Me, You, & The Party Rock Crew

“It’s much better to face these kinds of things, with a sense of poise and rationality.” -Panic! At The Disco, I Write Sins Not Tragedies, 2005. 

Izzie sat in the dean’s office, legs swinging mindlessly as her heart thudded hard in her chest. She was known for being a goodie-two-shoes–except for that one fight back in fifth grade. But come on, her childhood bully totally deserved that broken nose. Besides, her new nose looks better suited for her face. Other than that, she was golden: straight A’s, honor roll, soccer team, good friends. 

So what the hell could’ve happened that had her not only called down, but escorted by campus security? 

This was beyond embarrassing.

“Isabella Wallace?” the secretary called. Her voice was gruff, like she’d been chain-smoking since ‘84, and her whole vibe screamed grumpy on purpose. 

Izzie shot up like a soldier, nerves on edge, and approached the desk. The secretary didn’t even look at her–just handed her a slip and muttered something low.

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that? I didn’t catch what you said.” 

“I said down the hall, first door on your left,” she snapped, her voice sharp and annoyed. 

Izzie took the slip with a quiet nod and turned to walk, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw two other girls–white girls–approach the desk. The second the secretary clocked them, her voice shifted, suddenly all soft and sugary sweet. 

Hmph. Racist bitch, Izzie thought, face burning with a hot, quiet rage. 

She took a breath to calm herself and walked down the hall, turning left into the first door. 

As she stepped into the office, she saw the Freshman Dean of Students, Mr. Diaz, seated behind his desk. 

Appearance-wise, he looked like her old middle school friend Hernan–Hernia, as her friends had lovingly (and immaturely) nicknamed him–in about thirty years. Same spiky hair. Same silver-rimmed glasses perched low on his nose. Same judgy face. 

Except this time, the judgment hit different–more stern, more soul-piercing. It made Izzie feel like she’d shrunk three sizes on the spot. 

“Isabella, please, have a seat, make yourself comfortable,” he said. His voice was flat, and his expression was unreadable. 

“Good morning, sir,” she mumbled, barely above a whisper. 

“Good morning.” He smiled, but it didn’t feel genuine. It felt…weird. Forced, even. 

He glanced between his computer screen and some handwritten notes in front of him. His handwriting was awful–impossible to make out. Still, Izzie tried to decipher something, anything. 

“So, how’s your morning been? Everything going alright in your classes?” he asked casually. 

Small talk? Seriously? 

This wasn’t easing anyone’s nerves, especially not hers. 

“Um, it’s been okay, I guess. Classes are going fine. I’m just trying to stay on top of everything before soccer tryouts in a few weeks,” she offered quietly. 

“Ah, soccer? You play?” 

“Yes, sir, I do. I’ve been playing since elementary school.” 

Mr. Diaz raised his eyebrows, mildly impressed. Polite. Athletic. A solid student. And yet, here she was. 

He furrowed his brow as he returned to his notes, then looked up again. 

“Isabella–Bella–” 

“Izzie,” she corrected. 

“Izzie,” he nodded. “I called you in here today because a friend of yours brought up some past concerns. And well, they’re concerns that also caught my attention. You see, before I came out here, I taught in the inner cities, and of course–” 

His words began to blur. 

Izzie’s mind drifted. She flashed back to that morning, when she’d seen Sammi Ellerson stepping out of the dean’s office. Sammi had flashed her a wide, sugary sweet smile, and even asked how her day was going. Izzie hadn’t entertained it, but Sammi had complimented her keychain. 

It was red, black, and white. Beautifully beaded. A gift from her old soccer team after their final tournament in middle school. Her school colors. 

You’ve got to be kidding me. 

Mr. Diaz’s voice cut back in, sharp and slow. 

“Izzie, I’ve been led to believe that you’re walking down a dangerous path. A path that leads to violence and crime. And as someone who’s witnessed that path firsthand, I want you to know there are people here who genuinely care. Who want to support you.” 

“Mr. Diaz,” Izzie started, her voice steady but tight. “With all due respect–if you’re asking–” 

She stopped. Rephrased. 

“If you’re assuming that I’m gang affiliated…you’re wrong.” 

