Marion snatched the sponge out of my hand. “We should be in there.”
“You right.” I wiped my hands on my sweatpants, then pulled out my phone. “Hold on a sec.”
“Dude, she’s not coming.” Marion slapped my shoulder. He knew I was waiting for word from Gabby, but he obviously wasn’t as hopeful as I was.
“She might.”
I knew it was foolish, but she technically hadn’t said whether she’d show or not. So I’d held out hope. But the more I checked my phone, the more far-fetched it seemed. We didn’t exactly have a history of having a good time together at parties.
“Nope.” He shook his head, pursing his lips. “But you know who did come? Aysha. And she’s obviously still into you, so chop chop.”
I didn’t feel a tinge of excitement when I saw her, didn’t feel the gravity that used to draw me to her. When Aysha and I broke up at the beginning of the summer, it felt like we’d been broken up for a while. I was ashamed of myself for dragging it on so long. Maybe I thought I should date a girl like Aysha. I was the football team captain, and she was one of the most popular girls at school.
It worked on paper, but...to be honest, I didn’t think we really liked each other.
But Marion was right: standing out here pining for Gabby wasn’t the best way to spend my Friday night.
I took the steps two at a time and burst into the party. A wall of humidity hit me, a mixture of sweat and beer. I weaved through the room, stopping at the kitchen island for a Solo cup. Sitting on the barstools was Donna with a couple of the girls who’d just arrived. They squished together while Donna held her phone out for a selfie.
“Yo, no pictures.” I ducked my head under the overhead cabinets, out of the frame so they couldn’t see my face.
“For real?” One of them blinked at me.
“Seriously, take that outside. Please?”
“Can’t take no pictures in no contraband party. But you can talk to me,” Marion said as he sauntered over to their pouting faces. He turned on his full charm, as he led them to the couch.
I glanced around the room and caught Aysha standing by the keg in the corner. I decided to give her space. I didn’t want everyone gossiping on Monday that they’d seen us talking at the party. Especially if Gabby might hear. I wasn’t going to blow my chance twice.
I darted into the dining room where a cooler of beers sat on the ground. Darrell was holding court at the head of the long table, his legs propped on top of the mahogany surface as he chatted with his new girl. The fireplace behind him crackled, which had me bursting into laughter. It was ridiculous to build a fire in this September heat—no wonder this party was so dang hot. But Darrell always had to put on a show.
His cousin Gary Tounior—or Homegrown Gary, as everybody called him—hopped up when he saw me, a Swisher blunt hanging from his lips.
“There’s the little munchkin.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me in for a hug, patting me on the back. The smell of weed and charcoal clung tightly to him, even though he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He never wore a shirt. Gary waved his arms, stretching the length of the room. “I heard them cops tried to rough y’all up tonight.”
“Nah, it was nothing. They just asked a few questions,” I said, pointing to the truck parked in the driveway. “I’m more worried about my dad’s car.”
“Yeah that’s some rough ish. You say the word, and I’ll take care of them, nah mean? Westmond wannabes, cops—you name it. I got your back.” He tugged at his waistline, where he concealed his signature pistol.
“Aight, but it’s cool.” I gulped. I’d heard stories from Darrell and knew Gary wasn’t one to dish out empty threats. “I’ll handle it.”
“You will?” He raised his eyebrow with a sneer. “Mr. Big Man Baller, you want some of this ish?”
He drew the blunt to his lips and sucked in a long drag, the butt lighting up as bright as the fireplace. He covered his mouth through a cough while he offered it to me. I shook my head.
“Nah, man. You know I can’t.” I fanned the smoke wafting through the thick humid air, making sure none of it made it to my nostrils. I could ignore the beer and Henny. But not the stuff that would show up on a random drug test for the next few weeks. “And that goes for all y’all.”
My teammates within earshot concealed their blunts under the table, turning away from me so I wouldn’t see their bloodshot eyes.
“I remember those days.” Gary tilted his head, his gaze growing distant, and I imagined him mentally strolling down memory lane, back to the time before he dropped out and threw away any chance of playing college ball. He shook his head, coming back to the present.
Darrell joined us and snaked a bulky arm over my shoulder.
“Come on, Rus. It’s a party. So take this,” he said, popping the top of a can of beer before handing it to me. “And party.”
I leaned against the wall, the can of beer sweating in my hand as I surveyed the scene. Marion sat in Dr. Edmonds’s antique armchair, chatting with one of Darrell’s Instagram friends. I was amazed at how he was able to compartmentalize what happened earlier today. He was all laughs, all charm. No one would ever think that hours ago he’d fought off his own stepdad to get his gear.
I wished I could be like that, but the events of the day still nipped at my mind.
Where is Gabby?
She had my number. I’d invited her to this party twice. And even against Marion’s advice, I’d texted her an hour ago. Still, no response. I pulled out my phone, feeling like a total chump for checking again, and a black screen stared back at me. My phone was dead.
“Anybody got a charger?” I asked the room.
“It’s a no-phone party.” Donna chuckled. “Take it outside.”
Hissing under my breath, I pushed through the packed crowd, making a beeline toward the truck’s glove box where I knew Pops kept his car charger.
