THE GUY WHO BULLIED ME THROUGH HIGH SCHOOL NEEDED MY HELP IN THE ER

I have been a nurse for six years. The long shifts, sore feet, and limited time for meals are all part of the job, yet I find immense satisfaction in my work. It is the one environment where I feel I genuinely contribute. My appearance is of no concern to anyone; what matters is my ability to perform my duties effectively.

However, today was a stark reminder of a past I would prefer to forget.

As I entered the emergency room with my chart, I barely registered the name. “Let’s see what we have here—” I began, only to look up and see him.

Robby Langston.

He was seated on the examination bed, grimacing as he clutched his wrist. Upon noticing me, his eyes widened in surprise. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if he did not recognize me. But then he quickly glanced at my face—specifically, my nose—and I understood.

From middle school through high school, he had made my life unbearable. “Big Becca,” “Toucan Sam”—he had an array of inventive insults that made me loathe my own reflection. I spent countless years wishing to shrink away, to vanish, to be anyone but myself. Yet here I stood, clad in scrubs, holding his chart, and he was the one in need of my assistance.

“Becca?” His voice was tentative, almost anxious. “Wow, it’s been quite some time.”

I maintained a neutral expression. “What happened to your wrist?”

“A basketball injury,” he replied, almost sheepishly. “Just a sprain, I believe.”

I nodded, taking his vitals and performing my duties as I would with any other patient. Yet internally, I was grappling with the shadows of my past. I had envisioned a moment like this—confronting my history, seeking closure, perhaps even a sense of retribution.

As I wrapped his wrist, he let out a small, almost sheepish laugh. “I guess karma has a sense of humor, huh? You taking care of me after everything.”

I locked eyes with him. For the first time, he was not the arrogant schoolboy; he was simply another patient, another individual in need.

Then he uttered something that caused me to hesitate. “Listen…” Robby swallowed hard, shifting on the bed. “I want to apologize. For everything I did back then.”

I blinked in surprise. An apology? From the person who had made my school life a nightmare, who had
He continued in a softer tone, “You don’t need to say anything. I recognize that I was inconsiderate, and I cannot change that. However, I have reflected on it extensively, particularly upon learning that you became a nurse.”

A faint laugh escaped him. “I always thought that if anyone deserved to engage in something significant, it was you.”

I concentrated on adjusting the Velcro straps to ensure the brace was properly fitted. A part of me yearned to express the depth of my hurt—how I spent weekends sequestered in my room, how I experimented with various absurd remedies to ‘shrink’ my nose, and how I once implored my mother for unnecessary surgery. Yet, another part of me, the nurse within, the more mature and perhaps wiser aspect, reminded me that my purpose here was to assist him, even if he was the one in need.

“Well,” I finally replied, testing the brace, “I appreciate that.”

A moment of silence enveloped us, heavy with unspoken words. I noticed him observing me, seemingly anticipating an emotional outpouring. However, I refrained from speaking. I was uncertain if I was prepared to extend forgiveness, regardless of his apology.

Before I could articulate anything further, Robby winced and cradled his wrist once more. “Is it supposed to hurt this much?” he inquired.

I frowned in response. “Let me examine it again.”

I assessed his pulse, conducted a brief neurological evaluation, and then checked his chart. The X-rays had not yet returned from Radiology, but his pale complexion and the way he clenched his teeth suggested that it might be more than a mere sprain.

“We will have more information once the doctor reviews the scans,” I stated, applying pressure with two fingers on his forearm. “Does it hurt here?”

He nodded affirmatively. “Yes, right there.”

“Alright, we will keep it wrapped and immobilized. Please try to remain calm.”

As I stepped into the hallway, my mind raced with thoughts. Considering Robby’s athletic background in high school—captain of the basketball team, the one everyone admired—perhaps he had overexerted himself or suffered a bad fall. Yet, an unsettling feeling lingered, suggesting there was more to the situation than met the eye.
As I stood by the nurses’ station awaiting his results, a flood of memories surged through my mind. I recalled the incident in tenth grade when Robby and his friends ridiculed me in the cafeteria. I had accidentally spilled my lunch on my shirt, prompting them to erupt in laughter. I found myself in the bathroom, tears streaming down my cheeks, wishing to disappear.

Yet here I was, not retreating or disappearing, but standing with confidence.

Perhaps this moment transcended the notion of karma; perhaps it represented something more profound.

When Robby’s results arrived, confirming a fracture, I returned to the room and calmly explained the situation. As I assisted in preparing his arm for a cast, he offered me one final glance. “I know I can’t change what I did back then,” he said quietly. “But I hope that one day, you can see that I am truly sorry.”

I paused before responding. I completed the task of securing his cast and then met his eyes. “Take care of that wrist,” I advised him.

With that, I turned and walked away, aware that I had achieved something far more significant than revenge—the power to move forward on my own terms.