“That is exactly what I wanted to hear. I feel your frustration. You know I do, right? But we cannot afford to piss the league off any more.” He lowered his head, running his fingers through his short coils. “Remember what I told you about Clemson?”
Of course I did. I’d thought of little else since he told me. How could I forget?
“They do not take kindly to the kneeling protest.” He shook his head gravely. “Help me help you, Rus. Get that scholarship. Or your dad is going to kill me and you.”
He snuck a glance down the line of parade cars, stopping at the small 1998 State Champions’ float. There were only a handful of players from that year who still lived in the area and cared enough to show up for the parade. Pops squinted our way, likely noticing that we were having a heated conversation. Coach’s body language was unmistakable—he was laying down the law. Pops nodded in approval, then turned his attention back to his float.
Tony Tillman blared the whistle hanging from around his neck.
“Okay, y’all have a little time to do whatever you gotta do—phone calls, bathroom breaks, last-minute changes to your float. You can use the bathrooms inside Emmett’s, or you can hold it until after the parade.” Mr. Tony drew his lips tight and tapped his watch. “But be back to your positions in ten.”
Marion hopped down from the float and jogged over to me with a lightness to him that I hadn’t seen in a while.
Terrance followed closely at his heels. “You coming?” He pointed toward the shop, his wide lineman frame pulling his shirt above his belt loops.
“You know I gotta grab some jerky.” Marion punched me lightly in the shoulder. “You wanna split some chips?”
“I’m good.” I waved them on. “I’ll save room for the crawfish at Jean’s booth.”
They disappeared into the store, leaving me by myself in the parking lot. Last time I’d been here, I’d waited under the awning next to Gabby while her dad jumped my car. I’d been blown away by the floor-to-ceiling wall of Dante Maynard posters. I wondered if they were still there.
I looked over my shoulder, making sure Coach’s back was still turned. His attention was on Mr. Tony and the final details of the parade. Our team was the grand finale, and Coach wanted to make sure everything was squared away. The coast was clear, so I made a run for it.
I darted around the side of the building and stepped back so that I could take in the entire wall. Only a few faded posters hung along the brick facade. Some looked like they’d been ripped off, leaving behind streaks of scrap paper.
I bet Brad Simmons had ripped some of them down. Probably Officer Reynaud too.
What remained on the wall were the weatherworn, faded eyes of Dante. The washed-out call for justice scrawled across the bottom, barely visible—Justice 4 Dante.
Where was Dante’s Shadow?
Had they caught the guy in the wanted poster—the serial vandal who had rubbed the police department the wrong way? I hoped not.
Maybe it was a double standard, but I didn’t want the Shadow to give up, even if I had stepped away from protesting. Dante deserved more than a few posters and a town’s collective amnesia. Pretty soon, people would forget who Dante was, and it would happen again.
In a few more weeks, would people stop caring about Marion’s charges? Would they forget what Officer Reynaud had done?
Dante’s Shadow—wherever he was—needed to come out of retirement because this town was still in need of some serious justice.
21
The gleam from Homegrown Gary’s gold tooth shone brightly in his rearview mirror as he rolled through downtown Monroe, just in front of our big finale float. His shiny red Mustang convertible definitely gave Mr. Tony’s parade car a run for its money. He wrapped one arm around the passenger seat headrest, while his other arm waved to the crowd. I wondered how he was driving with both hands off the wheel, but that wasn’t the only thing that made me curious.
“How the hell did Gary score that car?” I asked through tight lips. We were making our way slowly down Main Street, and I didn’t want anybody to read my lips.
“You already know.” Darrell turned his head slightly, and I could see his nostrils flare. “He knows people.”
I tried not to roll my eyes. Homegrown Gary was, in his own words, in the import-export business, which was his fancy way of saying he had sketchy business dealings. However he’d acquired the car, I knew it wasn’t strictly legal. There was a reason he carried that concealed pistol. Hopefully, he’d given his gun the day off.
