What rule did your teacher break?

I was in music class when I felt that familiar tingling in my fingers. I’d been seizure‑free for three months, but I knew what was coming.

“Miss Blackwood, I need to get to the nurse,” I said, already feeling the electricity building in my brain. “I’m about to have a seizure.”

The substitute teacher rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Every kid suddenly has epilepsy now. It’s trendy.”

“No, you don’t understand.” The tingling was spreading up my arm. I had maybe two minutes before I’d lose consciousness. “I have a seizure action plan in my file.”

“Sit down.” She stood and walked to my desk. Instead of helping, she leaned over me. “You know what my sister did when her daughter claimed to have seizures? She ignored them completely. Within a week—miraculously cured.”

Emily jumped up and ran toward the emergency button by the door. “She’s not faking. I’ve seen her seizures before.”

The sub blocked her. “The only thing seizing is her need for attention.”

Then she did something I’ll never forget. She walked to the door, turned the deadbolt, and dropped the key in her pocket. “Nobody leaves until she admits she’s faking. This victim complex is destroying your generation.”

“Call 911!” someone yelled, reaching for their phone.

“Phones in the box now.” The sub grabbed the collection box. “Or you’re all suspended.”

My vision blurred at the edges. Two minutes. That’s all I had before my brain would misfire completely—the number my neurologist made me memorize.

That’s when my hated cousin Walsh decided to open his mouth. “She used to fake seizures ever since she was little.”

The sub’s face lit up. “See? Even her boyfriend knows she’s performing.”

“He’s not my—”

She walked back to the smartboard and pulled up YouTube. “You know what really helps with fake seizures?” She searched for “flashing strobe light 10 hours” and hit play. “Exposure therapy. If you were really epileptic, I wouldn’t do this. But since you’re faking—”

The screen exploded with rapid flashing. White, black, white, black. My brain felt like it was being electrocuted.

Emily screamed. “Turn it off. Photosensitive epilepsy is real!”

The sub cranked the brightness to max. “Psychosomatic reaction. She believes she’s seizing, so her body mimics it.”

That’s when David grabbed his head. His whole body went rigid. “I can’t—the lights—”

Everyone lost it. Kids dove under desks, threw jackets over their heads.

“Turn it off! Turn it off!”

Malik tried to cover my eyes with his hands. “Please don’t seize. Please don’t seize.”

Ryan ran to the door and slammed his shoulder into it. “Help! Somebody help!”

The sub laughed. “Sit down or you’re expelled.”

Three other kids were now on the floor. The strobing was triggering something in everyone—migraines, nausea, panic.

“Make it stop!” Jenna cried, hands pressed to her temples.

Through the door window, Mr. Peter from next door looked in. The sub stepped in front of the window, blocking his view of the chaos, and gave him a thumbs‑up before pulling down the shade. He walked away.

“This is torture!” Emily screamed.

One minute left. I could feel my consciousness slipping. My muscles were starting to twitch.

The sub actually turned the speed up on the strobe. “When I was in school, nobody had seizures. Now suddenly everyone’s neurodivergent. Thanks, social media.”

My body wasn’t mine anymore. The seizure hit like a lightning bolt.

Sarah told me later that’s when things got really bad. My seizure was violent—thrashing, foaming, turning blue. She tried to turn me on my side, but I was convulsing too hard.

“She’s dying!” Sarah screamed, my blood on her hands from where I’d bitten my tongue.

The sub stood there eating an apple. “Oscar‑worthy performance—though the fake blood is a bit much.”

That’s when Billy lost it. The sweet, quiet kid who never caused trouble grabbed a music stand like a battering ram.

“Violence? Really?” The sub pulled out her phone to record. “This is going straight to the principal.”

He swung at the smartboard. Crack. The screen went black.

“Destruction of property,” she shrieked. “That’s a felony.”

Billy didn’t stop. He turned and smashed the door window. Glass everywhere.

David was seizing three feet away. Jenna vomited from the strobe exposure. Complete chaos.

“Assault! You’re all going to jail!”

That’s when my boyfriend, Darren, saw me through the broken window and completely lost it. He reached through, slicing his hand on the glass, fumbling for the lock.

“Don’t you dare!” the sub screamed, but Emily and Billy held her back.

The door flew open. Teachers flooded in.

“Call 911!” someone screamed. “Multiple students seizing!”

