He nodded, mesmerized by the white-gloved bandleader doing Donald Glover’s weird dance from the music video. Then the color guard stood up. Instead of their batons, they held up poster boards. Each one was a blown-up image of one of Gabby’s flyers.
The dancers shimmied down the aisles, weaving through the crowd as they did their own protest. And the band blared the notes of Gambino’s protest anthem. They must have been working on this all week, just so they could show Westmond what Monroe was really made of.
My chest tightened, and I turned away for a moment to gather myself. My open letter had set so many things in motion and inspired other people to be activists in their own way. I wasn’t the only person with something to say. I felt less alone now that others were stepping forward.
When I turned around, one of the Westmond football players was crossing the field. He took off his helmet and ran his fingers through his blond hair. Lawrence approached Marion, the tips of his cleats grazing the line between the field and our sidelines.
“What are you doing over here?” I stepped forward, my hands raised. “Come on, dude. Don’t start nothing.”
“I just wanted to...” He looked down at the turf, his checks turning bright red. He looked up at Marion, his eyebrows upturned. “I’m sorry, Marion. I should have spoken up sooner. And I definitely shouldn’t have said the N-word. I’m really sorry.”
“Yeah, like before you saw Officer Reynaud take me to jail.”
Lawrence’s cheeks turned a deeper shade of scarlet. He was ashamed for his inaction.
“You had so many chances, man.” I shook my head slowly, thinking about how much easier this season would have been if this one guy would have opened his mouth and told the truth about what he saw during the fight.
“I read your article.” He bit his lower lip, still avoiding eye contact. “About how white people being silent is part of the problem. I called the prosecutor’s office Monday afternoon, and gave a full witness statement. I don’t know if it helped but... I’m sorry.”
He turned to walk back across the field, his eyes downcast. But I stepped off the sidelines and onto the field, calling after him, “Wait.”
Lawrence turned around, and I held my hand out between us. When he grabbed it, I pulled him in for a pat on the back.
“Better late than never.” I held his gaze.
“Thanks,” he said, breathlessly.
A voice keened above the rest—Bradley Simmons’s. He ripped his helmet off and pointed in our direction.
“TRAITOR!”
“Get your boy in check.” I tilted my head, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah that dude’s a fucking asshole, right? Don’t tell him this, but we’re going to vote him out as co-captain later tonight. I’ll make sure of it.”
“That’s a start.” I waved at Lawrence before heading back to our sidelines. The music from our band faded into silence, and I knew what was coming next.
“Please rise for the national anthem.” The announcer’s voice echoed through the stadium.
The opening notes of the anthem filled the stadium. I looked to Marion, nodding for him to lead us in kneeling. This was for him. For Gabby. For Karim. For me. He sank to his knee, and I quickly followed.
O say can you see by the dawn’s early light.
Bowing my head, I prayed that my silent protest shook the stands. I was using my right to speak truth to power. The Westmond cheers grew more feverish, but they were drowned out by Ms. J’s voice ringing in my ears.
Challenge your notion of patriotism.
For the first line of the song, we were the only ones kneeling. But then Terrance’s knee dipped to the ground. Then Karim. Bobby. Ricky. Darrell leaned on my shoulder, and in stark contrast to the last time I knelt—when he tried to snatch me up off the ground—he took a knee, resting his arm around my shoulder in solidarity.
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight.
The stands behind us creaked, causing us to turn and look. The Jackal fans were no longer in their seats but on their knees. I caught a glimpse of Gabby in the front row. Flanked by her dad and brother, she waved at me before wiping her teary face on the sleeve of her sling.
And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air.
Coach Fontenot dropped to his knees at the end of the line. His face placid, his angry vein safely stowed. He looked down the line and met my eyes with a nod. Then he shook his head, and I knew what he was thinking. The Clemson recruiter was somewhere in the stands eyeing this with disappointment. I jutted my chin out.
If Jim Regan didn’t want me to use my voice, then Clemson wasn’t the school for me. I held my chin high, uncertain where my future would land. I knew only that, wherever I ended up, I’d never be silenced.
EPILOGUE
The December College Fair in nearby Baton Rouge was held in Louisiana State University’s gym, which was ten times the size of Jackson High School’s facilities. Booths were crammed closely together, lined in a zigzag pattern to funnel people through. There were so many choices, so many paths to follow. College application deadlines were coming up at the beginning of January, and I still didn’t have any scholarship offers.
I was a free agent—for better or worse.
LSU was another one of those dream schools—it was Division 1, a formidable program, and close to home. I looked around their state-of-the-art gymnasium, thirsty for a chance to attend this school. But I’d already checked with them twice. They weren’t looking for any more tight ends this year, not even for walk-on spots.
But there was something out there for me. Somewhere.