Peppered in between the football flatbeds were various business owners. Jean’s restaurant had a block of space between the floats, as did Rudy’s Diner. There was even a small trailer with war veterans on it, retired and active military. For as long as I could remember, football and patriotism had gone hand in hand. It was why kneeling during the national anthem created such a firestorm. Respecting the flag was not up for interpretation for football folks.
I searched the crowd for familiar faces, which wasn’t hard to do in Monroe. I knew almost everybody in my small town, and the whole town seemed to be on the streets. But I was of course looking for one particular face—Gabby’s. She’d said she’d be here, but I hadn’t caught a glimpse of her yet.
Our float crawled behind my teammates who were lined up shoulders-length apart in three rows, surrounded by the Jackson High marching band and our color guard—just as Mr. Tony had envisioned. The dancers threw their batons in the air in an intricate formation while I wobbled atop the platform next to Marion, Darrell, Terrance, and Karim in a V formation. Coach stood behind us on a small step so that he could match our height. Waving and cheering mixed with our band’s beats, but I was still focused on finding her.
“Come on, Rus. Look alive!” Coach bellowed from behind.
I raised my hand higher above my head, exaggerating my wave to please Coach. Darrell’s shoulders trembled against mine as he laughed at me. When I was sure I’d shown enough pep, I lowered my arm to a less conspicuous height.
The truck jolted to a stop so that it didn’t slide into the marching band ahead of us. Craning my neck to look around the traffic jam, I saw Gary’s convertible idling at the end of the street. He leaned into his car horn, soaking up the limelight for just a little longer. It was his last chance to be seen before he turned the corner into the unloading zone.
“Your cousin crazy, man.” Karim shook his head at Darrell.
“Just give him a break.” Terrance covered his mouth with his hand, concealing his words. We still had a few blocks to go before we reached the end of the parade, and all eyes were on us. “This is all Gary has to show from his time on the team.”
A lump formed in my throat, and I turned away from Gary’s enthusiastic waves. I didn’t like that he forced me to confront the hard truth that had solidified in my gut—that I would do anything to make a better life for myself. Even if that meant swallowing my pride and keeping my mouth shut on the field. Even if that meant abandoning my pursuit of Marion’s justice.
I snuck a glance at Marion, at his easy smile and bright eyes. The people on the sidewalks cheered him on, calling out his name as we passed. They had their quarterback back.
He waved exuberantly at the crowd lining the street, his chin proudly up like Gary’s was. Gary hadn’t gone further than winning the 2011 championship. He’d never finished his senior season, never went onto college. In fact, most of the people in the parade procession had similar fates.
I peered toward the beginning of the procession at the 1993 playoff finalists. They hadn’t even won their game. Behind them was Pops’s float, where he stood shoulder to shoulder with what remained of his 1998 State Championship team. Their biggest glories happened during their high school days.
Will that happen to Marion?
Pops’s float rounded the last corner, disappearing down Elm Street. I held my hand up and wa
ved at the folks lining the streets until our platform turned away from the town square. Downtown Monroe spanned all of five blocks. The parade was over before it even started.
A firm grasp on my shoulder rattled my frame, followed by Marion’s happy timbre.
“So glad I came. Thanks for putting in a good word for me.” He hopped off the flatbed and straightened his letter jacket. His eyes narrowed as he appraised me. “You okay?”
“Of course,” I said, a little too eager. I didn’t want Marion to know anything was wrong, and I didn’t want him to catch the whiff of pity in my eyes.
“Dude, it was high time someone talked to Coach about Marion.” Darrell stepped forward, his mouth pulled to the side. He looked at me, past his high cheekbones, his expression unreadable. Then he held his hand out. “We cool?”
“Yeah, man. We straight,” I said, grabbing his hand. I tried not to look too happy—didn’t want Darrell to know that his cold treatment had gotten under my skin.
