Her mother had called three times from the hospital; she couldn’t leave her shift. “Baby, what happened? Are you okay?”
Zara didn’t know how to answer. What had happened was that she’d destroyed a famous man’s career in three minutes. Whether she was okay was unclear. And yes, she wanted her mother. But County General was forty minutes away, and her mother couldn’t afford to lose this shift. “I’m fine, Mama. Ms. Johnson is here.”
That had been an hour ago. Now it was nearly midnight. The other choir kids had gone home. The theater was empty except for the crew breaking down equipment. Zara was still sitting in that folding chair, waiting.
That’s when Chase’s lawyer arrived. He was a white man in his fifties, wearing a suit that probably cost more than Zara’s mother made in six months. He carried a leather briefcase and had a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Ms. Williams,” he said, pulling up a chair. “I’m Robert Craft. I represent Mr. Hendricks.”
Ms. Johnson’s arm tightened. “She’s eleven years old. If you want to talk to her, her mother needs to be present.”
“Of course, I’m not here to interrogate anyone. I’m here to resolve this unfortunate misunderstanding.”
“There’s no misunderstanding,” Ms. Johnson said. “Your client can’t sing the notes he’s famous for. That’s fraud.”
Craft’s smile didn’t waver. “The music industry is complex. Artists use vocal support, backing tracks, studio enhancement. It’s standard. What happened tonight was a young girl making serious accusations without understanding the professional context.”
“I understand that he lied,” Zara said quietly.
Craft turned to her. “No, sweetheart. You misunderstood. And unfortunately, that’s caused Mr. Hendricks significant harm. His sponsors are threatening to pull out. His tour dates are in jeopardy. Millions of dollars in damages.”
The word damages hung like a threat.
“Are you threatening to sue an eleven-year-old?” Ms. Johnson’s voice was ice.
“Not at all. We’re hoping to avoid legal action, which is why I’m here with a solution.” He opened his briefcase and pulled out a document. “If Zara signs this, we can all move forward.”
Ms. Johnson took the paper. Her face grew darker with each line. “This says she made false accusations, that she apologizes, that she was seeking attention…”
“It’s a mutual agreement,” Craft said. “In exchange, Mr. Hendricks will not pursue legal action. And as goodwill, he’ll personally fund a music scholarship for Zara. Fifty thousand dollars. Full ride to any program she wants.”
Zara’s breath caught. Fifty thousand dollars. That was Berkley. That was Juilliard. That was everything she dreamed of.
“And if she doesn’t sign?” Ms. Johnson asked.
Craft’s smile faded. “Then Mr. Hendricks will pursue defamation charges against Zara, against Jefferson Elementary, and against you, Ms. Johnson, for failing to supervise.” He paused. “The school district has been notified that Mr. Hendricks’ donation—five hundred thousand dollars for your music program—is now in jeopardy.”
Ms. Johnson’s hand trembled on Zara’s shoulder.
“So, let me be clear,” Craft continued. “Sign this. Accept the scholarship, everyone moves on. Or refuse, and watch your school lose funding while your family drowns in legal fees they can’t afford.” He looked at Zara. “What happens next is up to you.”
Zara stared at the document, at the words that would call her a liar, at the signature line that would erase everything. She thought about her mother working double shifts, about her brothers who needed shoes, about the kids at Jefferson Elementary who’d lose music because of her. She thought about the truth.
“No,” she said.
Craft blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not signing that. I didn’t lie; he did. And I’m not going to say I lied just because he’s rich and I’m not.”
“Young lady, I don’t think you understand the consequences…”
“I understand you’re trying to scare me.” Zara stood up. Even at less than five feet tall, even with shaking hands, she looked him in the eye. “Sue me if you want, but I’m not signing that paper.”
Craft’s face hardened. “Then we’ll see you in court.” He gathered his briefcase. At the door, he turned back. “By tomorrow morning, there will be stories about you, about your family. Private things, painful things. And when it gets bad—and it will—remember you chose this, kid.”
Then he was gone.
Ms. Johnson pulled Zara close. “Baby, are you sure? That scholarship…”
“I don’t want his money,” Zara whispered. But as they walked into the cold Los Angeles night, Zara couldn’t stop shaking. She’d just refused fifty thousand dollars and threatened her school’s funding. She’d made an enemy of one of the most powerful men in music. And she had no idea if telling the truth had been worth what it was about to cost.
Zara woke up to her phone buzzing like angry bees. Six in the morning, three hours of sleep. Her mother sat at their tiny kitchen table with her laptop open, face pale.
“Mama?”
“Baby, don’t go online today. Don’t look at…”
But Zara had already picked up her phone. The screen was full of notifications—thousands. She opened Twitter. The first thing she saw was a photo of their apartment building, the peeling paint visible, the broken security gate, trash bins overflowing. The caption: This is where Zara Williams lives. While she accuses Chase Hendricks of fraud, she’s clearly desperate for a way out of poverty.
Her hands went numb. The next post was her mother’s work schedule, somehow obtained. Her mother barely makes 30,000 a year. Of course, the daughter is looking for a payday.
Then photos from school yearbooks. Someone had circled the “Free Lunch” stamp on her tray. Government assistance her whole life. This was never about the truth. It’s about money.
The comments were brutal. Ungrateful kid. She should be thanking Chase. This is what happens when you give ‘these people’ opportunities.
“These people.”
Her phone buzzed with texts from unknown numbers. Threats, slurs…
