He explained that Whitman had changed during his years at Westbridge.
Early on, he seemed obsessed with avoiding racial conflict by forcing everybody to act as though racial conflict did not exist. Later, he became more willing to acknowledge unequal treatment.
“What changed him?”
Walter shrugged.
“Age. Mistakes. Maybe courage showed up late.”
That was interesting.
Nyla asked whether Jerome’s case had been one of those mistakes.
Walter stared out his kitchen window.
“Could be.”
“Do you know?”
“No.”
That answer mattered.
Nyla did not put speculation into her draft.
At school, Brooke watched the project grow.
Nyla checked out yearbooks.
Interviewed retired staff.
Spent lunch inside the library.
Asked Student Council for access to anniversary-planning documents.
None of that targeted Brooke personally.
Brooke experienced it that way anyway.
Her grandfather had died when she was eleven.
Her memories were warm.
Charles taught her how to fish.
Attended her elementary-school plays.
Kept candy inside a desk drawer.
He had been old enough that Brooke associated him more with cardigans than authority.
After his death, adults told stories.
How he helped expand Westbridge.
How he raised money for arts programs.
How he stayed after football games to help custodians pick up trash.
Brooke inherited the polished version of a public life.
Nyla’s project introduced a crack.
Brooke did not want to look inside it.
She started with jokes.
During lunch one Friday, Nyla sat with Cassidy when Brooke passed their table.
“Find any more racist grandpas today?”
Cassidy looked up.
Nyla did not.
“I’m eating.”
Brooke smiled.
“So no?”
Nyla continued eating.
Cassidy waited until Brooke left.
“What was that?”
“History.”
“That did not sound historical.”
Nyla explained.
Cassidy listened.
“So she thinks your research is attacking her?”
“Apparently.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
Cassidy nodded.
“Then she’s doing extra homework nobody assigned.”
Nyla laughed.
The next comment arrived during class.
Nyla mentioned wanting to interview Black and white alumni from the same graduating class.
Brooke said, “Make sure you find enough white villains.”
Harper looked up.
“That’s unnecessary.”
Brooke smiled.
“Joking.”
Nyla ignored her.
Then came the first direct racial remark.
It happened near the library.
Brooke stood with two friends, Megan Holt and Sarah Bishop, both seniors.
Nyla walked past carrying archive copies.
Brooke said loudly enough for her to hear, “Some people really build their whole personality around being offended.”
Nyla stopped.
Turned.
“Who?”
Brooke smiled.
“Did I say you?”
“No.”
“Then why stop?”
Nyla looked at the papers in her arms.
“Because you waited until I walked past.”
Megan stared at the floor.
Sarah looked uncomfortable.
Brooke shrugged.
“If it applies.”
Nyla held her gaze.
“What exactly am I offended by?”
“Everything.”
“That is not an answer.”
“Race.”
Nyla became very still.
Brooke continued.
“Every school has history. You act like Westbridge is some crime scene.”
“I have never said that.”
“You’re digging through fifty-year-old files looking for racism.”
“I’m researching integration.”
“Same thing to you.”
Nyla almost laughed.