Brooke was seventeen, white, tall, red-haired, and recognizable enough that freshmen knew her before meeting her. She served on Student Council, played varsity volleyball, participated in theater productions, and had the kind of confidence that came from knowing three generations of adults had heard her last name before.
Nyla knew Brooke casually.
They had shared biology sophomore year.
Never friends.
Never enemies.
Until the project.
The first time Brooke heard about Jerome Bell was during fourth-period American Studies.
Teacher Mr. Daniel Harper asked students to give quick updates on their capstones.
When Nyla’s turn came, she explained that she had found disciplinary records from the integration era and was comparing official summaries with student and parent accounts.
Harper looked interested.
“Any names we’d recognize?”
Nyla hesitated.
“Charles Whitman signed one of the recommendations.”
Brooke’s head lifted.
Across the room.
“What recommendation?”
Nyla looked toward her.
“An expulsion.”
“For what?”
“A fight.”
Brooke frowned.
“And?”
Nyla was confused.
“And I’m researching it.”
“My grandfather was an administrator.”
“I know.”
“So of course he signed discipline paperwork.”
“Maybe.”
Brooke’s expression sharpened.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Harper interrupted.
“It means research is ongoing.”
Nyla nodded.
“That.”
Class moved on.
After the bell, Brooke waited near Nyla’s desk.
“What exactly are you trying to prove?”
Nyla packed her notebook.
“Nothing yet.”
“You brought up my grandfather.”
“Mr. Harper asked if there were recognizable names.”
“You could’ve said no.”
“That would’ve been lying.”
Brooke folded her arms.
“My grandfather spent his whole career helping this school.”
“I didn’t say he didn’t.”
“You’re making it sound like he expelled some Black kid because he was Black.”
“I literally did not say that.”
Brooke stared.
Nyla zipped her bag.
“The official report says Jerome attacked two students without sufficient provocation. Another witness says they had been harassing his sister and one shoved him first.”
“So?”
“So those accounts conflict.”
“That happened fifty years ago.”
“Yes.”
Brooke laughed.
“Why do you care?”
Nyla looked at her.
“Because that’s my project.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know.”
Brooke lowered her voice.
“You know people love dragging old stuff out and judging everybody by today’s standards.”
Nyla considered the sentence.
“Then the documents should make that obvious.”
“What?”
“If the context makes him look better, the context will be in the project.”
Brooke did not seem reassured.
Nyla left.
That evening she told Laverne.
Her grandmother continued peeling potatoes.
“You mentioned a white girl’s granddaddy in history class?”
“I mentioned an administrator.”
“Same thing to her.”
“I didn’t accuse him.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Nyla frowned.
“That’s ridiculous.”
Laverne looked at her.
“Family history is history until somebody finds something uncomfortable. Then it becomes family.”
Nyla wrote that down too.
The next two weeks remained mostly quiet.
Nyla interviewed three Westbridge graduates from the 1970s.
One remembered Jerome Bell as funny and hot-tempered.
Another remembered nothing.
A third, retired mechanic Walter Simmons, said Jerome had spent months trying to protect Patricia because teachers dismissed complaints as “kids picking on each other.”
Walter also remembered Charles Whitman.
“Strict man.”
“Fair?”
Walter thought.
“Depends when.”
Nyla waited.
“That is an annoying answer.”
“It is an accurate one.”