Turned it upside down.
Dark coffee poured directly across Nyla’s binder.
The first splash hit the plastic cover.
Then the liquid ran inside the open edge.
Across printed pages.
Handwritten notes.
Sticky tabs.
Speaker cards.
Onto the metal tabletop.
Nyla froze.
Coffee spread outward in a wide brown sheet.
Several students gasped.
Brooke kept the cup tilted until it was empty.
Then dropped her hand.
Nyla looked down.
One page had absorbed so much liquid the ink had begun bleeding.
The copy of Charles Whitman’s 1989 letter was soaked through.
Coffee dripped from the table onto concrete.
For several seconds, Nyla did not speak.
Brooke smiled.
“Guess history got messy.”
Someone behind them said, “Brooke, what the hell?”
That was when a phone started recording.
Nyla stood slowly.
Brooke remained beside the table.
The empty cup hung from her fingers.
Nyla looked at her.
“You did that on purpose.”
Brooke shrugged.
“Accident.”
“No.”
“You bumped the table.”
“I didn’t move.”
Brooke smiled.
“Prove it.”
The sentence changed Nyla’s expression.
Several students reacted.
One called out, “We saw you.”
Brooke turned.
“Stay out of it.”
Nyla looked at the binder.
Then at Brooke.
“You were warned not to touch my work.”
“I didn’t touch it.”
“You poured coffee on it.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
Brooke stepped closer.
“You wanted history.”
She pointed toward the soaked pages.
“There. Something happened.”
Nyla’s hands tightened at her sides.
Brooke noticed.
The smile returned.
“What?”
Nyla breathed.
“Move.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to get paper towels.”
“Go around.”
Nyla stepped left.
Brooke moved left.
Students murmured.
Nyla stopped.
“Do not block me.”
Brooke laughed.
“Or what?”
“Nothing.”
Nyla stepped the other direction.
Brooke matched her again.
Nyla’s anger finally reached her voice.
“Move.”
“There it is.”
Nyla stared.
Brooke smiled.
“That’s the real you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Always acting like you’re above everybody until someone pushes back.”
Nyla looked at the destroyed notes.
“You poured coffee over months of my work.”
“Months of digging for dirt.”
“It is backed up.”
Brooke’s face changed.
The smile disappeared.
“What?”
Nyla almost laughed.
“You thought I carried the only copies?”
Brooke stared.
Nyla continued.
“The archive has originals.”
“You—”
“I have scans.”
Brooke’s cheeks reddened.