Brooke was a quintessential southern belle. Her father owned a textile factory, and growing up, she rode horses on the family ranch and participated in pageants. She'd been a competitive cheerleader in high school, had won prom queen, and was now a member of one of the most popular sororities at her southern state university. Little did Brooke know that a hazing incident would soon lead to dire consequences and forever change her life.
She was a blazing beauty, though short in stature at barely over five feet tall. Her small frame had made her perfect to be a flyer during her cheerleader days. She was accustomed to being tossed high into the air, and since entering college, Brooke was accustomed to being tossed around in bed as well.
But despite her petite figure, Brooke sported full, medium-sized breasts and a plump ass from years of cheerleading camp. Her arms were smooth and toned, and her shapely, tan legs caused quite a few head turns every day when she walked through campus.
Her natural hair color was a light brunette, but for the past few years, she'd been dying it a sandy blonde color. Brooke was overdue for an appointment with her stylist though, as her natural brunette roots were starting to show.
The spring weather was starting to get nicer, though there were still a few cooler, rainy days sprinkled in here and there. But for the most part, the days were sunny with highs in the 70s and 80s, and it had yet to start getting humid.
On this particularly sunny spring day, the spring pledge class had been tasked with washing the front sundeck of the sorority house overlooking the sidewalk. Students were passing by in droves on their way to classes, but Brooke had no classes scheduled on Tuesdays, so she and a few other sorority sisters were supervising the pledges in their cleaning.
Of course, the upperclassmen were day drinking mimosas and spiked seltzers while they "supervised". As a pledge last year, Brooke had endured her fair share of hazing, and so after a few strong drinks basking in the bright sunlight, she began harassing the pledges. Her taunts were playful at first, but as other sorority sisters joined in, the jabs and jeers grew meaner.
Insults like "Come on, wash that deck, slut!" and "Put some muscle into that scrubbing, whore!" began coming out. Woozy and more than a little buzzed at this point in the afternoon, Brooke stood up from her deck chair and called out to the lone black girl among the pledges with an emphasized drawl, "Yeah, I want this deck cleaned until it's spotless,
n - - - - -
!"
A lone gasp and dead silence followed Brooke's use of the n-word. The black pledge looked up at her, her eyes as wide as plates. The other sorority sisters were staring at Brooke as well with their jaws wide open, shocked at her bigoted outburst.
Brooke immediately realized how badly she'd fucked up. She'd never used the word before, but she remembered hearing her father say it on occasion around the dinner table when she'd been young. Now it had suddenly slipped out in her drunken state.
Over the next few days, Brooke somehow managed to smooth things out with her sorority chapter, and even the pledge she'd used that despicable word on outwardly accepted her profuse apologies. But the damage wasn't done. Unluckily for her, there had been plenty of students walking by who had overheard. And one student had been taking a video of the hazing from the sidewalk and happened to capture Brooke perfectly in frame as she had stood up and used the slur on camera.
The shameful video had quickly spread on social media throughout campus, and by the end of the week, the video was trending nationwide. Needless to say, the university was none too pleased. Brooke received a call from the school administration requesting her to come in for a disciplinary meeting with the dean after her classes the following Monday.
* * *
All day Monday, Brooke couldn't register what her professors were saying during her lectures. She had barely eaten and was dreading her meeting with the dean. When her final class of the day had ended, she dropped off her things at the sorority house and changed into the closest thing she could find to appropriate attire in her closet full of tiny dresses and low-cut shirts.
The least-slutty outfit she could find was a black tube top dress that showed only a little bit of her cleavage, and she covered up further with a short jean jacket over her dress. Forgoing her usual heels, she instead put on plain white sneakers.
Satisfied that she looked as innocent as possible, Brooke apprehensively made her way to the dean's office.
"Hi, I'm Brooke. I have an appointment to meet with Dean Brown."
The secretary, who happened to be a pretty young African-American woman, looked up at her with disdain. Brooke could tell by her glare that she knew exactly why Brooke was there.