Mr. Diaz wasn’t the kind of guy who liked to be told he was wrong–but Izzie wasn’t about to let anyone rewrite her story.  

“I need you to understand the severity of this,” he said. “Running with the wrong crowd at this school could result in serious consequences. A disciplinary hearing. Suspension. Possible expulsion.” 

Izzie’s eyes widened. What? This had to be the Twilight Zone. 

“I get that. I know the rules. But I’m not gang-affiliated. Heck, my mom was my old middle school secretary–she watched me like a hawk. And my friends? They’re athletes. Theatre kids. Some are even in Blue Crew. I have a friend who literally models–” 

“Okay, give me the names of these friends of yours.” 

“Daisy Martinez, Simon Mankowski, Carolina Thompson, Hattie Sanderson, Carter Emiliano, Calliope Emiliano–” 

“Sammi Ellerson? Jamie Ryan?” 

“They’re not my friends,” Izzie said, brows shooting up. Was this guy for real? 

“Not anymore, you mean? Not since they tried to talk you out of–” 

“Listen,” Izzie cut in, steady but tight, “if you don’t believe me, call my mom.” 

She tried to keep her tone even, but her jaw was tense. This man was pushing her. Trying to make her crack. But she wouldn’t. 

“We don’t need to–” 

“Yeah, we do,” she said firmly. “Call her. Actually, call her work. Adlai Stevenson Middle School. The number’s (708) 212-4538.”  

She recited it with practiced ease, no hesitation. 

Mr. Diaz paused, then relented. He dialed the number on his office phone. 

A few rings, then the soft, familiar voice came through the speaker: 

“Stevenson School, this is Odalys speaking.” 

“Good morning, Odalys. This is Mr. Diaz calling from Aspen Brook High. I’m here with Isabella–do you have a moment?” 

“Sure, is everything okay?” Odalys asked, concern coloring her voice. 

“Well–a few of Isabella’s friends came to me earlier this morning, concerned for her well-being. They’re worried she might be falling in with the wrong crowd, and I wanted to get your insight.”  

“Huh. That’s news to me,” Odalys said flatly. “She’s closest to Daisy Martinez, Carolina Thompson, Simon Mankowski, and Harriet Sanderson. Did any of those four say something to you?” 

“No, actually…these were other friends of hers. I’m not at liberty to say who, for confidentiality, reasons.” 

“I understand confidentiality. What I don’t understand is why my daughter is being accused of gang affiliation,” Odalys said, her tone cooling quickly. 

“Well–uh, we were told she was displaying potential gang paraphernalia on her backpack and we–” 

“My soccer keychain?” Izzie spoke up. Mr. Diaz shot her a look and raised a hand to silence her. 

But her mother wasn’t having it. 

“Mr. Diaz,” Odalys snapped, “you’re making a serious allegation about a fourteen-year-old girl. You do realize that, right? That keychain is from her middle school soccer tournament. Red, white, and black–those were her school colors.” 

The shift in Mr. Diaz’s demeanor was immediate. He was no longer the authority figure in the room–he was shrinking under Odalys’ voice. 

Izzie felt herself exhale for the first time since walking in. 

“And going off hearsay from teenagers, without any further investigation? That’s irresponsible. Have you asked anyone else about her friend group? Or even spoken to her friends?” 

“Well, no, but these students were said to be very close to her–”

“Put me on speaker,” Odalys said, her voice calm, cutting. 

“I don’t think that would be–” 

“Put me on speaker, please.” 

“Very well,” he muttered, pressing the button. 

“Your mom’s on the line,” Mr. Diaz said. “I’m putting her on speaker now.” 

Izzie nodded. Her throat felt tight. 

“Mom?” she croaked. Her voice cracked, small and trembling. She almost wanted to cry. 

“Hey kid,” her mom said, voice soft, but steady. “Tell me what happened.” 

“I was in class when security came and escorted me down here. The secretary was rude to me, and then Mr. Diaz started saying I was heading down a dangerous path–

“That is not how I–”

“Mr. Diaz,” Odalys cut in, “my daughter is not finished speaking. Thank you.” 

Izzie swallowed. “Then he brought up Sammi Ellerson and Jamie Ryan. I’m not friends with them. Sammi’s hated me ever since the Anthony thing during the first week of school. Jamie’s her best friend–of course she’s backing her up.” 

