One afternoon, she saw two sophomores follow Erin through the cafeteria while laughing.
“Stop.”
They looked surprised.
One pointed at Erin.
“She did it to you.”
“I know.”
“So why do you care?”
Aaliyah stared at him.
“Because bullying doesn’t become good when you finally find somebody you think deserves it.”
The boys stopped.
Erin heard.
She did not turn around.
Two weeks before graduation, Erin asked the counselor whether Aaliyah would accept a written apology.
Aaliyah said yes.
The letter arrived in a sealed envelope.
The first page contained too much explanation.
Pressure.
Captaincy.
Family expectations.
Fear of losing her place.
Aaliyah almost stopped reading.
Then Erin wrote:
I knew exactly what I was doing when I grabbed your hair.
Aaliyah continued.
I wanted to humiliate you in front of the team because I hated that people respected you without needing my permission. I told myself you were taking things from me, but most of those things were never mine to give or take.
The next paragraph was harder.
I said your hair didn’t match because I had a picture in my head of what Cedar Ridge cheer was supposed to look like. That picture was mostly girls who looked like me, and instead of questioning the picture, I questioned whether you belonged in it.
Aaliyah read the sentence twice.
There it was.
No coded language.
No “uniformity.”
No “tradition.”
The actual problem.
Erin continued.
When Coach moved you forward, I told myself it had to be favoritism because admitting you were better at some things made me feel replaceable. When people called me out, I blamed you for making everything about race because I did not want to examine why your race had mattered to me in the first place.
Aaliyah put the letter down.
Then picked it up again.
The final paragraph addressed the video.
You told me not to touch your hair. You tried to leave. I grabbed your jacket and swung first. You kept backing up until I kept coming. When I fell, you stopped. I am sorry for that day and for everything that made that day possible.
Aaliyah believed the apology.
She did not answer immediately.
Denise read it only after Aaliyah offered.
“Better?”
“Than what?”
“Than nothing.”
Aaliyah thought.
“Yes.”
“Forgiven?”
“Maybe eventually.”
Denise nodded.
“There’s no deadline.”
Graduation rehearsal put the two girls within twenty feet of each other.
Erin approached after everyone else left the gym.
She wore jeans and a Cedar Ridge T-shirt.
No cheer jacket.
No audience.
“Did you read it?”
“Yes.”
“I meant it.”
“I know.”
Erin swallowed.
“I’m sorry.”
Aaliyah studied her.
Then asked the question she had wanted answered for nearly a year.
“Did you actually think I didn’t earn my spot?”
Erin looked down.
“At first?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Another pause.
“Because you were new.”