The chatter of the lunchroom sapped me of energy before I even made it to the door. Instead of entering, I ducked into my homeroom classroom halfway down the hall. Thankfully, it was empty.
Flipping my hood over my head, I picked a random desk and sank my forehead to the hard surface. My shoulders slouched, my body relaxed, and my mind eased as I allowed it to go blank.
I didn’t know how long I drifted, but I was brought back to the surface by the soft sound of knuckles rapping against my desk. I lifted the corner of my hood and saw the threads of a lumpy sweater.
“I thought that was you,” Gabby said softly. Squatting on the ground, she rifled through her backpack. I groaned.
“If this is about the project, can we talk about it later?”
“It’s not about the English project.” She set something hard on my desk. “Here, you need this more than I do.”
Curious, I sat up, squinting at the room’s brightness. When my eyes adjusted, I saw a Red Bull sitting inches from my fingertips.
“Thanks,” I said, popping the cap. With deep gulps, I guzzled the tart soda. It landed with an acidic splash, causing my stomach to gurgle. I looked at Gabby apologetically. “Didn’t eat lunch.”
“Obviously. You look worn af.” She threw her head back and laughed. “I have a veggie stir-fry if you want?”
“You’re not going to eat it?”
“I’m not really hungry.” She shrugged as she set the stir-fry on my desk. She zipped her bag up and slid into the desk in front of me. She leaned her elbow against the back of her chair. “Today has been loud. I can only imagine what you’re feeling.”
Every kid in school was either talking about the Westmond fight or my protest during the Shreveport game’s national anthem. I could feel the words of the newscaster in every stare I got. I couldn’t change what I’d done on Friday. I wasn’t sure I wanted to. But the negative attention was wearing on my nerves, making me edgy and anxious.
That anger sent another gurgle through my stomach. I opened the lid of Gabby’s Tupperware and dove the plastic fork into the food. It was surprisingly not terrible for cold veggies. But after a while, it lost its luster. I shoveled it into my mouth just to stop the hunger pangs from roiling through my stomach.
We let the silence draw out. I was grateful for the companionship. It reminded me of my weekend with Marion...until I overheard students talking about me in the hallway. Their gossip and giggles echoed down the hall.
You heard what he did, right?
He took a knee.
Yeah, during the anthem.
It was wild.
I slammed the fork on the desk. “You know what really pisses me off?” I flared my nostrils. Gabby’s eyes narrowed. “I was listening to the news over the weekend, and they’re all focused on the wrong thing. I’m disrespecting the troops, the Jackals are a bunch of upstarts—how can they focus on that without looking at Officer Reynaud? Without looking at Marion’s bullshit charges?”
“I know,” Gabby said in little more than a whisper. “It is bullshit.”
“What else can I do?” I shrugged so high, my shoulders grazed my earlobes. “I guess I gotta fall in line and keep my mouth shut while the white people of this region be wilin’ out?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that. Silence is violence.” Gabby shook her head. “We can’t stop until people listen. If you ask me, maybe we should turn up the heat.”
“Turn up the heat?” I choked on a laugh, my head spinning. “Like you did at the store this weekend?”
“What?” Her eyebrows flinched.
“I saw you yesterday at Fresh Horizons.” She raised an eyebrow, a challenge. I liked catching Gabby off guard. It made her careful facade falter, allowing me to see her vulnerability. I leaned over the desk, a smile tugging at my lips. “I saw you tear down that sign with the description of the Shadow.”
“Did anyone else see?” Her cheeks turned a bright red.
I shook my head.
“Good. I don’t want that to affect my dad’s business.” She folded her arms and slouched into her desk chair. She lifted her head, looking relieved. “The way I see it, the police are looking for the wrong person. That’s why I tore down the poster.”
“Nah. I’ve actually seen the guy, and it was a pretty accurate description.”
“No, I mean the cops shouldn’t be wasting their time searching for...the Shadow.” She smirked at the nickname we’d given the guy who was putting up Dante flyers. “They should be spending their time investigating Reynaud and all the other officers responsible for the shooting of Dante Maynard.”
“Well, you can keep dreaming about that. If they haven’t taken Reynaud down yet, they’re not gonna.”
“Says the guy who just took a knee in front of a stadium full of people.” She leaned forward and put her elbows on her desk, so close I could count her freckles. She grinned, nodding slowly. “Now that’s turning up the heat.”
I choked on a laugh, my head spinning. I felt like I was in the deep end of life, treading water against the tides of parental punishment and football expectations. If anything, I was interested in turning down the heat.
Still, it was gratifying to know that Gabby approved of my protest. I felt a little less alone.
I smiled, my lips twitching nervously as I tried to avoid eye contact. “I’m in a lot of hot water over the kneeling. I’m grounded. I’m probably benched too. To be honest, I’m pretty stressed out.”
“Sounds like you need a break.”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.” I leaned forward, drawn in by her shy smile. “Do you have something in mind?”
“Maybe? It’s not exactly a break, but we still have the rest of our Baldwin project to work on. We could finish that. And... I could come over.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, stopping momentarily to twist the ends with her finger.
