Kneel

by Candace Buford

  He held his arms out, as if he was allowing all the horrors of the semester to commune with us. I gritted my teeth as I remembered the ridicule and the humiliation, the arrests and the violence. Such violence—from Marion’s bloodied face to Gabby’s dislocated shoulder. We were just students, not soldiers in a war zone. We deserved better. This season had marked a cosmic shift in all of our realities. We’d normalized the events as they happened, but that was impossible to do as we took stock of it as a whole.

  “But I am not hiding anymore!” Marion boomed, pounding his fist in his hands in a show of mettle. “We can’t let them tear us apart. So are we gonna come together or what?”

  “Yeah!” Terrance mumbled from beneath the tree house. Only a few lackluster voices joined him.

  Marion stepped forward, inching farther down the slope, his eyes fiery. “I said, are we gonna come together?”

  “Come on, guys,” I said, clapping my hands. I joined Marion’s side, shouting one of our chants, “Jackals on three, Jackals on me. One, two, three—”

  “Jackals!” the team shouted in unison, with more energy this time.

  The vacuum of leadership, the frayed disputes, the mounting failures—all of that felt like a wound on the mend. When we gathered and supported each other, I felt whole again. Well...almost whole.

  I wished Gabby would call me back.

  “We’ve got another brother who was locked up this weekend.” Marion’s voice traveled above the energized chatter coming from the team. “That’s the second time in a month that one of us has been jailed for no reason. Karim didn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve being home right now, fighting trumped-up charges. I didn’t deserve it either. And we cannot let that go unanswered.”

  “Sho’ can’t,” Darrell shouted from the rope ladder. He licked his teeth underneath his closed lips, looking like he was ready to throw down.

  “Luckily, we’ve got this.” He slid his phone out of his back pocket. “‘I am determined to live an unencumbered life. But I am experiencing an uptick in blatant, unabashed racism, and it sickens me. It should sicken you too.’”

  Blood drained from my face as I recognized the words from my open letter—my angry, rambling letter I’d sent to Chuck Wallace last night.

  “Where did you get that?” A searing heat crept up my cheeks.

  “The internet, son. It’s everywhere. I see you took it all the way to the top this time.” Darrell held his phone up for all to see the letterhead of the New Orleans Herald. I leaned forward, barely able to believe it myself. “Get out all your phones and read this, if you haven’t already. The article is called ‘An Indictment Against Racist Police.’”

  I wasn’t surprised Darrell had already seen it, with his Jackson Jackals news alerts. Of course he’d found my article.

  Diving my hand into my pocket, I got my phone. I hadn’t received any confirmation email from Mr. Wallace, no follow-up. I scrolled through the articles on the landing page and there is was: my indictment, with my name underneath.

  “Holy shit,” I said, half laughing, half coughing.

  “‘Marion LaSalle’s only crime is being Black and poor,’” Marion read aloud, popping his head up when he read the sentence. I was afraid he would be angry—I put his whole case in the letter. But his mouth widened into a smile. “You got that line from my protest speech.”

  “It was a really good speech, bro.”

  “I’m just glad people are actually gonna listen this time.” He held out his hand, which I took, and tugged me into a hug. I slapped him on the back, relieved to finally have my best friend back in the thick of the team.

  Darrell snaked his arm around our necks and bounced up and down, a welcome change from the tense locker room atmosphere that had plagued the Jackals for the past month. He raised his hand, signaling he had something more to say.

  “Negros be getting indicted left and right for crimes they didn’t even commit. Pleading guilty for shit they ain’t even guilty of. Man, look what Russell did. He turned the tables on ’em. He indicts every single white person in this country who looks the other way.” Darrell held his phone closer to his face and scrolled through my words. “Listen to this.

  ‘If you believe that killing a boy in broad daylight is a tragedy but don’t have the guts to hold his killer accountable, this message is for you. I am pointing my trembling finger at you, an indictment. Your continued silence is the fuel that keeps the fires of police brutality burning, and for that, I hold you personally responsible for Dante Maynard’s death, and for any victims of a corrupt system that denies liberty and justice for all.’”

