Never leave it unattended.
The coffee incident happened on a warm Tuesday morning nine days before presentations.
Westbridge’s outdoor courtyard contained a cluster of silver café tables beneath trees just beginning to fill with leaves. Seniors often used the area during free periods, especially in spring when teachers stopped pretending anyone wanted fluorescent lighting.
Nyla had forty minutes before history.
She bought coffee from the student-run café kiosk.
Sat alone.
Opened the binder.
A second coffee rested near the top edge of the table.
Cassidy had gone inside to print something and planned to return.
Nyla was editing speaker notes beside copies of Charles Whitman’s letters.
Not originals.
Copies.
At 10:17, Brooke entered the courtyard carrying a white paper coffee cup.
She saw Nyla.
Changed direction.
Several students noticed because everybody at Westbridge already understood something existed between them.
Brooke stopped beside the table.
Nyla continued writing.
“You seriously still have that?”
Nyla looked up.
“My binder?”
“The project.”
“Yes.”
Brooke smiled slightly.
“Thought maybe you’d get bored.”
“History didn’t change.”
“You really think you’re funny.”
“No.”
Nyla returned to the page.
Brooke looked at the open materials.
She could see Charles Whitman’s name.
Her grandfather.
Typed in black ink.
Nyla noticed her staring.
“You can read the letter.”
Brooke looked at her.
“I told you I don’t want to.”
“Okay.”
“Stop acting like you’re doing me a favor.”
“I’m not.”
“You keep saying it makes him look better.”
“It makes the story more complete.”
“There is no story.”
Nyla put down her pen.
“Brooke.”
“What?”
“You have spent months angry about something you refuse to read.”
“Because I know what you’re doing.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You want to make Westbridge look racist.”
“I want to make Westbridge look like Westbridge.”
“That doesn’t even mean anything.”
“It means the record.”
Brooke’s jaw tightened.
“Your record.”
“No.”
“The one you picked.”
Nyla looked at the binder.
“His letter is literally in there.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Why?”
“Because you act like one stupid letter defines my grandfather.”
“I have never said that.”
Brooke stepped closer.
“You think you’re so careful.”
Nyla frowned.
“What?”
“Everything you say is designed so nobody can accuse you of anything.”
“I’m talking to you.”
“No. You’re building a case.”
Nyla glanced around.
Students were listening.
A few phones sat on tables.
Nobody recording yet.
She lowered her voice.
“I’m not doing this.”
Brooke laughed.
“You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act calm so everybody thinks I’m crazy.”
Nyla stared.
“This is not about calm.”
“It’s always about you being reasonable.”
Nyla almost smiled from disbelief.
“What do you want me to do?”
Brooke did not answer.
Nyla closed the binder.
“I have class.”
That was the moment.
Brooke looked at the closed binder.
Then at the coffee in her hand.
The decision took less than a second.
She lifted the cup.