“Yes, you did.”
“I submitted a speech.”
“Everybody knew class president used to speak.”
“Then complain to the committee.”
“You knew I wanted it.”
“I knew thirty people wanted it.”
Claire laughed sharply.
“Of course you’d say that.”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“That you got lucky.”
Talia looked genuinely confused.
“The submissions were anonymous.”
“Until the school saw whose speech it was.”
“The scores were already final.”
“You really believe they didn’t love what you represented?”
Talia went still.
There it was.
No euphemism left broad enough to hide inside.
“What do I represent?”
Claire looked toward the students again.
Nobody laughed.
Talia waited.
“Say it.”
Claire shook her head.
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“No.”
Talia stepped closer, damaged cap still in her left hand.
“You keep telling everybody they know what you mean because you don’t want to say it yourself.”
Claire’s face reddened.
“You think because you work at some bakery and write sad essays and you’re—”
She stopped.
“And I’m what?”
Claire said nothing.
Talia nodded.
“That’s what I thought.”
She turned toward the bench.
Her intention was simple.
Pick up the gown bag, leave the courtyard, call her mother later, and let the school handle whatever came next.
Claire moved into her path.
Talia stopped.
“Move.”
“You don’t get to walk away after that.”
“After what?”
“Calling me racist.”
“I still did not call you racist.”
“You implied it.”
“No.”
Talia looked directly at her.
“I asked you to finish your own sentence.”
Claire raised one hand in frustration.
Talia instinctively lifted her open palm between them.
“I’m done.”
Claire stared at the hand.
“You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“That calm little thing like you’re above everyone.”