The sub was still yelling as they restrained her. “They’re all faking. This is mass hysteria!”

The paramedics said I was clinically dead for ninety seconds. They had to intubate me right there in the hallway while working on David ten feet away. Turns out he had undiagnosed epilepsy.

Miss Blackwood was given paid time off while her “performance” was under review. A few of the parents set up a GoFundMe to cover treatment costs.

Two weeks later, we were sitting in science class when they broke the news. David’s parents only managed to raise $30,000 of the $130,000 needed for treatment. He didn’t make it.

That’s when I knew we had to take matters into our own hands and destroy Miss Blackwood.

My hands shook so badly I couldn’t hold my pencil. The teacher kept talking about cell division, but all I could think about was how David’s cells stopped dividing because his parents couldn’t afford to keep them going. I sat there frozen while everyone else took notes like nothing happened—like David wasn’t dead—like Miss Blackwood wasn’t sitting at home getting paid while he was in the ground.

The rage was so hot in my chest I thought I might throw up right there at my desk. When the bell rang, I ran to the bathroom and barely made it to the toilet before everything came up. Emily followed me in and held my hair back while I heaved.

“We can’t let her get away with this,” she whispered.

I knew she was right, but I could barely stand. My legs shook. My head pounded.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay there staring at the ceiling, replaying those ninety seconds when I was dead—the darkness—the nothing. I kept wondering if David felt that same darkness or if it was different for him.

My parents checked on me every hour, scared the stress would trigger another seizure. Mom peeked in and asked if I needed anything. Dad stood in the doorway just watching me breathe.

The next morning at school, flowers and cards piled up at David’s locker. Someone taped his school picture to the door. People left notes and stuffed animals. A freshman girl walked by and asked what happened. When someone told her about the seizure in music class, she said it sounded made up. I wanted to scream, but I just stared at the flowers.

At lunch, I found Billy sitting alone in the corner. His knuckles were still wrapped in bandages from punching through the smartboard. He looked up when I sat down. He hadn’t been sleeping either. He said he couldn’t stop seeing David on the floor. We sat in silence because there wasn’t anything to say. Nothing would bring David back.

After school, Darren waited by my locker with a stack of printed papers. He’d found Miss Blackwood’s social media accounts before she made them private—post after post going back years where she mocked kids with disabilities, called them “trendy,” praised her sister’s tough‑love approach to her daughter’s “fake seizures.” There were pictures of her at a conference about “combating victim mentality” in schools. Every post made me want to throw up again.

David’s funeral was three days later. The church was packed. His mom, Neve, sat in the front row looking like she hadn’t eaten or slept since it happened. When I went up to pay my respects, she grabbed my hand so tight it hurt.

She kept whispering about the GoFundMe messages and how people kept saying they were sorry, but $30,000 wasn’t enough. Her grip crushed my fingers, but I didn’t pull away. She needed someone to hold on to.

After the service, I saw Walsh in the parking lot. I couldn’t help myself. I walked right up to him and asked how he could do it—how he could tell that substitute I was faking when he knew about my epilepsy. He started crying by his car. He said our grandmother always told him I was faking for attention and he believed her because it was easier than accepting I was really sick. He said he was sorry, but sorry didn’t bring David back.

Monday morning, Principal Penn called me to her office with my parents. She sat behind her big desk, offering careful condolences and talking about proper procedures. She kept emphasizing how the school followed protocol and how substitute teachers go through training. She never once admitted those procedures failed David. She never said his name without looking at her lawyer on the phone. Dad’s jaw clenched every time she mentioned procedures.

After that meeting, they sent me to see Ren Wriggley, the district’s 504 coordinator. They sat with my file open and fake sympathy on their face while they reviewed my accommodation plan. They kept asking if there was anything they could have done differently, like David wasn’t literally dead from what they did. They wanted me to say it was okay—that the system worked—but the system killed David and they wanted me to pretend it didn’t.

They talked about updated training and new protocols while all I could think about was David seizing on that floor. Something felt strange about how Miss Blackwood knew exactly which buttons to push—the strobe lights, the locked door, even calling epilepsy “trendy.” It was like she had this whole plan ready for some reason.

They kept talking about “moving forward” and “learning from this tragedy.” But they never said what they learned. They never said they were wrong. They never said David should still be alive. When I left that office, I knew nothing would change unless we made it change. Miss Blackwood would come back from her paid leave and some other kid would die. The school would have more meetings about procedures and protocols, but nothing would actually get better.