  The words sounded more powerful when the guys read them out loud—not at all like the whiny words that were bouncing around in my head. This was what I’d wanted, my unfiltered words rising above the noisy newscasters.

  “I can’t believe you wrote that.” Terrance stood up. “Especially after what happened Saturday.”

  “Maybe that was exactly the right time to write this,” Ricky said into his lap, still scrolling through my letter. “I’m glad someone brought attention to what’s going on down here.”

  “Rus, what happened to Gabby...” Terrance’s voice trailed off as the memory of Saturday’s mayhem flashed across his eyes. “I’m sorry, man.”

  “I really didn’t think that shit was possible. And I’ve seen some crazy shit go down. But the way they stormed the crowd...” Darrell shuddered, his lip quivering as he gripped my shoulder. “How Gabby doin’?”

  “She got out last night.” I buried my head in my hands. “Her shoulder got dislocated. She has to see a specialist and might need surgery. I haven’t heard much else.”

  “She deserved better,” Darrell said.

  “We all deserve better.” I raised my voice so that my brothers could hear me. “Last month, I acted without telling you guys why. So I’m telling you now. I could not stand for an anthem for a country that sees me as a criminal simply because I’m Black. I knelt for Dante and Marion and all the other innocent Black people who have been victims of unchecked police aggression. And at this week’s game, I’m going to do it again.”

  This time, I’m kneeling for Gabby.

  “You ain’t gonna be alone this time.” Darrell shook his head, looking at the teammates on either side of him to make sure everyone was on the same page.

  “From now on, we stand together.” I turned to Marion. “Which means you’re coming out there too.”

  “Nah, Rus. You know I can’t suit—”

  “Coach.” I turned to him, my hands on my hips. “We’ve got the media’s attention. All eyes are on Monroe, so it’s time for you to blow up the league’s spot. Put pressure on the league to lift Marion’s suspension—publicly, so they can’t hide behind their stupid rule book.”

  “I—” Coach shifted nervously on the lawn, almost like he didn’t have the nerve to challenge them. But after a moment he straightened his stance, setting his jaw tightly. “I’ll give ’em hell.”

  “Thanks, Coach,” Marion said, clasping his shoulder. He watched Coach walk across the yard, then turned to me. “So what now?”

  “I don’t know.” I bit on the inside of my cheek as I weighed my options. “We could call the governor, now that we’ve got all this attention.”

  “You got his direct number?” Marion chuckled as he wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “I’m just playing. His old racist ass ain’t gonna come help us.”

  “You never know. I just published an article in the New Orleans Herald. So, stranger things have happened.”

  “Slay the baller way.” Marion tilted his chin up and cackled toward the morning sky.

  31

  We rounded the corner to the front of the house, my phone dinging in my pocket. I was about to flip through my notifications, when I saw another visitor at my front door. A figure stood on the porch, dressed head to
toe in black. Even down to the black-on-black Converse, this person could blend in with the shadiest shade. I’d seen them before, papering flyers all over town, risking life and limb to speak truth to power. It was Dante’s Shadow in the flesh, cradling a sling against her chest.

  Gabby!

  How could I ever have mistaken Dante’s Shadow for a boy? Her baggy black sweatshirt concealed her chest, but those skinny jeans gripped her hips—hips that couldn’t belong to any dude. I’d been a fool for not seeing what was in front of my face, and I was determined not to let that happen again.

  “Guys, I’ll see you later?” I said over my shoulder. Darrell’s chuckling made me whip around. If he started talking shit about Gabby again, I’d for real shut him up.

  “Oh, okay I see how it is.” Darrell clutched his chest, pretending to be offended. “You get a girl, and you kick us out your house.”