The cool night washed over me, and I leaned against the truck door while my phone charged.
A flash of black across the street caught my eye, and my spine instinctively straightened.
For a second, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, but the shadow stirred again. A hooded figure darted along the side of town hall, a bulky messenger bag thumping against his knees.
I dropped my phone to the seat, locked the truck, and crossed the street, curious. In the dim glow of the streetlamps, I could see that the entire side wall of town hall was papered with more Dante Maynard flyers—just like the side wall of Emmett’s Quick Stop. This time the writing at the bottom read: Silence is Violence.
Suddenly a police siren rang out, and the hooded figure froze at the edge of the alley. I shifted to the side, hoping the shadow of the building would shade me from the streetlamps. The cops were probably looking for him. This was the guy who’d been plastering posters all over town condemning their latest shame—the killing of Dante. I clenched my jaw, inwardly chastising myself for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I couldn’t be caught with him. I’d be arrested for sure.
I yanked the sleeve of his hoodie and pulled him into the shadows. He made himself flush with the wall, gripping his chest like he was trying to slow his breathing as a cop car cruised slowly by.
When the danger passed, he pushed off the wall, dropping the stack of flyers. He held his hands up—in surrender or in preparation to defend himself, I don’t know. He was smaller than me, much smaller. I could take him in a fight if I needed to. But he backed away. He put a steady finger up to his bandana-covered face and whispered, “Shhhhh.”
Then he disappeared across the town square.
6
Dante’s Shadow. That’s what we’d started calling the person who risked their tail to speak their truth. I actually thought it was kind of cool, like we had a local superhero who fought with words. But Marion disagreed.
“I already
told y’all.” Marion waved his hand dismissively. “It’s gotta be a white dude.”
“Why do you say that?” I sloshed in my ice bath, the ice cubes clanking against the metal siding as I turned toward him. The movement woke up the cold, and I shivered. “Dude, just get in your tub. The sooner you do, the less likely Coach will dunk you.”
He danced along the edge of his container, shaking his head.
“Marion’s right,” Darrell said. “White people can protest all they want without fear of having a gun pulled on them. But us?” Darrell held up a finger gun and pointed at the cinder block wall.
“Silence is violence?” Marion repeated the words on the flyers with a shake of his head. “More like silence is safety. I’m telling you, you gotta be white to get away with that shit.”
That struck a chord with me. My policy was to keep my head down and my mouth shut because nothing good ever came from speaking up. People like Bradley Simmons could be outspoken and obnoxious, could live without fear. But not us. Maybe Marion was right. The Shadow was probably a white guy.
“Dude,” Terrance piped up from the training table nearby. We all jumped when we heard him speak, since we thought he’d been sleeping. “What if Ms. J is Dante’s Shadow?”
“Don’t be foolish.” Darrell splashed his water toward him.
I shook my head, remembering the height and build of the dude in the shadows. “Whoever it is, they’re small. Ms. J is way too tall to be the Shadow.”
“Should we tell Reynaud?” Terrance asked innocently. For someone as smart as him, he could really ask some ridic questions.
“Are you crazy?” Marion said.
“We don’t know anything, didn’t see nothing, don’t want no trouble.” Darrell pointed to each one of us. “That’s what my dad always says, and I’m gonna stick with that.”
The clock above the door ticked just past two o’clock. I was supposed to meet Gabby in an hour to work on our project. I slapped the edge of my tub, eager to catch the trainer’s attention. “Ms. Duval, can I head out?”
She skidded to a halt, then poked her head into our room. “How long have you been in?”
“About twenty minutes.” I checked the time, then nodded to confirm.
“All right, out you go.” She slung her thumb over her shoulder. Then she turned to Marion, pursing her lips as she looked at the ice melting in his bath. “Now, how can I get this guy in the tub?”
“You could make it about twenty degrees warmer,” I said, sloshing out of mine.
“Or I could just call Coach?” She folded her arms, clearly not amused.
“No, miss. Please.” Marion clasped his hands together as if in prayer. “I’ll do it.”
His jaw seized as he dipped his toe through the bobbing ice cubes. Before Ms. Duval could push him in, Marion slid in, his elbows knocking the sides as he immersed himself. He howled in agony, but we were too busy laughing to care.
“I’ll catch you later.” I grabbed my duffel bag from the counter. “Picking up that part from Gabby.”
“I can guess what part that is.” Darrell wiggled his eyebrows.
“Don’t start that up again.” My jaw tightened as I took an angry step toward him.
“Dude, Rus. Chill. Sorry.”
I rinsed off quickly, then changed into my sweats. The hallways were empty as I scurried to my car, which was baking under the Saturday afternoon sun. By some miracle, I’d gotten the Civic to start this morning.
The bigger miracle would be if Gabby Dupre actually wanted to talk to me.
* * *
The Dupre warehouse sat at the edge of their thirty-acre property on the corner closest to the highway spur, near a cluster of smaller, weatherworn houses. The workhands who maintained the Dupre fields lived in some of them, although one or two looked abandoned. I turned down their dirt road, wondering if the dilapidated outbuildings were a sign Henry’s grocery storage business was in trouble.
