Mason followed.
“So now what?”
Zaria stopped.
“You gonna report this too?”
“Yes.”
The honesty surprised him.
Mason laughed.
“Of course.”
Zaria placed the backpack down.
“You assaulted me in front of thirty people.”
“It was a shove.”
“You’re making my point for me.”
Mason moved closer.
“My entire senior year has been about everybody being scared of you.”
Zaria stared.
“Scared of me?”
“Scared you’ll call everything racist.”
Zaria shook her head.
“You spend more time talking about my race than I do.”
Students around them reacted.
Mason looked toward the crowd.
The embarrassment returned.
Zaria saw it.
“You called me diversity transfer.”
“You called my grades special treatment.”
“You called Northwestern a demographic story.”
“You called my journalism an administration project.”
She paused.
“What exactly am I supposed to call that?”
Mason told her to shut up.
Zaria stepped backward.
“No.”
That was when he swung.
His fist came fast from the right.
Zaria ducked.
The crowd shouted.
Mason turned immediately.
She raised both hands.
“Stop.”
He came forward.
Another punch.
Zaria blocked with her forearm.
Mason swung again.
She slipped sideways.
The years of training became instinct.
Keep the chin protected.
Do not plant directly in front of someone heavier.
Move.
Create space.