only silence.

“Is that all?” the dean says sarcastically.

“No, sir,” I say.

“How long do you expect me to sit here and—” he starts.

“Dean Pembrooke,” Mr. Banerjee says, “I’d like to hear the rest of what they have to say.”

“Fine!” the dean says. “Let them keep running their mouths.” He settles back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest.

I look at Nevaeh and Katherine, standing hand in hand next to me, faces composed and serious and angry. They nod at me.

“Just one more small thing, sir.” I pause and look at him, remember his face when he was looking at that crumpled photo on the desk. That dismissive snort.

“When I came to you about the photo on the bulletin board—of me, in a costume chosen for me, for a dance performance, the words FAT SLUT written across it, what did you say?”

He is glaring daggers at me. He refuses to answer.

I clear my throat. I’m shaking so hard I’m afraid my voice will be torn from my throat, but I go on. I don’t look away from his glare.

“I believe you suggested that there was a reason someone would post this flyer, would write those words across that picture of me. I believe you suggested, perhaps, that if I wanted to be respected, I should not be wearing the costume the dance department chose for me. I believe you agreed, when I asked you if the words fat slut applied to me.”

I hear noise in the lobby. Katherine moves closer to me.

“Dean Pembrooke, is this true?” Ms. Warren bursts out.