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"We were told that you are one of the first people we should speak to.” A tall white woman with brown hair and glasses sat across from Simon, taking a sip of her coffee. Boris sat to her left, looking at Simon for any sign of discomfort.
“Mhm.” Simon shifted on the edge of the stiff leather chair. Felice told him the gist of what they were going to ask him about, but he still felt shaken. He realized that he hadn't actually told anyone the whole picture before, and doing so for this committee assessment felt sterile and unwelcoming.
“Where shall we begin?” The woman folded her hands together. Simon looked back at her. Was she just expecting him to write her a memoir?
Boris cleared his throat. “Perhaps, Simon can start with the beginning of his time at Hillerska.”
Grateful for the direction, Simon unfolded his hands and thought back. “In the beginning, I knew Sara and I were outsiders.” He focused on the tapping sound where the woman's pencil hit the desk. It felt like such a long time ago. “But I didn't think it would get as bad as it did.”
The woman's brow knit for a moment, and then seeming to remember herself, her face dropped to a neutral expression. “Outsiders? How so?”
Simon laughed. Actually laughed. He couldn't help it. He gestured down at himself. “Do I look like I belong here?”
“Can you be a bit more - specific?” She asked, unamused.
“Sure. It was the small things at first. I could feel the way they looked at us. Sometimes people would point at us when we were walking to class from the bus stop, or stare at the clothes we wear. In the beginning, it was easy to pretend I didn't see it. Marieberg had its problems, too. My sister got bullied there.” He paused. The woman was jotting something down,
“Then, the verbal harassment started. I just thought it was people testing me, the new, non-res kid. But they’d say that word like it was dirty. Non-res. And then August started calling me sosse, because I happened to speak up aboit social issues in class.”
“This term, sosse, is an abbreviation for socialist. But it is also has a somewhat racialized component, because Simon's mother is from Venezuela,” Boris provided. The assessor wrote something down.
“And did you ever report this behavior?” She asked, pushing her glasses further up her nose and looking condescendingly at him. Simon wanted to yell.
“No, I did not,” he said emphatically. Boris looked back and forth between them like he was watching a game of ping pong.
“And may I ask why you didn't report this behavior?” Simon crossed his arms over his chest defensively.
“Because they were being jerks. Nothing to write home about. It's not a surprise that the wealthiest school in Sweden would have a bullying or class problem.” He stared daggers at her.
The woman looked at him, finally, right in his eyes. “Mr. Eriksson. I understand your frustration. Your experience is valuable to us -”
“Yeah, and how long did it take for Hillerska to give a fuck about its minorities? Until the world found out that the little princes had gotten hazed?” Boris coughed loudly.
“Mr. Eriksson -”
“My name is Simon. Mr. Eriksson is my father.”
“Simon,” she sighed, then smiled tightly. “I am truly, truly sorry for your experience. But things will not improve if Hillerska does not know what to fix, or how to fix it. That's where you and I come in. So please, if you will, this should only take a few more minutes.”
Boris looked at him questioningly, a silent confirmation that Simon was alright. He nodded back curtly. “What else do you want to know?”
The woman picked up a stack of files and began to read. “It says here you were a victim of child pornography, potentially recorded by another student. Did your experience with harassment, verbal or physical, change at Hillerska after this event?”
“Excuse me, but this is entering highly sensitive, private territory involving minors and an active court case. Simon should not have to -”
“It's okay.” He took a breath. “For one, all of Hillerska knew what I looked like naked, and who was in my bed. Once Wilhelm came forward, the things people would say about me online - vile, disgusting comments about me being gay, or a class traitor, or about my race - were ten times worse. Most people at Hillerska just said those same things behind my back because of who I was dating. You can write that down,” he said, looking pointedly at her notepad.
“I see,” she commented. “And did the school do anything to address this situation?”
At this point, Boris began to look nervous. Hillerska did jack shit, and he knew it. They were too busy attempting to not get the school shut down over the scandal that victimized their inner sanctum, and breaking up a blood feud between the two next in line for the Swedish crown.
“No,” he said, crossing his arms and looking out the window.
“Hmm.” The woman paused for a moment, looking down at the papers in front of her. “I am sorry, Mr. - Simon - that your school did not attempt to provide you with the proper resources after such a traumatic event.” Simon averted his eyes towards her, a surprising amount of emotion on her face like a break in the clouds.
“Thank you,” he said, looking at Boris.
“And I am sorry, too, that priorities were elsewhere,” he stated, folding one of his legs over the other. “It was unacceptable.” He looked embarrassed. Simon felt his throat constrict.
“Are we done?” He asked, looking back and forth between them. The woman looked at Boris and said something quietly. He shook his head.
“You can go now, Simon. Thank you very much.” Boris’s eyes flashed kindly at him. He left the room in a daze, ambling towards his locker to collect his things. Sara planned to meet him afterwards; he couldn't imagine talking to anyone else about what had just happened.
“Hey,” Alexander said, brushing past Simon in the hallway.
“Hey,” Simon muttered, turning to watch him walk away. He was headed quite purposefully towards Boris' office.