That thought was quickly dispelled as I pulled up the slope and parked in front of a two-story barn that looked like it was painted in a fresh coat of brick red. With large windows lining the front of the barn and a row of rattling AC units along the side of the building, it looked like one of the finest structures in all of Monroe.
Business must be real good to keep the place up like this.
I grabbed my bag and jogged to the front door, checking my phone on the way to make sure I wasn’t too late. I opened the door and was hit with a wall of cool air. “Hello?”
My voiced echoed off splashed concrete floors in a cavernous great room. It didn’t look like any barn I’d ever seen—not a bale of hay or horse stalls in sight. I craned my neck to check upstairs, which had an open, wraparound walkway that overlooked the main floor. Seeing no one, I looked around at the segmented areas of bagged grains, baskets of okra and green beans, and a packaging assembly line toward the back. I scooted past the wooden crates near the entrance and peered into an office window nearby. I jimmied the door handle, but it was locked. I was walking over to try the door on the other side of the room when a tiny head poked out from behind a stack of packed canvas bags.
“He’s here!” a little boy near the back door screamed. I rounded the corner to find him standing on the bench of a wooden picnic table. He bounced on the balls of his feet, his bony elbows bobbing at his sides. “You’re Russell Boudreaux, right?”
“That’s me.” I reached out to give him a high five, and he slapped my hand with so much enthusiasm that he nearly toppled off the bench. I gripped his tiny arm, steadying him. “And you must be Gabby’s little brother?”
“I’m not that little. I’m actually tall for my age.” He tilted his head and wiggled his freckled nose as he looked me squarely in the eyes. I instantly saw the resemblance to Gabby—that same piercing gaze. He raised his eyebrows as he sized me up. “Wait, how tall are you?”
“Six-three on a good day.” The side door unlatched, and I looked up just as Gabby stepped in. She joined us, tucking her little brother under her elbow.
“Okay, that’s enough out of you.” She ushered him back to the table by giving him a pat on his backside. “Sorry, he’s pretty chatty.”
“But you promised if I finished my homework, then I could talk to Rus.” He stuck his lips out in a pout.
“And when you finish, you can. Come on, Clayton. I only see half that worksheet done—the same half I left you with before I went outside.”
“Ahhh so the genius gene hit everyone in the family.” I looked over the mass of homework spread across the table.
“There are no geniuses here. Just hard workers.” She smelled like herbs and honeysuckle, like she’d been gardening out back. It was a familiar scent—the trumpetlike flowers grew like invasive weeds all over Louisiana. But on Gabby that scent was something else, and I couldn’t help but lean toward her.
In a whisper she asked, “I hope it’s okay for him to talk to you after we’re done? He’s a major football fan, so you’re like royalty to him.”
“Sure. He’s a real cool kid.” I smiled as his little fingers grabbed a pencil. He couldn’t have been older than seven.
Propped against the wall behind our table, a large trifold presentation board stood in a sea of printouts and clippings scattered on the surrounding floor. “Whoa, someone’s been busy.”
“I started on it, if that’s okay.” She squinted guiltily, the freckles around her eyes bunching up. How could I be mad at a face like that? “What did you think of the book?”
“It was a lot. But it was pretty good.” I grabbed my notebook from my backpack and opened it to the Beale Street packet, thinking about some of the gut-wrenching scenes I’d read this morning. The main characters in the story, Tish and Fonny, were a young couple, full of promise, only to have their relationship strained by a false accusation that sent Fonny to jail. The descriptions of the couple
talking to each other through plexiglass haunted me. It was sickening to read about the power a crooked cop had over an innocent man’s life. “It was hard to read sometimes.”
“I know what you mean. But I kinda like that Ms. J isn’t afraid to challenge us.” Gabby grabbed the corner of my printout and rotated it to face her. She looked up, her light eyes gleaming. She pointed to my packet, marked up with yellow and green highlights. “Ms. Jabbar would be proud of this.”
I inwardly fist-bumped myself for having something to show for my efforts. I wanted Gabby to see I cared.
But I’d also gotten into the story. I’d cracked open the book last Thursday—the same day Ms. J had handed them out. Before I knew it, I was reading late into the night about Tish and Fonny, about their fractured family and fight for justice.
“So, what do you think of centering the project around this quote?” She swung her legs out of the bench and made her way to the poster board, her flip-flops clapping against the cement floor. She heaved it up and held it closer so that I could see.
“Neither love nor terror makes one blind: indifference makes one blind.”
“I like it.” Something about it seemed very familiar, like I’d seen it before. “Have you seen the new Dante Maynard posters popping up around town?”
“Hasn’t everyone?” She set our project on the table, scooting some of Clayton’s papers over to make room.
“They say Silence is Violence. Maybe we could paste one of them on the board?”
“That’s actually a cool idea.”
My conversation with the guys seeped into my mind. Marion had me almost convinced that Dante’s Shadow was white—that Black people didn’t have the luxury of protest without retribution. But I couldn’t help but think about MLK, Kaepernick, and Baldwin. They were Black and outspoken against injustice. James Baldwin’s If Beale Street Could Talk was a perfect example.
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