Gabby texted me a wonky-faced emoji, followed by a thumbs-up. Her text said: Break a leg, followed by a very saucy invitation to meet her in her greenhouse when I got back. I stuffed my phone back into my pocket, hoping she hadn’t made me blush.
My heart flipped, then flopped as I remembered our inevitable fate. This was our last semester together, then she was off to school on the opposite side of the country. I’d miss her next year.
“Excuse me?” An excited guy in a loose denim shirt waved from across the aisle.
Me? I mouthed, pointing at my chest. I looked to my right and then my left but didn’t see anyone else responding to him.
“I knew it was you.” He squeezed out of the side of his booth and weaved his way through the crowd toward me. He was taller than I’d expected—almost as tall as my six feet three inches.
“Uh, hi.” I waved awkwardly.
“Russell Boudreaux.” He thrust his hand out to me, then ruffled his hair with a laugh. “Sorry, you’re Russell Boudreaux. Of course you already know that. I’m Skyler Prewitt, a receiver at Stanford.”
“Oh, hey, nice to meet you. You guys have been playing awesome this year.” I shook his hand, eyeing the recruiting pamphlets on his tabletop. None of them looked football specific.
“We could use a player like you. Have you ever thought about going to school out west?”
“Do you have any scholarships available?” I asked, hoping the answer was yes. I’d heard Stanford had a great journalism department. I wasn’t just interested in football. I wanted to cultivate other passions too.
“Hold on, let me get someone from the athletic department on the phone.” Skyler raised his index finger in the air as he dug in his pocket for his phone. “I have a feeling Coach Shaw is gonna want to talk to you. Especially with the application deadline coming up.”
I’d never considered going to Stanford—literally never. All I knew about Stanford was that their football program was pretty decent and the school was super expensive. I couldn’t afford Stanford unless I got a scholarship. Skyler nodded, his smile widening as he spoke into his phone. It looked promising. Maybe Coach Shaw needed a tight end like me.
And then a thought bubbled up in my head—something that broug
ht the promise of a future with Gabby. My interest was piqued.
“How far is Stanford from Berkeley?”
* * *
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I owe such a debt of gratitude to my agent, my north star who helped me edit my pages and navigate the world of publishing. To my agent, Carrie Pestritto, and the whole team at Laura Dail Literary Agency, thank you for pulling me out of the slush pile and taking a chance on me. Your guidance and expertise are invaluable. Know that you are heartily appreciated.
To Tashya Wilson: your enthusiasm for this project was infectious from the very first moment we met and I am so grateful for your insight and passion. And a huge thank-you to Bess Braswell for taking the torch and helping me see this book to the finish line. It has truly been a pleasure working with you both.
I also can’t forget Connolly Bottum, whose editorial support on this project was invaluable, or Viana Siniscalchi, who shepherded Kneel through its early stages.
Big shout-outs to Boris Anje and art director Gigi Lau for creating the beautiful cover art—you truly brought Rus to life!
Brittany Mitchell, you did so much to publicize this book during these unprecedented times. I appreciate your hard work, as well as Linette Kim’s, who did such a phenomenal job with library outreach. I also want to thank my publicists, Laura Gianino and Justine Sha...and give a round of applause to the entire HarperCollins sales team. Y’all are rock stars!
Tracy C. Gold, you read this manuscript in its infancy, when it was truly a rough draft, and you helped me sculpt sturdy bones for this book. And to Michele Bacon, thank you for being an early reader and then being one of the last people to read these pages just to make sure everything was in tip-top shape. You two are my beta reading editing gurus!
Thank you to Michael Noll and S. Kirk Walsh for teaching and inspiring me in our writing workshops in Austin, and to the Writers’ League of Texas, the South Bay Creative Writers Group in Redondo Beach, and the Southern California Writers’ Conference for teaching me about the publishing space and for hosting workshops that helped me hone my craft. Also big thanks to Fatemeh Razipour, who let me camp out in her Persian restaurant in Torrance in the same booth every day (like the neurotic writer that I am) so that I could eat good food while writing this book. I am so full of gratitude (and koobideh!).
To my parents, Dr. Deena Buford and Dr. Reginald Buford, thank you for supporting me through this journey. From grad school to finance to writing children’s fiction—you’ve been by my side. To Glen and Susan Metts, thanks for regularly calling me to tell me you’re proud. It means so much to me.
And to my partner, Jonathan Metts: thank you for reading all of my pages, for being my biggest cheerleader, and for finding the sun with me.
ISBN-13: 9780369702838
Kneel
Copyright © 2021 by Alloy Entertainment, LLC and Candace Buford
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
For questions and comments about the quality of this book, please contact us at [email protected].
Inkyard Press
22 Adelaide St. West, 40th Floor
Toronto, Ontario M5H 4E3, Canada
www.InkyardPress.com
Kneel Page 25