“Last one to the table has to eat a crawdad eyeball,” Terrance said, shoving his way past us. His hefty frame rumbled down the side street, his sneakers squeaking on the asphalt as he ran toward the town square.
“Oh, hell naw!” Darrell took off in a sprint, nipping at Terrance’s heels in no time.
“Don’t worry.” Marion shook his head with a smug smile. “I’ll beat them. I always do.”
Then he took off down Elm Street, a wild laugh escaping his lips. If anyone could defy shitty odds, it was Marion.
But I couldn’t help but feel a kernel of doubt.
Seeing the fallen titans of the town’s football legacy had shaken me. Marion’s fate still hung in the balance. He could end up stuck in Monroe. Our fractured team was on the mend, but we were not cohesive yet.
Even though Marion had told me not to worry, I did.
* * *
I strolled across Main Street and into the town square, my hands shoved in my pockets. Several people were carrying the familiar brown Dupre Produce bags, so I followed the trickle of patrons to the source at the center of the lawn, where dozens of people had gathered.
And that’s when I saw her—my friend with the troublesome fruit.
Gabby dove beneath her booth and resurfaced with a bundle of grocery bags in each arm. When she set them onto the Dupre Produce Delivery booth, it shuddered under the added weight. And as soon as the stock was replenished, eager hands grabbed the handles, and the table was bare again.
She looked flustered, her cheeks flushed as she dove under the table for more bags. But I didn’t try to step in. Remembering how she’d grumbled at my offer to help her with the jumper cables at the beginning of the year, I left her to do her thing. I walked to where the guys were congregating on the edge of the line of food tables, deciding to give her room to work. Because when she finished working, she was going to hang with me. As in...a date.
I hoped it was a date. I wanted more with Gabby.
“You got it bad, dog.” Marion nudged me with his elbow, breaking my trance. “Don’t even try to say you don’t like her like that.”
“I’m working on it,” I mumbled under my breath.
“When they gonna start serving? I’m starving.” Terrance’s nostrils flared as he eyed the tables’ steaming pots hungrily. The smell of crawfish and potatoes filled the air, and I couldn’t help but breathe it in. My stomach grumbled in anticipation.
“Negro, you ain’t starving.” Darrell poked Terrance’s stomach.
“This a well-oiled lineman machine right here.” Terrance’s broad shoulders shook with a laugh as he pulled his shirt back down.
I laughed with them, but my attention drifted back to Gabby. She brought a hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the sunlight, then scanned the crowd. My heart raced at the thought of her looking for me. Maybe she wanted more too.
I was standing in a group of freakishly large football players. It didn’t take long for her to find me. I ducked my head as soon as we made eye contact. I didn’t want her to catch me staring—stalking was definitely not a good look.
“Yo, is she waving at us?” Darrell squinted in Gabby’s direction.
“Shut up.” I elbowed him in the gut, regretting it the moment I did. I hoped he wouldn’t take it personally. Our friendship was only just getting back on track.
To my relief, he held his arms up and laughed it away. “I ain’t saying shit except good luck with that.”
“Hey!” I yelled. Standing head and shoulders above most of the people, my voice carried all the way to Gabby. I waved her toward us. “You hungry?”
She tapped her dad on the shoulder, then motioned to us. As soon as he nodded, she untied her apron from around her waist, then cut through the crowd on her way to our table. She threw her arms into the air when she saw Marion.
“You’re back.” She rattled her hands in the wind.
“It’s good to be back.” Marion bobbed his head from side to side. “Well, not back back. But soon. I’ll be back on the field soon.”
Gabby’s arms sank, as did her smile. Her eyes shifted between me and Marion, and I mouthed the words: Tell you later. But there wasn’t much to tell. Marion’s future was still in limbo as long as the prosecutor sat on the video evidence.
“Y’all ready to eat?” Terrance’s hungry eyes followed the gumbo-sized pots making their way down the rows of tables. He hiked up his long legs and squeezed them underneath the table. Tucking his napkin into his T-shirt collar, he asked, “Who’s doing the honors?”
