Maya looked at him.

“I keep wondering whether I should’ve done something different.”

“Before?”

“During.”

“Did you keep going after she was down?”

“No.”

“Did you chase her?”

“No.”

“Did you want the fight?”

“No.”

He nodded.

“Then learn what you can and stop asking seventeen-year-old Maya to solve a situation that seventeen-year-old Claire wouldn’t stop creating.”

Maya remembered that.

Two years later, she returned to Harrison Ridge because Jordan’s younger sister was graduating.

The cafeteria had been renovated.

New floor.

New serving rails.

Even the trays were different.

Maya stood near the entrance during an open-house reception and looked toward the section where the fight happened.

It appeared incredibly ordinary.

Students walked through carrying pizza.

Parents drank coffee.

A teacher complained about the air conditioning.

Nothing about the room suggested millions of strangers had once watched thirty seconds filmed there.

Jordan appeared beside her.

“Having flashbacks?”

“Maybe.”

“You want me to find a tray?”

Maya looked at him.

“You’ve somehow gotten more annoying in college.”

“Education.”

They walked toward the serving line.

A freshman girl ahead of them accidentally bumped another student with her backpack.

“Sorry.”

“You’re good.”

That was it.

Maya smiled.

Jordan noticed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Later, they sat outside.

Jordan brought up the video.

It still appeared online occasionally.

Usually reposted with false descriptions.

Some accounts claimed Claire had insulted Maya racially before the fight.

Others claimed they had been fighting over a boyfriend.

One version described Maya as a professional MMA fighter.

“That one’s my favorite,” Jordan said.

“I was seventeen.”

“A seventeen-year-old professional MMA champion.”

“Apparently.”

“You had a remarkable childhood.”

Maya laughed.

Then grew serious.

“People always want the story to start with the tray.”

Jordan looked at her.

“Because that’s where the video starts.”

“Exactly.”

She looked toward the school building.

“But that wasn’t where it started.”

The story had started with Claire deciding a quiet girl’s indifference was disrespect.

Then a photograph.

A locker.

A fake volunteer form.

A threat.

Adults seeing isolated incidents instead of a pattern.

Maya repeatedly walking away.

The tray strike was simply the first moment the entire school could no longer pretend everything before it was small.

That was why Maya never liked being described as the girl who “taught a bully a lesson.”

She had never wanted to teach Claire anything.

She wanted lunch.

She wanted a scholarship.