  “I missed your sorry ass.” I tousled his short hair, glad to be mending fences with him. I didn’t even bother correcting him. Gabby wasn’t really my girl—not yet. But I’d be her guy if she let me.

  “Yo, D, can I catch a ride to school with you?” Marion shouted from the porch steps, his mischievous gaze darting from me to Gabby as he waited for Darrell to respond.

  “Fine, but hurry it up. You got a lotta schoolwork to catch up on.” He smiled at me. “Don’t worry, Rus. I’ll crack the whip.”

  Marion darted into the house and was back in a flash, before the screen door could slap the doorframe more than a few times.

  The guys trickled off the front yard, headed toward their cars along Calumet Street. I turned my focus to Gabby, who was sliding her hood down. Her natural coils caught the morning light, and I thought she was possibly more beautiful than she’d been a few days ago. Sling or no sling, Gabby was fire.

  “What are you doing here?” I gripped my temples. “Shouldn’t you be at home in bed or something?”

  “It looks worse than it feels.” Gabby swiveled to show me her sling, which she’d already decorated with a Black Lives Matter sticker.

  “I’m sorry.” I hung my head low, too ashamed to look her in the eyes. “I shouldn’t have left your side during the rally. And when Reynaud grabbed you, I should have stopped him.”

  “Ms. J told me you were fighting Marion to get to me. I knew I had to see you as soon as I could. To put your mind at ease.”

  “It’s working.” I inhaled deeply, catching hints of Gabby’s honeysuckle scent. Yes, my mind was at ease now that I knew she was safe.

  “Um...but are we gonna talk about you blowing up the internet? I’m out of commission for two days, and you grab the national spotlight?” Gabby leaned against the faded white railing. Her smile widened, and she threw her head back in a cackle. “You’re an absolute mad genius! Look at all these copycat articles popping up.”

  She hiked her leg on the ledge of the railing and scrolled through her phone. I leaned in closer, but not to look at the articles catching the coattails of the New Orleans Herald.

  “Come here.” I scooped her into my arms, careful not to jostle her bad shoulder. Feeling her warmth for the first time in a long time. I held her secure on the railing, her feet grazing the wood floorboards, our faces hovering close to each other. She leaned forward, rubbing the tip of her nose to mine.

  “You gonna kiss me or what, Boudreaux?”

  And that was all it took.

  My lips pressed into hers. A blend of emotions collided as we kissed—the months of longing, the layers of protest and anger and frustration. The recent nights of separation, when I didn’t know if she was okay. All of it went into that rush of release.

  I opened my eyes for a brief moment, long enough to see the blinds scramble back into place. Mama and Pops had clearly been snooping. My lips stiffened, making Gabby turn to see what I was looking at.

  “Were they watching?” She pointed over her shoulder.

  “Yup.” I nodded, tucking my lips between my lips. I was embarrassed but determined to return my attention to Gabby. I gripped her arms, but recoiled once I saw her flinch. “Shit, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to move it. How does it feel? Are you in pain?”

  “I’m fine.” She waved her hand dismissively when I tried to inspect her arm and shoulder more closely. “Can’t be worse than the injuries you guys get, right?”

  I scrunched my mouth up, thinking about the time Marion dislocated his shoulder—the look on his face when it had popped out of place was just as bad as the agony plastered across it when the trainer held him down and popped it back into place. I shuddered, shaking the image out of my mind. It made me picture Gabby in the same agony, and I seriously did not want to imagine that right now.

  As if she could see the discomfort in my face, she interrupted my waking nightmare.

  “Women have a higher pain threshold than men. So don’t worry about me.” She held her good arm up and posed like Rosie the Riveter. She flexed the puny muscle and smiled smugly. “‘I am woman, hear me roar,’ and all that.”

  “We’ll see about that.” I eyed her skeptically, realizing she might be a tough patient—just like Marion. He could hide pain well. By the way Gabby was trying to minimize her injury, she was exactly the same.

  “Want a ride to school? We might make it to first period if we hurry.”