Gabby sheepishly raised her hand, and Darrell burst into laughter.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” He gestured to the ten-gallon pot. “That thing’s bigger than you are.”
“It’s my favorite part, though, dumping everything on the table.” She bounced on her toes, then rounded the table. “I wanna give it a shot.”
Bracing herself on the edge of the table, she lifted the silver pot, her bony elbows wobbling as she attempted to pour its contents onto the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. It was tradition to lay the whole crawfish boil directly on the table—crawdads, sausage, red potatoes. No plates were required. It was a dig-in situation.
The pot wobbled, almost falling into Terrance’s lap, so I stepped behind Gabby with a steadying hand. It was the closest I’d been to Gabby since our childhood kiss. With my chest touching her back, her hair skimming the bottom of my chin, I could feel her breathing. Darrell brought a fist to his mouth with a hiss, earning him a slap upside the head from Marion.
“Don’t trip,” he warned him, even though he also couldn’t help but laugh. He mouthed a little louder than a whisper, “Slay the baller way.”
Shit, just act cool, for the love of God!
Feeling their stares, we pulled away from each other at the same time. I fell to the bench, taking her with me. Flushed, Gabby tried to laugh it off. So did I.
“Terrance has to eat a crawfish eyeball,” I blurted out. The guys snickered across the table at my abrupt segue. But it did the trick—our embarrassing tumble was soon forgotten.
Making fish lips and weird gurgling sounds, Marion waved a crawfish between Terrance’s eyes. I could almost see him mentally kicking himself for even suggesting their racing contest from the parade floats. I chuckled, unfurling my napkin. A small flyer slipped out of the folds.
“What is that?” Marion leaned over my arm to get a better look.
“Did you get one too?” I looked around me.
“Yeah.” Darrell shrugged, shoving his underneath his soda. He was going to use his flyer as a coaster without even bothering to read it.
“Maybe it’s a flyer from the Shadow.” Gabby winked at me conspiratorially. My heart pounded against my chest. I was equal parts shocked and amazed.
Yeah, she liked me.
“Um, I don’t think the Shadow would do this,” I sai
d with a shake of my head. The hooded vigilante was a street vandal who put up social justice flyers, not a member of the Monroe Homecoming Committee. That was just a bunch of old ladies who volunteered their time. “I don’t see him rolling a hundred paper napkins.”
“I don’t know. This dude seems pretty mysterious.” She wiggled her fingers in front of my face.
It was an intriguing thought, though. Maybe Dante’s Shadow had come out of hiatus.
Murmurs swept through the tables as people discussed the flyer, which had the silhouette of a person with an afro, her fist raised above her head. The text scrawled across the image read:
It’s time to UNITE!
Hear Charlotte Martin Speak
Central College Friday, Oct. 11 @ 9:00 PM
“Does anyone know who Charlotte Martin is?” I asked the table. Darrell and Terrance had already lost interest. D was trying to get Terrance to eat a crawfish eyeball, and Marion was digging into the spread like he hadn’t eaten a decent meal for a week. Even Gabby was on her phone, seemingly disinterested. “Do you know who this is?”
“I’ve seen her speak before. She’s all over YouTube.” She shrugged and looked up, her bright eyes betraying interest. “She’s definitely got some big ideas about turning the heat up in the Black Lives Matter movement.”
Turning the heat up.
I had a strange sense of déjà vu. That was exactly what she’d encouraged me to do after I knelt at the Shreveport game.
“I take it you’ll be there on Friday?”
She looked around us, then leaned closer. “Maybe. Go with me?”
Wait. Did she just ask me out??
I blinked slowly, trying to work out in my head whether or not I’d be able to make an event on Friday night. That was game night—a time devoted to football. And then there was also the commitment I’d made to Coach, to Pops, to myself.
I had my sights set on Clemson, and social justice wasn’t going to interfere with football again. That meant no more kneeling and no more protesting.
Kneel Page 17
