Another page wrote, HE BULLIED THE WRONG BLACK GIRL.
Nia hated that one.
She was sitting at home with her ankle elevated when she showed it to Andre.
“What is the right Black girl to dump paint on?”
Andre sighed.
“There isn’t one.”
“Exactly.”
Nia tossed the phone onto the couch.
“If Mom worked at Target, it would still be wrong.”
“Yes.”
“If you were unemployed?”
“Still wrong.”
“If I had terrible grades?”
“Yes.”
“If I never got into Northwestern?”
Andre smiled.
“I see where this exam is going.”
Nia laughed.
The status reveal bothered her because it turned dignity into a surprise.
People enjoyed watching Blake discover that the Black girl he humiliated had a powerful mother.
Nia thought that was the least important fact in the entire story.
Rochelle’s title did not make Nia more human.
It only exposed how differently some people behaved once they learned who could hold them accountable.
Returning to school was harder than the suspension hearing.
Students stared.
Some congratulated Nia as though getting covered in paint had been an achievement.
One sophomore asked whether he could take a picture with her.
Nia told him absolutely not.
Another student jokingly stepped aside in the hallway and said he did not want the superintendent after him.
Nia stopped.
“My mother didn’t make Blake dump paint on me.”
The boy’s smile disappeared.
“I know.”
“Then stop making her the reason you respect me.”
He apologized.
Nia kept walking.
She wanted ordinary senior problems again.
College forms.
Track rehabilitation.
Government homework.
Senior pictures.
She was tired of becoming a lesson every time someone looked at her.
The ankle improved first.
By late April, she could walk without crutches for short distances.
The day she returned them to the nurse, she stood in the hallway for several seconds simply enjoying the feeling of having both hands free.
Mia walked past and asked whether they should hold a retirement ceremony for the crutches.
Nia laughed.
“Burn them.”
“You know the nurse will charge you.”