Spitballs and Slut-Shaming

Eden

The cold brass knob bites into my palm as I turn it, pushing open the heavy wooden door to the main office. The sterile, overly air-conditioned air hits my face, carrying the faint scent of stale coffee and lemon floor wax. I swallow hard, forcing down the thick, bitter lump of humiliation lingering in my throat from my disastrous encounter in the hallway. The memory of the local mean girls