Nguyen nodded as if he agreed and could not say so. "You may appeal. You may also pursue other remedies. I am required to tell you that."
Isaiah sat very still. When they left the building, he asked if that meant Mr. Briggs won. Naomi knelt on the sidewalk, heels be damned, and took her son's face in her hands.
"No," she said. "It means the story is not finished."
She filed an appeal. She also, after three sleepless nights and one long conversation with Marta, filed a complaint with the Office for Civil Rights, alleging discriminatory discipline and physical mistreatment. She did not call the local news. Isaiah had asked her not to, and she honored that, even when a reporter somehow got her number and left a voicemail that used the phrase viral courage like a compliment and a threat at once.
In April, the spring concert happened without Isaiah. Naomi drove past the school that night on her way home from work and saw the lit auditorium windows and the parents streaming in with phones already raised. She parked a block away and cried the way she had not cried in the principal's office—ugly, private, complete. Then she drove home and found Isaiah asleep on the couch with a documentary about whales murmuring on the television. She covered him with a blanket and sat on the floor beside him until her legs went numb.
The hard choice arrived in May, dressed as an offer.