That’s when Emily, Billy, Darren, and I started planning. We weren’t going to let them sweep this under the rug like David never existed.

The first thing we did was go to the police station downtown. My mom drove us in her minivan while Emily kept checking her phone for updates from other parents. The building smelled like old coffee and floor cleaner. We sat in hard plastic chairs for two hours before the detective finally called us in. He had a thick folder on his desk with David’s name on the tab. I could see the corner of his death certificate sticking out.

The detective kept saying things like “alleged incident” and “under investigation,” while that piece of paper sat right there. He told us these cases take time and there’s a process. My mom asked when we’d hear something definite. He said it could be weeks or months. Emily’s mom started crying. He handed her a tissue and said he understood our frustration—but they had to be thorough. He kept using the word “alleged,” even though David was dead, even though we all saw what happened, even though the paramedics had reports. He said the district was conducting its own investigation, too. Everything was “under review.” That’s all he would say—under review.

Three days later, I had to go to the mall with my mom to get new shoes. The food court lights were those old fluorescent ones that buzz and flicker. I didn’t think about it until we walked past Orange Julius. Then the lights started pulsing. My chest tightened. My hands shook. Suddenly I was back in that classroom. I dropped to the floor by the pretzel stand. People stared. Some kid recorded on his phone. Security ran over. They thought I was on drugs. My mom tried to explain, but I couldn’t breathe. The lights kept flickering. They helped me out through the employee exit. Everyone watched, whispering. I felt weak. Broken.

Monday at school, a girl from the newspaper came up to me with her recorder out. She wanted to do a story. Part of me wanted to tell her everything about Miss Blackwood. But one wrong word and suddenly the story would become about something else, or the school would make me look like I was making it up, or they’d twist it. I told her I couldn’t talk yet. She pushed—said people deserved to know the truth. Maybe she was right, but I wasn’t ready.

That weekend, I stayed in my room organizing everything. I pulled out my seizure action plan the school was supposed to follow. Hospital records from the past three years. Emails my parents sent at the beginning of the year explaining my condition. A letter from my neurologist. Each piece of paper felt important—like evidence—like proof this shouldn’t have happened. I made copies, put them in a binder with tabs. Mom helped me scan them, too. We saved everything on three different flash drives.

While I organized, I kept checking David’s GoFundMe page—still stuck at $30,000. His parents needed $130,000 for the bills before he died. The comments had stopped. People had moved on. That’s how it works. Something terrible happens and everyone cares for a week, then they forget. Kids die because their families can’t afford treatment. That’s just how things are.

The anger ate me alive. On Sunday, Emily and Billy came over with Malik. We sat in my basement trying to figure out what to do. Darren showed up late and sat on the stairs, checking his phone. Finally, Emily asked what his problem was. He said his coach told him not to get involved—it could mess up his scholarship. It hurt more than I expected. He was supposed to care about David—about me—but his scholarship was more important.

Emily said we should file public‑records requests. Her older sister did that once for a school project. We spent hours writing the requests: the 911 recordings, hallway security camera footage, incident reports. We sent them to the district. They wrote back saying everything was part of an ongoing investigation and couldn’t be released due to student‑privacy laws. It felt like a cover‑up—like they were hiding something.

That’s when Emily’s mom mentioned she knew a lawyer—Orla Purcell, who did civil‑rights cases. She agreed to meet us downtown. Her office walls were covered in awards and photos with important people. She listened to our entire story without interrupting. Then she said she’d help pro bono if we could get organized. She needed evidence, witness statements, documentation—properly preserved. She gave specific instructions: screenshot social‑media posts before they get deleted; write down everything while it’s fresh; get contact info for every witness; and absolutely no contact with Miss Blackwood—no messages, no confrontations—nothing that could be seen as harassment.

The rules felt limiting, but having a plan helped. We made a group chat that night to coordinate. Emily would collect witness statements from classmates. Billy would track down and organize documents. Malik would create a timeline. Everyone had a job—something to focus on instead of just being angry.

The next morning, Principal Penn’s voice crackled over the PA during homeroom. She cleared her throat twice before speaking. Any student participating in walkouts or protests during school hours would face automatic suspension and removal from extracurriculars—effective immediately.