My jaw dropped, but I recovered quickly by covering my mouth with my fist and pretending to cough.
Did Gabby just ask me out?
“I thought you didn’t want to give the boys anything to talk about?”
“Oh, you’re right,” she said with a slight stammer. “Well, I only suggested that because you’re grounded. And I thought maybe you’d want to hang—I mean, do the project there. It was a weird suggestion. Sorry.”
I fought to restrain my smile—I didn’t want her to think I was laughing at her. Because I wasn’t. In fact, I was pretty flattered. The world was on fire, but Gabby was warming up to me. And that warmth felt wonderful, especially since it was coming at the same time that people were giving me the cold shoulder.
I tried to picture Gabby at my house. All I could see was my parents being nosy, watching our every move while they eavesdropped on our conversation. It wasn’t exactly the break I needed.
“It wasn’t a weird suggestion. I promise,” I said, reaching across the table to tug on her lumpy sleeve. “You’re right. I do need a break. Mind if we meet at your dad’s warehouse again? It’ll have to be after practice, so anytime after six.”
Mama had promised that I could use the car for school, and this technically was for school. It was the perfect opportunity to get from under my folks’ watchful gaze.
“Sure.” She sighed, then looked me squarely in the eyes, a smile tugging at her lips. “What day works for you?”
* * *
We spent the whole lunch hour together, then walked to English class, our arms occasionally brushing against each other. The closeness felt natural, even though Gabby shied away every time it happened. When she slid into her seat in the classroom, she kept looking across the aisle with her mouth turned up in a smirk, and I think it had something to do with our plans to hang out later.
Sure, I wished it was more of a real date—something normal like showing up at a party together or going to the movies. And I wasn’t super thrilled
about finishing a paper on the many forms of racism in Baldwin’s If Beale Street Could Talk. I was already drowning in racism. But I’d suck it up if it meant acing our project and spending more time with Gabby.
Ms. J stood in front of the class, her shoulders confidently squared, as she clapped her hands.
“As a reminder, your ‘Olaf’ papers are due next week—not this Friday but next—and your Beale Street team project is due on October 21.” She clasped her hands. “Now is an opportune time to examine the vilification of unarmed Black men, the incarceration of them, and the curtailment of their futures and potential. If you can’t stand for that...then take a knee and pray on it.”
I was certain I saw her wink in my direction. It warmed my heart but made me nervous at the same time. I squirmed in my seat. Was that a reference to what I’d done Friday night?
Ms. J moved swiftly to the next subject, picking up her lesson plan from her desk. She recited the first few lines of one of our readings, “Still I Rise” by Maya Angelou, while barely looking at the lines on the page.
“You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.”
“Who is Angelou implicating here?” Ms. J held her arms open as she scanned the class for a volunteer. “Who is she talking about?”
“Haters,” I mumbled under my breath. Ms. J heard it, earning me a raised eyebrow.
“That’s a good start, Russell. Can anyone be more specific?” She looked at Gabby.
“She’s talking to people in privilege. People in power.”
“Ahhh, the powers that be. My absolute favorite.” Laughter rippled through the room. We all knew the struggles Ms. J had with the school board regarding her curriculum. She tapped her pages with the palm of her hand. “And yet she draws her power from within, despite what?”
“Despite people wanting to see her fail,” Gabby said before anyone else could answer.
“Raise your hand.” Ms. J smiled proudly at Gabby. “But yes, I think you’re onto something. Listen to this.”
She paced the room, her eyes fixed to the page as she read the next stanza. She paused, taking a deep breath before looking at the class.
“The writer is describing the two worlds she lives in. One is a power dynamic she cannot control. It’s designed to make her feel small. The other reality is hers by right. It’s her pursuit of liberty and happiness.”
Ms. J walked the aisle, likely checking for our markings in the margins. One of the new transfer students sitting a few rows over didn’t have a packet on his desk. Ms. J frowned at the naked tabletop.
“Unless you have the excerpt memorized, Michael, you’ll need to get out your packet.”
“I don’t have it,” he said, his cheeks reddening.
“Where is it?” She folded her arms. “Your locker?”
“It’s—” He looked down at his lap. “My parents said I didn’t have to read it. Said it was garbage.”
Ms. J walked behind her desk and sat in her chair. It was unusual to see her seated. She preferred to roam through the aisles or sit on top of her desk, right on the edge where she could hop off at any time. She’d told us that separating herself from her students didn’t feel right, that it hindered engagement and she wanted to be as close to us as possible. But not this time. She slouched in her chair, sinking to her elbows.
A kid next to me pulled out his phone to record the scene, but Ms. J was fuming so much she didn’t seem to notice.
“Garbage...” She said it over and over again, as if trying to make sense of it. Finally she scoffed in disbelief. “So you—what? Threw away the words of Maya Angelou?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Michael nodded, still avoiding her eye contact. “They think—”
“Oh, they think?” She slapped the desk, like she was shocked to hear thought had gone into this nonsense.
“They think that kind of stuff riles people up.”
“Art should rouse the senses,” she said, raising her voice a few octaves. “Poetry should pierce your soul. It should stick with you after you read it.”
