Imani was glad.
An eighteen-year-old could be held accountable without having her entire future destroyed.
When Imani’s name was announced, she crossed the stage in Crestwood’s navy graduation robe and received her diploma. There was no Harrison Fellowship label attached to her name. No diversity statistic.
No mention of the gas-station video.
Just Imani Cole.
That simplicity felt better than any revenge ending the internet had invented.
In August she moved to Washington, D.C., and started at Georgetown. Her roommate knew nothing about Crestwood. For nearly two months, Imani got to be ordinary.
Then the roommate found the video.
“Is this you?”
Imani groaned.
“No.”
“That is definitely you.”
“Then why did you ask?”
Her roommate watched the red-haired girl swing.
Then the rest of the fight.
“What happened before this?”
Imani smiled.
“That is the right question.”
She told her the long version.
Nine months took longer than thirty seconds.
Scholarship comments.
The school brochure.
Her father.
The car.
Admissions.
The no-contact order.
By the end, the fight looked much smaller than it had online.
Imani preferred it that way.
Years passed.
The clip resurfaced occasionally under new captions.
One claimed Blaire had accused Imani of stealing the sports car.
She had not.
Another said Imani secretly owned the gas station.
Also false.
A third claimed her father was a billionaire.
Darius sent that one immediately with the message, Finally, the truth comes out.