  “Sure,” I said, even though I could drive myself. Ever since Pops had fixed the Honda, it had been running without incident. But that didn’t matter. I’d go anywhere with Gabby.

  The screen door hinges moaned as I swung it open. My parents were standing in the kitchen, suspiciously out of breath, like they had run to their places moments ago. They were shameless snoopers. Pops hid his smirk behind a cup of coffee at his lips. I grabbed my backpack and skidded out the door, waving goodbye over my shoulder.

  “So when do you get to take the sling off?” I asked as I opened the passenger side of Gabby’s truck.

  “About a week, just in time for Halloween.” She grinned devilishly.

  “Don’t tell me you still dress up...” I rolled my eyes, even though I loved her childish excitement over the holiday. I buried my unease about couples costumes deep down, hoping that she didn’t see worry lines on my face.

  “You don’t celebrate Halloween?” She almost squealed as she clasped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, Rus. That might be a deal breaker.”

  “What’d you have in mind?” I raised a skeptical eyebrow at her.

  “I have a couple ideas.” She put the truck in gear and eased around our circle drive. “I was thinking about being Ruth Bader Ginsburg. You know, the Notorious RBG. I could run around in a graduation robe with a lace collar and talk about equal protection and feminism and stuff like that.”

  “Including intersectional feminism?” I tilted my head, a smile tugging at my lips. When her mouth fell open, I said with a chuckle, “See? I listen.”

  “Yes, you do.” She smiled up at me, slowing the truck to a halt. Reaching out with her good arm, she grabbed my hand, then leaned across the center console for another kiss, and I gladly met her halfway.

  * * *

  Our parking lot was packed to capacity for the October 25 rematch between Jackson and Westmond. We saw the reporters before they saw us, and we did our best to avoid them. Don’t get me wrong—we were grateful for their attention on the racial inequities happening in Monroe. They’d hammered on every angle of our story every day this week, putting so much pressure on the prosecutor to answer for his disparate treatment of Marion and Brad, he had no choice but to drop the charges.

  And that meant the league had no choice either—Marion was back. His suspension was finally lifted.

  We slipped through a maintenance door on the far side of our stadium, giving a group of reporters the slip. It was one of the perks of having the rematch on our turf—we knew the layout better than anyone. Our footsteps echoed down the corrido
r as we ran undetected to the locker room.

  Marion stopped on the threshold, looking to his cubby—the one next to mine. It was dusty from not being used most of the season. The corners of his eyes pinched, betraying his emotions.

  “You got this.” I slid my duffel bag down the locker room aisle, making plenty of room for him to take his rightful place. I looked down the bench and saw Karim was suited up. Nothing, not even arrests and bogus charges, would tear our team apart again. We were all going to play this game.

  We put our gear on quickly, more quietly than usual. This was a solemn game, filled with weighty importance. To me, it symbolized reclaiming our space. And there was no better place to do that than on our home field.

  Westmond had home field advantage last time, and they’d squandered it. Now it was our turn, and we would not be making the same mistake.

  “We ready?” Darrell yelled when we were packed closely together in the football tunnel.

  “’Course we are.” I smiled confidently.

  “I’ve been waiting almost two months for this.” Marion hopped on the balls of his feet, eagerly awaiting the announcer’s call to the field.

  “I give you, the Jackson Jackals!” the announcer boomed through the loud speakers.

  We bolted onto the field, feeling the warmth from our fans, who greatly outnumbered the Westmond side of the stadium. The whole town must have shown up to fill our stands. Maybe even some of the neighboring towns too.

  The Westmond stands were still packed—this was the highly anticipated rematch. And they were plenty vocal about their continued disdain for us. They booed and jeered, even louder and fiercer than they had during our last match. But our fans drowned them out.

  The band behind us started to play a familiar song. It wasn’t the anthem, but something else I knew.

  “Is that ‘This Is America’ by Childish Gambino?” I asked Marion, who was equally as wide-eyed as I was.