The room went silent. Kids exchanged looks. My hands shook. We’d been planning something bigger than just collecting evidence, and now they were trying to scare us into staying quiet. The announcement droned on about “maintaining order” and “respecting the learning environment,” but I stopped listening and started texting. Within five minutes, our group chat had forty messages—all saying the same thing. We were doing it anyway. Third period. Nothing would stop us—not after what happened to David.

The bell rang. I grabbed my stuff and headed to English—trying to look normal, even with my heart pounding. In the hallway, three security guards I’d never seen before stood by the main entrance, watching everyone and writing on clipboards. Two more were stationed by the side exits. The message was clear—but it just made me angrier.

Second period dragged forever. I kept checking the clock every two minutes. The teacher talked about symbolism, but I couldn’t focus on anything except what was about to happen.

Finally, the bell rang for third period. Instead of going to class, I turned toward the main entrance. Emily was already there with Billy and Malik and about ten other kids. More were coming from every direction. The guards stepped forward, blocking the doors, but we kept walking. One started in on “consequences,” but forty kids pushing forward was more than three guards could handle. We pushed through and out into the parking lot, where more students were gathering. Some teachers stood in their doorways watching, but nobody tried to stop us. A few even nodded as we passed.

We walked to the front lawn and stood together—not chanting or holding signs—just standing in silence for David. Cars honked. People took pictures. After twenty minutes, we walked back inside and went to our classes like nothing happened. By the end of the day, yellow detention slips were stuffed in our lockers. Mine was for every day after school for two weeks.

That night, Walsh made everything worse by posting an old family‑barbecue video from three years ago—me laughing and playing cornhole, looking normal and happy. He captioned it like proof I’d always been fine and just played up my condition for attention. The betrayal hit hard. He knew that video was from a good day between seizures, but he turned it into “evidence.” Within an hour, it had two hundred shares and the comments were brutal—people calling me a liar and saying David’s death was my fault for creating drama.

I threw my phone across the room and heard the screen crack against the wall.

The next morning, Darren found Walsh by his locker before first period. I heard about it from three people before I even got to school. Darren grabbed Walsh’s shirt and slammed him into the lockers hard enough for everyone in the hallway to hear. Walsh tried to talk, but Darren shoved him again and his head hit the combination lock behind him. Two teachers ran in and pulled them apart—but not before Darren got one more push in that sent Walsh’s books flying. They both got three‑day suspensions. Darren’s mom had to leave work to pick him up. His text that night said it was worth it, but I knew his parents were furious.

Three days later, I finally agreed to an interview with the student journalist. We met in an empty classroom after school. I set boundaries: no questions about my family or medical history before the incident; no speculation about blame—just facts about that day. My voice shook the entire time. I had to stop twice to drink water because my mouth went dry. She asked about the strobe lights—I described the feeling of my brain misfiring. She asked about the locked door—I explained how trapped we felt. She asked about David—and I couldn’t speak for almost a minute.

When it was over, I felt empty—but at least I’d said it to someone who would write it down. The article went online that night. Within two hours, the comments exploded. Half supported us and shared their own stories about teachers ignoring medical conditions. The other half called us hysterical attention‑seekers looking for someone to blame. One comment said David’s death was “unfortunate timing” and we were using it to attack a “good teacher.” Another said we were drama queens.

Reading strangers debate whether David’s death was preventable made me run to the bathroom and throw up. Mom found me on the floor twenty minutes later, sobbing.

Two days later, Orla called with unexpected news. One of the paramedics who worked on me that day had reached out to her office, wanting to help. He couldn’t speak publicly, but if formally subpoenaed, he’d provide a statement about what he saw—how long it took to revive me, the state of the classroom when they arrived. His testimony could prove how serious it really was.

Then we got the transcript from Mr. Peter’s deposition—and it made everything worse. He claimed he saw nothing concerning when he looked through the door window that day—just Miss Blackwood giving him a thumbs‑up—so he assumed everything was fine and kept walking. He said the shade was already down when he looked and he had no reason to think students were in distress. Reading that he could have saved us but didn’t even notice made me lose faith in every adult who was supposed to protect us. He was twenty feet away while we were dying—and he just walked past.

That same afternoon, Malik found something incredible online. Miss Blackwood had an old blog from five years ago she’d forgotten to delete. Post after post ranting about neurodivergent kids being coddled and creating “victim culture” in schools. One entry said seizure disorders were overdiagnosed and most kids just wanted attention and special treatment. Another said parents enabled fake medical conditions to excuse poor behavior. We screenshotted everything before she could delete it and added it to our growing evidence folder.