“Sammi, huh?” Odalys repeated, like she was filing it away. “That same Sammi who made that comment about your project during Open House? The one who asked, ‘Where’s Pablo Escobar?’ during your Colombia project?” 

“Yes, same one.” 

“Thanks, kid. I’ll handle it from here, okay? I’m going to call your Abuelo to come pick you up early, is that okay?” 

“Yeah, that works,” Izzie murmured. Her voice was flat, like all the life had been drained out of her. 

“Mr. Diaz, I can come off of speaker now,” Odalys said coolly. 

He complied, pressing the phone back to his ear. 

“I would like to request a formal meeting with you, Sammi Ellerson, her parents, and the principal.” 

“I don’t think that would be necessary–”

“Mr. Diaz,” her voice sharpened, “this is a serious accusation my daughter is dealing with. I want it resolved before it leaves a mark on her academic record. Please let me know your earliest availability. I’ll also be reaching out to Principal Bernard to coordinate.” 

Mr. Diaz didn’t argue again. 

Just like that, Izzie was dismissed from the office. She grabbed her backpack and bolted the moment the door opened, her breath catching in her chest. 

She checked her watch. Two minutes before the bell. 

She rushed down the hall and ducked into the nearest bathroom–the one on the first floor, east wing, by the history department. Slamming into the last stall, she locked it and tried to breathe. Her chest was tight. Her face was already wet with tears. 

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. 

Simon: Hey, where r u? 

Izzie: Bathroom. Got out of dean’s office. 

Simon: O shit. You okay? 

Izzie: No. 

Simon: Which bathroom? 

Izzie: First floor, east wing by the stairs to the history department. 

Simon: OMW. 

 A minute passed. 

Then she heard boots. Familiar black Doc Martens appeared under the stall. 

“Izzie?” came Hattie’s voice. “It’s me. Simon’s outside looking kind of dumb right now, but he called me.” 

Izzie sucked in a shaky breath and unlatched the stall door. 

Hattie’s expression dropped the second she saw her. The bright, bold Izzie–the one who cracked inappropriate jokes during lunch, who laughed too loud in the hallways, who never backed down–was unraveling in front of her. Her face was blotchy. Her lips trembled. 

“I didn’t do anything wrong, Hattie,” she whimpered. 

“I know, honey. Come here.” 

The taller girl pulled her into a tight hug, and Izzie finally broke. Sobs ripped through her chest, muffled against Hattie’s shoulder. 

The door swung open hard, slamming against the wall. Simon barged in. 

“Mankowski, you know damn well–” Hattie began, her voice sharp. 

“Hattie–just stop. Please.” His tone was quiet. Earnest. “She’s my best friend, too.” 

Hattie looked at him, her jaw tight. Then, with a heavy sigh, she relented. “Fine.” 

Simon crossed the bathroom quietly, but without hesitation. He crouched down next to her, his hand found her back–gentle, steady. 

“Iz, I’m here,” he said softly. “Whatever this is, whatever they said…we’re not letting you go through this alone, okay?” 

Her lip trembled. She gave a small nod, the tears starting again. “Okay,” she whimpered. 

They let her cry it out for a while. Hattie sat on the grimy tile floor beside her in silence. Simon had slipped out quietly a few minutes in, knowing full well he’d get in trouble if someone caught him in the girls’ bathroom. 

Once Izzie had calmed down enough to breathe without shaking, she stood up and moved to the sink. She splashed cold water on her face, watching her reflection blur and then come back into focus, red-eyed and raw. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Hattie asked gently from behind. 

Izzie shook her head. She wasn’t ready yet. Her mind was still reeling, trying to stitch together everything that had just happened. 

“I’m getting picked up early today. Just to get a breather,” she said quietly, eyes still on the sink. 

“No problem.” Hattie stood up, brushing off her jeans. “I’ll grab your assignments from 6th and 7th period. I’ll let Daisy know when I see her–” 

“It’s fine,” Izzie interrupted with a shrug. “I’ll text the group chat tonight.” 

“Okay,” Hattie nodded slowly, her gaze softening with concern. “Just…take care of you, okay?”