Kendall grabbed the camera battery.
“I am.”
She left.
Brooke looked at Imani.
“That did not feel like it.”
“No.”
Imani returned to the script.
Neither girl knew Kendall would message Avery twenty minutes later.
I am so done with her.
Avery replied:
Then actually be done.
Kendall:
She acts untouchable.
Avery:
Stop.
No answer.
Kendall then messaged another senior named Madison Crane, who had not been present for most of the earlier conflict.
You working pep tomorrow?
Madison:
Upper breezeway table. Why?
Kendall:
Need a favor.
That was the beginning.
Friday afternoon arrived warm enough that students abandoned jackets until shadows crossed the courtyard.
Imani wore a fitted beige short-sleeve shirt, light blue jeans, and white sneakers.
She had completed the morning announcement without thinking about her voice once.
That felt like victory.
At lunch, Cole told her the broadcast sounded relaxed again.
Imani smiled.
“Careful. Compliments are dangerous.”
He understood the joke.
“Terrible job.”
“Thank you.”
After fourth block, students began moving toward the gym for the pep rally.
Imani had been asked to carry a portable recorder from the media room to Cole’s equipment table near the arts wing.
She left her backpack with Nia because the recorder case was bulky.
The fastest route crossed beneath the two-story breezeway.
She had walked it hundreds of times.
Upstairs, Madison stood beside the railing.
Avery was not there.
Brooke was not there.
The second girl beside Madison was Kayla Benson, another Student Council volunteer who knew almost nothing about Imani’s history with Kendall.
Kendall had told them the plan was a prank.
“Dump Tiger Punch on her when she comes under.”
Kayla hesitated.
“Why her?”
Kendall said Imani had been “acting like the school celebrity” all year and would probably laugh because everyone was getting messy at the pep rally anyway.
Madison knew more.
Not everything.
Enough to understand it was not random.
“Is this because of the media thing?”
Kendall smiled.
“Partly.”
Madison should have stopped there.
Instead she laughed.
The coolers upstairs contained orange sports drink intended for volunteers.
Kendall filled two large cups.
She handed one to Madison and one to Kayla.
Then she went downstairs.
That detail would later prove planning.
Imani entered the breezeway at 1:37 p.m.
She carried the recorder case in her left hand.
The camera that captured the viral video belonged to a student filming Spirit Week clips.
At first, nothing unusual appeared.
Imani walking.
Concrete columns.
Students behind her.
Second-floor railing above.
Then Madison leaned over.
Kayla beside her.
Two cups tilted.
The first stream hit Imani across the top of her head.
The second followed almost simultaneously.
Orange liquid poured through her curls, across her forehead, down her beige shirt, and over the front of her jeans.
The recorder case slipped from her hand.
She caught it before it hit the ground.
For a moment she did not understand what had happened.
The liquid kept falling.
Cold.
Sticky.
It ran into her eyes.
Imani squeezed them shut.
Students above laughed.
Someone below gasped.
A few people laughed too, reflexively, because sudden humiliation often became comedy before people decided whether they should be horrified.
Imani wiped her face.
Orange sports drink dripped from her hair.
Her shirt clung to her.
Dark wet patches spread across the light denim.
She looked up.