Orla sent formal preservation letters to the district and the smartboard manufacturer the next morning, demanding they maintain all electronic logs from that classroom. The legal language made everything feel more real than our group chat ever did.

The next morning, a letter appeared in every student mailbox with the teachers’ union logo at the top. Dy Paxton had typed three pages of legal threats about what would happen if any student posted Miss Blackwood’s name online. The words defamation and libel and civil lawsuit jumped out at me. Kids passed copies around; some were already deleting their posts. Two freshmen cried as they read about “personal liability” and “permanent records.” Emily grabbed my copy and ripped it in half in front of everyone. Anger spread through the hallway like wildfire as more kids realized we were being threatened for telling the truth.

Mom picked me up early that day for a grocery run. I thought I’d be fine. The self‑checkout machine started flashing red when the barcode wouldn’t scan and my whole body went rigid. The strobe pattern hit my brain like a hammer. I couldn’t remember where I was. My legs turned to jelly. I grabbed the counter to keep from falling. Mom dropped everything and wrapped her arms around me, guiding me toward the exit. People stared as she basically carried me through the parking lot. My hands were still shaking when we got to the car. The triggers were getting worse—not better. Every flashing light felt like a threat. I couldn’t make my brain understand the difference between danger and normal life.

Darren started showing up at my locker between every class. He walked me to each room with his hand on my back like I might collapse any second. At lunch, he checked on me three times to make sure I was eating. After school, he followed me to my car, even though his was on the other side of the lot. By Wednesday, I couldn’t take it anymore. I told him I needed space. He looked at me like I’d slapped him and said he was just trying to protect me. We stood in the parking lot yelling at each other for the first time since we started dating. He kept saying he couldn’t lose me too. I kept saying I wasn’t made of glass. Neither of us won that fight. We didn’t talk for two days after.

Someone leaked an email chain from the administration that Thursday. It spread through the school like poison. The subject line said “managing the paid leave situation,” and every message talked about optics and liability and media response. Not one single email mentioned David’s name or asked how we were doing. They called it an “incident” and discussed damage control like we were a PR problem. The corporate language about a dead kid made me run to the bathroom and throw up. I forwarded it to Orla, who said it was exactly what we needed for the case.

The school board meeting that night was packed with parents and reporters. We each got two minutes. I was third after Emily and Billy. My voice cracked when I said David’s name, but I kept reading from my notes about what really happened. Behind me, parents whispered about mass hysteria and attention‑seeking teenagers. One dad actually laughed when I described my seizure. I wanted to turn and scream at him, but I kept going until my time ran out.

Ren stood during public comment with a thick folder. He proposed mandatory training for all substitute teachers about medical conditions and emergency protocols. The board nodded and said they’d implement it within the next academic year. I wanted to scream that David needed help six weeks ago—not next September.

Orla helped us file a federal complaint with the Office for Civil Rights the following week. The woman on the phone was nice but explained the investigation could take eighteen months. She used words like thorough and comprehensive while I stared at the calendar, thinking about David already in the ground. Justice delayed felt exactly like justice denied when the person who needed it most was gone. Every form felt pointless, but Orla said we needed the paper trail.

At school, kids started crossing the hallway when they saw me coming. Rumors spread that I wanted attention and got what I wanted—even though David paid the price. Someone wrote DRAMA QUEEN on my locker in permanent marker. The whispers followed me everywhere—how I destroyed Miss Blackwood’s career for nothing. The physical symptoms hurt, but the social isolation hurt worse.

Emily showed up Sunday night with red eyes. Her parents gave her an ultimatum: choose her future over my “vendetta.” They said she was ruining her college prospects by associating with me. She hugged me so tight I couldn’t breathe and promised she wasn’t abandoning me. We sat on my bed crying until she had to go.

Mr. Peter pulled me aside on Monday and asked to talk privately. His hands shook as he admitted he should have looked closer through that window. He said he was haunted by what he didn’t do and couldn’t sleep anymore. The guilt in his eyes seemed real, but his remorse didn’t bring David back. He asked what he could do. I told him to testify if we ever got a hearing.