"Have a seat."
She nervously flipped through a couple of magazines but couldn't focus on anything. Her stay in the waiting room was less than ten minutes, but it felt like hours.
After what seemed like an eternity, the office phone rang, and Brooke could hear a deep voice on the other end of the line saying, "You can send her in now, Vanessa."
"You can go in now," Vanessa, the secretary, motioned to Brooke.
She got up and entered the dean's office, and he stood to greet her.
Well over six feet tall and with a muscular frame, Dean Herman Brown towered over Brooke as he rose from his leather office chair. A former linebacker during his time as a student at the university, the dean was still strong and fit. He was now in his forties and had developed a bit of a belly, but he still looked imposing with his square shoulders in his tan suit and crisp white dress shirt.
"Nice to meet you, Dean Brown," Brooke said as they shook hands.
"Have a seat, Brooke." He gestured to one of the tall armchairs facing his desk.
She plopped down on the chair and crossed her legs. His large, ornate wooden desk was well-polished. A computer monitor sat in one corner, and the rest was clear other than his name tag and a few files. Behind her, the dean locked the door and then returned to his seat.
"So Brooke," the dean said as he opened one of the file folders. "Is there anything you want to say before we get started?"
She'd rehearsed a little speech in her head, but now in the face of the imposing look he was giving her, Brooke forgot it all and blurted out, "I'm sorry! I'm not racist!"
Dean Brown chuckled internally but held his stern gaze.
"No, I don't believe you are racist. We've looked over your social media history, your academic record is exemplary, and you've had no disciplinary issues up to this point. Unfortunately, that doesn't mean we can simply excuse what you did."
"I understand," Brooke looked down with regret. "So what's going to happen?"
"Well," the dean grumbled. "The fact of the matter is that this video of you making this remark has a lot of people angry. You should know that in this day and age, these kinds of comments can and will come back to haunt you. Whether it's during a job interview in a couple of years, or if you run for any kind of office down the line, this video will resurface. Quite honestly, the school board convened an emergency session, and they recommended your immediate expulsion."
"No!" Brooke cried out as tears clouded her greenish-blue eyes. "Please don't expel me! My parents would kill me! I'm so sorry! I promise this will never happen again. I'm not -"
Dean Brown cut off her whimpering by holding up a hand. "They recommended that we expel you, but the board agreed to allow me to determine the proper punishment. Given my position as dean and other incidents that I've handled in the past, they decided that I will be the sole decider of what will happen to you."
"Please, Dean Brown. I swear. I'm so sorry. Don't expel me."
"I've already decided not to expel you."
"Oh thank you! Thank you so much! I promise-"
The dean interrupted her yet again. "That is, if you meet the requirements I've laid out."
"Yes, I will!"
Dean Brown addressed her. "First, you will complete 100 hours of community service this semester. Secondly, you will write a 20-page essay to be reviewed by the school board detailing what you've learned from this experience. Third, you will be on probation for the duration of your time here at the university. And finally, you will have weekly sessions with me throughout the semester as well as over the summer break."
"Yes, I promise to do all of it. Thank you, Dean. I really appreciate you giving me a chance here."
"Very well. I'll have my staff send you an email with the appropriate links to schedule your community service, and we will meet every Monday afternoon for the duration of this semester. We will begin our first session now."
"Um...okay. What are we doing for these sessions? I didn't bring any notebooks or pens."
"That's fine. I will be teaching you historical and modern social justice via a more hands-on approach. Today we'll start by covering some lasting implications of slavery given the nature of your crime. Do you know what reparations are?"
A smart student, Brooke thought for a moment. "Um...I think so? They're like punishments, right?"
"Not exactly," Dean Brown answered. "The word 'reparations' means something similar to punishments, but with a slight difference. Reparations are more like apologies, or compensation. In the context of political and social justice, they are a concept that former slave-owning countries, like the United States, and sometimes former slave-owning individuals, should be required to pay a monetary sum to make amends to the descendants of these slaves. Do you understand?"