“Yeah, but...” Michael squirmed in his seat. “We’ve been reading a lot about anti-war, civil rights, and revolution. It’s like you got some political agenda.”
“Would you have tossed Wordsworth in the trash?” She held up a hand before he had time to answer. “Don’t answer that.”
She got up and paced in front of her desk, her nostrils flaring. Gabby looked across the aisle and mouthed, This is bad.
“Those readings were approved, as is everything I hand you these days. I’m so sick of my curriculum being dictated by a bunch of small-minded folks who don’t know anything about culture.” She scowled at Michael, who had slouched beneath his desk as far as he could. Her outburst was directed at him, but I got the sense that it was about so much more. She looked to the clock on the wall. “Class dismissed.”
“But—” Gabby opened her mouth, then closed it again, clearly struggling to find a response. I guessed she was going to mention that we still had twenty minutes before the bell rang, but in a rare act of censorship, she kept her opinion to herself.
I waited for my classmates to trickle out before I approached Ms. J, who stood on the far side of the room, her hands on her hips. She heard my footsteps behind her and whipped around.
“Oh, it’s you.” She looked away, her eyes dewing with tears. I imagined her job was a thankless one. Teaching the same lecture, several times a day, hoping to get through to us on a deeper level than what Instagram offered—it must be frustrating.
She slumped against the windowsill and stood there, cradling her head in her hands. “I’m sorry y’all had to see that. I rarely lose my temper like that.”
“I just wanted to say that I enjoyed the reading. It really helped me.” As with many of Ms. J’s assignments, it had snuck up on me at just the right time. I’d read Angelou’s poems in bed last night, feeling a kinship with her struggle. That same empathy extended to Ms. J. “I also wanted to say that...well, I know exactly how you feel right now.”
“I bet you do.” She broke out in a genuine smile and stood up straighter. “If it’s any consolation, I’m really proud of you. I bet you inspired a lot of people last week.”
“I don’t know...” I shook my head, that kernel of doubt growing larger in my mind.
“Oh, yeah.” She pressed her lips together, nodded earnestly. “I know it.”
In a lot of ways, Ms. J had as much to lose as I did. If kids talked too loudly about what happened in class today, she would likely be disciplined for her outburst. And given that her curriculum had already been rebuked by the school board, she was already on shaky footing with her job. But she still took a principled stance in the midst of all that risk.
“Do you ever regret being so vocal?” I asked.
“Sometimes,” she admitted, her smile faltering. “But regrets are kind of pointless, don’t you think?”
I shrugged.
“It’s okay to question your motives and to review your actions, Rus. You should do those things.” She leaned forward, her signature grin returning. “But sometimes you have to trust your gut and not look back. That’s how I try to live my life. I invite you to do the same.”
15
Crouching, I waited for the whistle. When it sounded, my muscles hitched and I darted right, setting the edge, just like Coach had asked. I held my hands up, waiting to catch Ricky’s pass. The football soared several feet over my head, then disappeared underneath the bleachers, out of bounds.
“Y’all are playing like a bunch of gosh darn amateurs! This ain’t peewee football.” Coach tooted his whistle, slapping the clipboard on his side. He wound his hand in a circle. “Again!”
My legs felt like lead as I walked back. I’d lost count of how many times we’d run this play—must have been at least a dozen. Each time Ric
ky overshot his mark, Coach’s face got more and more purple. He wasn’t a patient man on a good day. And ever since Marion got kicked off the team and I took a knee, there weren’t a lot of good days.
“When I’m finished with y’all,” Coach Fontenot said, straightening his visor, “you’re going to wish the league had chosen to discipline you instead of me. I said run the dang play again.”
He said it to sound tough, but I knew that deep down, Coach was relieved the league had chosen not to pursue disciplinary action against me. He couldn’t afford to lose another player.
Of course, he was still plenty sore about Friday’s fiasco and the ensuing loss. My decision to protest during the anthem had left him reeling.
Because Mama had insisted, I’d submitted a lukewarm apology to the league. I didn’t want them to sanction the team or smack me with disciplinary action. The apology was short and to the point.
“I’m sorry if my actions distracted from the game.”
It wasn’t exactly a lie. I was sorry for the effect I’d had on my team. But I had been very careful not to admit any wrongdoing. I hadn’t done anything wrong. Ms. J was right. Sometimes you have to trust your gut and not look back.
Coach hadn’t been impressed. He’d wanted me to go all in—tell the league I deeply regretted my actions. But to our relief, it had worked.
I walked to the back of the formation, deep in the pocket where Ricky stood. Sweat pooled around his tired eyes, the salt making them red and irritated. His chest rose and fell quickly as the pressure to fill Marion’s shoes mounted.
“Before you call for the snap, be sure to call the play again.” I wiped my neck with my gloved hand and pointed to Karim, who was inspecting his new tattoo instead of getting ready to set the play. “Make sure Karim actually sees you, because if he doesn’t, that’s when he opens up a hole, and you get flushed out the pocket. And swivel your stance with your waist as much as you can. You don’t need to walk around too much—that wastes time.”
Kneel Page 13