Three days later, the mail carrier handed me a thick envelope from the Office for Civil Rights. My hands shook as I tore it open. The letter had a government seal at the top and started with “Your complaint,” then listed our case number—2024‑1847—in bold. Mom read over my shoulder while I scanned the formal language about how they’d received our complaint and would begin their investigation into the district. It was just paperwork, but seeing that case number made everything feel real.

The next morning, I spun my locker combination when something fell and hit my shoe—a small black USB drive with no label. At lunch, I plugged it into my laptop in the library. A single video file appeared. The timestamp was from that day in music class. My stomach dropped as I clicked play. The footage was grainy hallway security video, but you could see straight through our classroom door window for about thirty seconds. Kids were diving under desks and someone was clearly seizing on the floor while Miss Blackwood stood there doing nothing. The angle wasn’t perfect, but you could make out the chaos and her complete lack of response to the medical emergency.

I texted Emily, who ran over and watched it with me three times. We called Orla. She answered on the second ring and told us not to share it or make copies until she could verify where it came from. Chain of custody was critical. Someone inside the school was trying to help us, but we had no idea who had access to that footage—or why they’d chosen to give it to me anonymously.

That afternoon, Mom drove me to the Pritchard house, where David’s mother was waiting in the living room with boxes of tissues and photo albums spread across the coffee table. She led me upstairs to David’s room, which looked exactly like he’d left it that morning—bed half‑made, chemistry textbook open on his desk. His college applications were stacked next to his computer; Northwestern was on top, the essay section completed but never submitted. We sat on his bed and she held my hand while she explained she’d hired her own lawyer to pursue a civil suit against the district and Miss Blackwood personally. She asked if I’d be willing to testify. I nodded. David deserved justice—even if he wasn’t here to see it. She showed me his journal where he’d written about wanting to be a doctor and help kids with neurological conditions—like his own epilepsy that nobody knew about.

Two days later, Darren asked to talk after school. We sat in his car in the parking lot while he stared at the steering wheel. His basketball scholarship to State was threatened because of his involvement. The coach warned him to stay quiet. He promised he still loved me, but couldn’t risk his future by being publicly involved. I understood that college was his way out—but it felt like he was choosing his future over what was right. He dropped me at home. I watched his car disappear, knowing our relationship would never be the same.

Two days after that, Mom drove me to my first therapy appointment at a small office downtown. The therapist had me fill out forms about my seizure triggers. We worked on coping strategies for light sensitivity and stress. For homework, she gave me a worksheet to track triggers—accepting this was my new normal. She taught me breathing exercises and showed me special glasses that filter certain light frequencies.

That weekend, I was checking social media when Emily called—screaming that someone had created a fake account using my name and profile picture. The account posted screenshots of my medical records—my epilepsy diagnosis and medication list—with nasty captions about attention‑seeking. By the time we reported it and got it taken down, the screenshots were already circulating in group chats. Someone violated privacy laws to get those records and tried to humiliate me. Orla suggested I take control of my narrative by recording a video statement about what really happened. I set up my phone in my bedroom and spent three hours getting through the facts without crying. The final version was eight minutes of me calmly explaining the timeline and Miss Blackwood’s specific actions that endangered multiple students.

Posting it was terrifying, but it gave me some control over how my story was told.

Within two days, local news reporter Seamus Rader contacted Orla asking for an interview. He ran a segment on the evening news showing my statement and interviewing other parents whose kids were in the room. Tips flooded the station about Miss Blackwood’s behavior at her previous schools—including an incident where she locked a diabetic student in a closet during a blood‑sugar crisis.

Police finally scheduled formal interviews with all twenty‑three students who were in the classroom. Orla sat next to me as my attorney while I gave my statement. They asked detailed questions about every minute of that day while a stenographer typed and two detectives took notes. Miss Blackwood’s lawyer advised her not to speak to investigators—which Orla said basically admitted she knew she’d done something wrong.

Two days later, the district IT guy called Orla while I was in her office. She put him on speaker. He’d pulled the smartboard logs from that classroom on that day—and there it was: a YouTube video titled “Extreme Strobe Light Challenge 10 Hours,” played from 11:42 a.m. to 11:54 a.m.—exactly when everything happened. The log showed Miss Blackwood’s login credentials had started the video, set it to full‑screen, at maximum brightness.

Seeing that digital proof made my chest tight—even though it didn’t bring David back.

