Sloane held the bag between them.
“Take them.”
Nyla stared.
“No.”
For the first time, Sloane seemed confused.
Nyla continued.
“You’re waiting for me to grab them so you can make this into something.”
Students nearby became quieter.
Sloane’s smile disappeared.
“You think you know me?”
“I think I know this.”
Nyla stepped sideways.
“Keep them.”
Then she started walking away.
Sloane followed.
“Where are you going?”
“To buy another bag.”
“Of course.”
Nyla stopped.
“What does that mean?”
“You always walk away.”
“Yes.”
“Because you’re scared?”
Nyla looked at her.
“No.”
“Then stay.”
“For what?”
Sloane moved close enough that Nyla could smell her perfume.
“To finally say what you’ve wanted to say all year.”
Nyla remained still.
“I already did.”
“What?”
“The table doesn’t belong to you.”
Sloane’s jaw tightened.
“That’s all?”
“That’s always been all.”
The simplicity made everything worse.
Sloane had spent months building an enemy out of someone who had never considered the conflict large enough to deserve one.
She moved even closer.
Nyla stepped back.
“Don’t.”
Sloane touched her shoulder.
Nyla knocked the hand away.
“I said don’t.”
Gasps came from one nearby table.
Phones appeared.
Sloane lifted both hands.
“What?”
“You touched me.”
“So?”
“So stop.”
Nyla backed away again.
Sloane followed.
“You really think you can talk to me however you want.”
“I’m asking you to leave me alone.”
Sloane reached toward her shoulder again.
Nyla turned.
The hand slid off.
Then Sloane swung.
The first strike came high and fast.
Nyla leaned backward.
It missed her cheek by inches.
Students shouted.
Nyla’s hands came up automatically.
“Sloane, stop.”
Sloane came forward.
Another swing.
Nyla blocked it with her forearm.
“Stop.”
Sloane tried to grab the front of Nyla’s hoodie.
Nyla broke the grip.
She moved sideways.
There were picnic tables behind her, students on both sides, and nowhere clean to walk without turning her back.
Sloane raised one knee and kicked toward Nyla’s midsection.
Nyla shifted away.
The kick grazed her.
For a moment, something inside Nyla changed.
Not anger.
Calculation.
She had been trying to leave.
Sloane was not allowing distance.
“Back up.”
Sloane rushed again.
Nyla deflected one arm.
Another punch came.
She ducked.
Students were yelling now.
Someone shouted for a teacher.
Sloane swung wide.
Nyla moved outside the strike and pushed her away.
Sloane stumbled.
Recovered.
Came again.
Nyla planted one foot and drove a controlled front kick into Sloane’s midsection.
Not high.
Not aimed at her head.
Enough to create space.
Sloane staggered backward into the edge of the picnic bench and dropped into a seated position.
The crowd erupted.
Nyla lowered her leg.
She did not advance.
“Stay there.”
Sloane stared at her.
Her face changed from shock to rage.
She started getting up.
Nyla backed away.
“Don’t.”
Sloane ignored her.
She lunged again.
Nyla moved onto the edge of the neighboring bench to avoid the rush, turning her body as Sloane came forward.
Sloane reached for her.
Nyla pushed her away with her foot.
Sloane fell backward across the bench.
This time she stayed down.
Silence arrived strangely fast.
Nyla stepped off the bench.
Her breathing was heavy.
Her hoodie had slipped from one shoulder.
She looked at Sloane.
Then at the yellow chip bag lying on the pavement several feet away.
Nyla did not pick it up.
She did not hit Sloane again.
Did not kick her while she was down.
Did not celebrate.
She simply stood there until lunch monitors reached them.
Assistant Principal Foster arrived first.
He saw Sloane sprawled partly across the bench and Nyla standing several feet away.
“Nyla.”
She closed her eyes.
Of course.
“Step back.”
“I am.”
“What happened?”
Sloane immediately sat up.
“She attacked me.”
The courtyard exploded.
“No!”
“Sloane swung first!”
“She stole her food!”
“Nyla tried to leave!”
“I recorded everything!”
Foster raised both hands.
“Everybody stop.”
Nobody stopped.
A sophomore held up her phone.
“I have it from when Sloane grabbed the bag.”
Another student said, “So do I.”
Foster looked at Nyla.