A girl sitting near the front said loud enough that the whole section hears her: “Is this dress made from the old clothes of our concierge?! »
A boy sitting next to her laughed.
The laughter has spread. The students near me have moved away, creating this cruel little space that forms around a person whose crowd decided to make fun of them.
“I made this dress with my father’s old shirts,” I said. “He passed away a few months ago, and that was my way of paying tribute to him. So maybe you don’t have to make fun of something you don’t know. »
“Is this dress made from the old clothes of our concierge?! »
For a moment, no one said anything.
Then another girl looked up at the sky and burst out laughing. “Relax! No one asked you to tell us your sad story! »
I was 18, but at that time, I felt like I was 11 years old again, standing in a hallway, hearing: “She’s the concierge’s daughter… he’s the one cleaning our toilet! I wanted nothing more than to disappear into the wall.
A chair was waiting for me near the edge of the room. I sat, intertwined my fingers on my knees and breathed slowly and steadily, for I refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing me collapse in front of them.
Someone in the crowd shouted again, loud enough to cover the music, that my dress was “disgusting.”
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