The next morning, a certified letter arrived from the district’s lawyers offering me $50,000 if I signed their settlement agreement, including a nondisclosure clause that would stop me from ever talking about what happened. Mom read the twenty‑page document at the kitchen table while I ate cereal. She kept shaking her head—especially at the parts saying I couldn’t post on social media, give interviews, or participate in any legal action against the district or Miss Blackwood personally. The money would cover most of my medical bills from the ambulance and ER, plus the new meds I had to take now because my seizures were worse—but signing meant staying quiet about David dying while Miss Blackwood sat on paid leave like nothing happened.

Three days later, Malik texted everyone to meet in his garage after school to talk about the settlements—apparently we all got the same offer. When I showed up, twelve kids already had their letters spread out on his dad’s workbench. Billy paced, saying we should all refuse because taking the money meant they won. Sarah said her family needed the money for therapy because she couldn’t sleep without seeing David’s face turning blue. The arguments got louder when someone’s older brother—who was in law school—showed up and explained that if we took the settlements, we couldn’t be witnesses in each other’s cases or help David’s parents with their wrongful‑death lawsuit. Everyone started yelling about whether we owed it to David to refuse the money.

Emily pulled me outside and said anyone who took the money was basically saying David’s life was worth $50,000. Then Walsh showed up and argued we’d be stupid not to take guaranteed money when a trial could take years and we might lose. My phone buzzed with a text from Darren saying I should take the money and use it to move to a different district where I could start fresh without everyone knowing me as “the seizure girl.” When I showed it to Emily, she got mad—that was exactly what the district wanted: for us to disappear and let them sweep it away. The stress made my hand shake and I had to sit on the curb because I felt another seizure coming on. Everyone stopped arguing while Malik got me water.

The next day at school, Principal Penn pulled me out of English and brought me to her office, where she had a whole presentation set up about a restorative‑justice “healing circle” where Miss Blackwood would apologize, we’d share our feelings, and “move forward together as a community.” She showed a PowerPoint with stock photos of people hugging and holding hands, explaining how this would help us heal—and wouldn’t that be better than legal fighting that was “tearing the school apart”?

Her timing seemed awfully convenient while everyone decided about settlements. It made me wonder who told her about the garage meeting and why she pulled only me out of class for the pitch.

I told her I didn’t want to sit in a circle and pretend to forgive someone who killed my classmate. She smiled tight and said “killed” was a very strong word and maybe I should consider how my “inflammatory language” was affecting other students’ ability to process their trauma. She kept pushing—said Miss Blackwood was suffering too and deserved a chance to make amends. I stood up and walked out before I said something that would get me suspended.

That afternoon, Orla called to tell me David’s mom’s lawyer reached out about coordinating our cases. The district was trying to play us against each other by offering different settlement amounts to different families, based on how much they thought we’d fight. Neve Pritchard’s lawyer wanted all the families working together, so the district couldn’t pick us off one by one. Knowing David’s mom was fighting too made me feel less alone in refusing to take the money and shut up.

Over the next two weeks, Orla had me come to her office every day after school to practice for my deposition—making me tell the story over and over while she played the role of Miss Blackwood’s lawyer, asking hostile questions designed to make me look like a liar or attention‑seeker. She taught me to pause before answering, to only answer exactly what was asked, and to stay calm even when the questions made me angry. We even planned what to do if I had a seizure during the deposition—Orla would make sure the court reporter noted everything and have my medical‑alert info ready in case opposing counsel tried to claim I was faking.

The morning of Miss Blackwood’s deposition, I wasn’t allowed in the room, but Orla told me about it afterward—how Miss Blackwood sat in a navy suit insisting we were all performing, that teenage girls especially were prone to “mass hysteria” and attention‑seeking. She brought up her sister’s daughter who supposedly faked seizures for two years until her parents stopped “enabling” her—miraculously cured—and used it as proof she knew we were all faking. When they asked about David, she said he was probably “caught up in the group hysteria,” and his death was an “unfortunate coincidence,” not related to her actions. I was so angry my hands shook. I had to leave Orla’s office and walk around the block three times to calm down.

Mr. Peter’s deposition was next. Orla let me watch through the glass. He broke down crying when they asked about looking through our classroom window that day. He admitted he saw Miss Blackwood give him a thumbs‑up and assumed everything was fine because she seemed calm—but he didn’t really look at us or notice the chaos behind her. Now he couldn’t sleep—he kept thinking how he could have stopped everything if he’d just opened the door. His tears seemed real. He kept saying he was sorry, but sorry didn’t bring David back. And sorry didn’t fix my brain, which now had seizures twice as often as before.

