Chapter 2 - She Recorded The Part I Planned To Cut
Campus security didn't handcuff anyone.
That almost made it worse.
A crowd understands handcuffs.
Nobody understands three women standing beside a destroyed birthday cake while two officers quietly ask everybody else to back away.
Rachel was taken toward one picnic table.
I was taken toward another.
Brooke stayed between us with her phone.
I watched it constantly.
One officer noticed.
“Ms. Cole.”
“What?”
“Look at me.”
I did.
“Did you strike Ms. Carter first?”
“No.”
He glanced toward the cake spread over the table and grass.
I corrected.
“I threw the cake.”
“You struck her with it.”
“It was cake.”
“You then grabbed her collar.”
“She came at me.”
The officer looked tired.
“Did she touch you before you grabbed her?”
I said nothing.
Across the lawn, Rachel was answering another officer.
No performance.
No tears.
That irritated me.
I had expected anger.
I could work with anger.
Calm made me feel louder than I wanted.
The officer asked:
“Did you slap her before she punched you?”
I looked at Brooke.
She was still recording.
“Turn that off.”
Brooke shook her head.
The officer said:
“She's permitted to record in this space.”
“Not me.”
“You're in a public campus area.”
I stood.
“Then I'm leaving.”
“No.”
I stopped.
The officer's tone had not changed.
“You need to remain while we determine whether anyone needs medical care and whether this is continuing.”
I laughed.
“I'm not attacking anybody.”
Rachel called from across the lawn:
“Give her five minutes.”
A few students laughed.
I looked at her.
She looked back.
My face burned.
Brooke finally lowered the phone.
I went straight toward her.
The officer stepped between us.
“I’m talking to my friend.”
Brooke said:
“Not right now.”
I stared.
“Who was on the stream?”
No answer.
“Brooke.”
Nothing.
I changed tactics.
“What did they see?”
Her face moved slightly.
That was the better question.
“All of it.”
My stomach tightened.
“From when?”
“Before you walked over.”
“How far before?”
Brooke looked toward the officer.
Then back.
“Twenty-three minutes.”
I stared.
“You weren't supposed to record until I got near the table.”
“I know.”
“You recorded our conversation?”
“Yes.”
My mind replayed it.
Behind the student center.
Me checking my lipstick in Brooke's phone.
Me saying:
Keep the camera tight once she gets up.
Brooke asking:
What if she doesn't hit you?
Me answering:
Then I give her a reason.
I felt cold despite the sun.
“You kept that?”
“I never stopped recording.”
“Why?”
Brooke’s jaw tightened.
“Because I wanted them to hear you say it.”
There.
Not an accident.
I looked at the approaching security officer.
“Is this some kind of setup?”
Brooke almost smiled.
The irony was insulting.
“You’re asking me?”
“Who are they?”
She looked toward Rachel.
Rachel was staring at the ruined cake.
Not us.
Brooke said:
“Not security.”
That changed things.
I had assumed the officers were the audience.
They weren't.
“Then who?”
Brooke wouldn't say.
The officer asked me to sit again.
I did because arguing had stopped helping.
Ten minutes later, we were released with instructions not to approach each other until campus conduct reviewed the incident.
No dramatic suspension.
No immediate punishment.
Just emails coming.
Statements.
Video requests.
Ordinary consequences.
Rachel picked up what remained of her birthday bag.
She didn't look at me.
Brooke started walking toward the library.
I followed.
“Brooke.”
She kept going.
“Stop.”
She did.
We were near the bike racks now.
No crowd.
I stepped in front of her.
“Give me your phone.”
“No.”
“You recorded me without telling me.”
“You asked me to record.”
“Not that part.”
“Exactly.”
I stared.
She looked tired.
Not triumphant.
That scared me more.
“Who watched?”
She opened her phone.
I reached.
She pulled it back.
“Don't.”
“Show me.”
“No.”
“Brooke.”
She looked directly at me.
“You remember North Hall?”
Everything inside me went quiet.
Two years earlier.
Third floor.
A broken lamp.
A girl screaming that I had cornered her.
Brooke filming from the doorway.
A forty-eight-second clip that made everything after look simple.
I stared at my best friend.
“What does North Hall have to do with Rachel?”
Brooke's expression changed.
“More than you think.”
Then she walked away.
My phone buzzed.
An unknown number.
One message.
I saw the whole stream.
A second appeared before I could answer.
You finally left the part before the punch in.
No name.
But I knew the phrasing.
I had heard it once before in North Hall.
May you like
From a girl who hadn't spoken to me in two years.
Lena Ortiz.
