The Armor We Wear

Summer

The air in the campus orchard felt ten degrees colder after Jaxson walked away.

I stood frozen on the gravel path, my fingers still tingling where they had gripped his forearm.

The truth about Vanessa Vance and the diner fight revolved in my mind like a heavy, jagged stone.

He hadn’t beaten a man out of privilege or entitlement.

He had done it out of mercy.

He had done it because the system designed to protect students was too busy counting donor dollars to protect a girl in danger.

And I had written an entire column calling him a monster.

"Summer! Wardrobe needs you in the trailer for a fitting!"

Chloe’s voice broke through the fog in my head. She was jogging down the path, holding a garment bag that practically dragged in the dirt.

"What is that?" I asked, my voice hollow.

"Your dress for the Athletic Department Charity Gala tomorrow night," Chloe said, unzipping the bag with a dramatic flourish.

Inside sat a stunning, floor-length silk gown in a deep, midnight navy.

It was elegant, structural, and completely devoid of the cheap, glittering sequins the reality show usually favored.

It looked like something a serious woman would wear, not a prop.

"Sarah picked it out personally," Chloe whispered, guiding me back toward the production complex.

"She said she wants you to look like 'old money stability' while Vanessa Vance arrives looking like a headline."

"I don't want to compete with his ex-girlfriend, Chloe," I muttered, stepping into the cramped, brightly lit wardrobe trailer.

“Especially not when the whole thing is a setup for ratings."

"You're not competing for him, Summer," Chloe said softly, helping me slide the heavy silk over my shoulders.

“You're competing for your survival. If you break character tomorrow night when the cameras flash, Sarah will look for any excuse to claim a breach of contract. Don't give her the satisfaction."

I looked into the full-length mirror as Chloe zipped the dress.

The silk hugged my waist perfectly, cascading down to my boots in a clean, sharp silhouette.

But as I looked at my reflection, I didn't see a journalism major anymore. I saw a girl who was slowly being swallowed by the very machine she had spent years criticizing.

"He saved her, Chloe," I whispered to the glass.

"Who?"

"Jaxson. The girl at the diner. He didn't start the fight. He was stopping it."

Chloe stopped adjusting the hem, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror.

“Are you sure?"

"He told me himself. The school covered it up to keep the donor happy."

I turned around, the heavy silk rustling around my ankles.

“And tomorrow night, they’re forcing that same girl to sit at our table and pretend she’s a threat to a relationship that isn't even real."

"Then you have to be better than the script," Chloe said, her voice dropping to a fierce, protective register.

“If the show wants to make you a victim, you make them look like fools. You wear that dress like armor, Summer. Because tomorrow night, you're going to war."