The last deposition that week was Dy Paxton, the district’s superintendent, who spent three hours explaining how substitute training was “comprehensive,” but Miss Blackwood was an aberration who acted outside the scope of her training—basically throwing her under the bus to protect the district. He used phrases like “isolated incident” and “couldn’t have been prevented,” while his lawyer nodded. When asked about David, he called it a “tragic outcome,” but insisted the district followed all protocols—even though it took the ambulance fifteen minutes to arrive because no one called 911 immediately, since Miss Blackwood locked the door and took our phones.

Three weeks later, Walsh sat for his deposition. I watched through the glass as he kept looking down at his hands. The lawyer asked about that day in music class. He started talking about our grandmother—how she’d been telling him since we were kids that I was faking everything for attention. She’d call him every week to warn him about my “manipulation tactics” and how I’d “fooled” the doctors. She’d send articles about Munchausen syndrome and tell stories about times I supposedly pretended to be sick to get out of family events. He admitted she’d poisoned his mind against me for years, but said it didn’t excuse what he did.

Back at school, everything felt different. Some kids came up to me in the hallway to say they were sorry for not doing more that day. Malik brought me a card signed by half the basketball team. Other kids rolled their eyes when they saw me. I heard whispers that David would have died anyway because of his condition. One girl said we were just trying to get money from the lawsuit. The cafeteria split into two groups—those wearing purple ribbons for David and those who thought we were overreacting. Fights broke out in the parking lot over whether Miss Blackwood deserved what was happening to her.

Two months passed before we got a court date. The judge listened to all the testimony, looked at medical records, and watched a clip Billy’s phone had captured before Miss Blackwood snatched it. She granted a preliminary injunction requiring every staff member to complete seizure‑response training within thirty days. But she denied our request to have Miss Blackwood fired immediately—due process. Orla said it was good news, but it didn’t feel like it while she still drew a paycheck.

Another month went by before the district finally offered to settle. They created a $200,000 memorial fund in David’s name for epilepsy research, promised to overhaul substitute‑teacher training, and required medical‑emergency certification for all staff. Miss Blackwood agreed to resign, with her teaching license under review by the state board. The district’s lawyer called it a “fair resolution.” David’s parents just cried.

My neurologist appointment that week didn’t go well. Tests showed my seizure threshold had dropped significantly from the stress. She said I’d need to increase my medication and avoid triggers—flashing lights, lack of sleep, emotional stress. That’s when I knew I had to end things with Darren. We sat in his car after school. I explained I couldn’t handle a relationship on top of everything else. He kept saying he understood, but his eyes were red and he wouldn’t look at me. We’d been together for two years—but my brain couldn’t take any more pressure.

Emily helped me start a disability‑advocacy group at school the following week. Twenty kids showed up to the first meeting in the library. We talked about creating buddy systems for students with medical conditions and pushing for better emergency protocols. One girl with diabetes shared how a teacher refused to let her check her blood sugar during a test. A boy with Tourette’s talked about getting detention for his tics. We made plans to present to the school board and started a petition for mandatory disability‑awareness training. Having something productive to focus on helped with the anger.

Neve and I went to David’s grave on a Saturday morning when the cemetery was empty. We didn’t talk about the lawsuit or Miss Blackwood. We just sat on the grass next to his headstone and watched clouds move across the sky. His parents chose a quote about light never truly going out—just changing form. Neve pulled grass out one blade at a time while I traced his name in the granite. After an hour, we walked back to her car without saying anything. Some things can’t be fixed with words—or money—or justice.

The next week, I spent every evening writing an article for the local paper about what happened. I didn’t attack anyone personally or use inflammatory language. I laid out the facts about the systemic failures that led to David’s death—the lack of proper substitute training, the absence of medical‑emergency protocols, the culture that dismisses student medical needs as “attention‑seeking.” I ended with specific proposals for change: mandatory medical training, clear reporting procedures, real accountability. My voice stayed steady as I read it to my parents before sending it in—not because I was healed, but because I’d learned to carry the damage without letting it consume me completely.

Thanks for letting me wander through all this with you. It’s been such a journey to share together—until we meet again. And hey—like the video.