“So, what did we think of the readings?” Ms. J asked the class when she returned to the front of the room.
“I liked the ‘Olaf’ one,” Karim mumbled from the front row. At least someone from the defensive line had done their homework. I’d read that poem over and over again last night. It was my favorite one in the packet too.
“I’m going to choose to believe you like it because of the challenging message. Not because you went online and looked up the explicit original version of the poem.” She bent over so that she was eye level with Karim, nodding slowly until he nodded back.
“Good, because I don’t need more angry parents picking apart my curriculum.” She rose from her crouch. “That being said, it’s one of my favorites too. Turn to ‘i sing of Olaf’ on page six. Who wants to tell me what it’s about?”
Darrell slouched in his seat, trying to make himself smaller. He likely hadn’t finished his reading, and by the looks of the shifting students around the room, he was not alone.
This was not lost on Ms. J. Lifting her copy, she began reading the poem aloud, her long nails strumming against the edge of her desk, keeping meter with the rhythm of the poem.
“i sing of Olaf glad and big
whose warmest heart recoiled at war:
a conscientious object-or”
She read it with such gusto we couldn’t help but be riveted, especially when she reached the end and her voice cracked. She looked up and asked, “What’s happening here?”
“It’s about a guy getting beat up,” someone from the back of the class muttered.
“Okay, that’s a good start.” She wagged her head from side to side, not completely satisfied with the answer. “Who else wants to dig in here? Yes, Gabrielle.”
Gabby lowered her hand to her desk. “It’s about a conscientious objector being tortured.”
“Can anyone tell me what a conscientious objector is?” Her gaze skipped over Gabby’s raised hand and fell to me. “How about someone else? I’ll go with Russell this time.”
“It’s someone who’s against a war. In this case, World War I.” I jutted my chin out as Gabby cast me a sidelong glance. “Like Muhammad Ali during the Vietnam War.”
“Well done. For moral reasons, this man has chosen not to engage in violence. And as LaShon noted, he’s being beaten up. By whom?” She raised her eyebrow, a challenge.
Gabby and I both raised our hands. The rest of the class looked on with mild disinterest, except for some of the other football players who scrunched up their faces at my eagerness to participate in class. But I didn’t care what they thought right now. I wanted to redeem myself in Gabby’s eyes, to show her I wasn’t like the others. Ms. J sighed and called on Gabby again.
“By his own colonel.” She scanned through her notes. “But he refuses to change his views.”
“Ah, so there’s the heart of the story.” She beamed with pride, giving Gabby a fist bump before returning to the front of the room. She hopped up to sit on her desk. “So, what does it mean to you?”
“It means you better do what you’re told,” my teammate Karim said from the front row. He squared his broad linebacker shoulders. “It’s like the pledge of allegiance. We have to do it.”
“Is that what you got out of it? Perhaps it shows an instance where following orders goes against everything you hold dear. Maybe it means speaking truth to power is sometimes hard. Maybe it’s a call to arms against apathy. Think about that.” She paused with a shrug, giving us space to explore our own thoughts. “Write me a five-page paper on what ‘Olaf’ means to you. What does patriotism look like in your eyes? You have a whole month for this assignment. So today is Thursday the fifth, so you have until October 4. Got it?”
A collective groan rippled through the classroom, but my mind was swimming. When we’d studied the Revolutionary War, Mama had told me our ancestors—the ones we could trace—hadn’t fought in it. That was a white man’s fight, she’d told me. Because even though the colonies were fighting for justice and the rights of men, it wasn’t for all men. Not men with dark brown skin like me.
But “Olaf” said something more, something that really stuck with me. In a society that glorified war, Olaf stood for peace. He kinda reminded me of Dr. King, with his nonviolent civil rights tactics.
I couldn’t help but think about Colin Kaepernick. He took a knee to highlight police brutality against Black people, for kids like Dante Maynard. Dante lost his life because cops like Officer Reynaud were so filled with prejudice, they couldn’t think straight. And what did Kaepernick get in return for his peaceful, nonviolent protest?
He was villainized, and he lost his job—his ability to live his passion. Ain’t no poems about him.
Foolish. That’s what Pops had called his protest, and maybe he had a point. Karim’s comments rang in my ears: It means to do what you’re told. Black and brown people had to fall in line, or get punished.
Ms. J was right about a lot of things, but I found it hard to believe that “Olaf” applied to everybody. Because the people in power decided what tyranny was. And the people in charge...well, they were overwhelmingly white, and they couldn’t see their own prejudice. They didn’t want to. They didn’t have to. That was the real American way.
The rest of the period passed in a blur with me stealing glances at Gabby, wondering what was going on beneath her curly mane, in that sharp mind of hers. She turned her head to the side a few times, almost as if she was watching me too, but I couldn’t be sure. Unlike last night, she was more cautious with her interest. I wondered if she was still hurt from Darrell’s trash talk in the hallway, because any warmth we’d rekindled last night felt like it had dissipated. I felt the chill of her cold shoulder as she continued to ignore me.
Finally, after wrapping up the day’s discussion, Ms. J knelt beneath her desk and lugged a box of papers to her chair.
“Our next assignment is one of my favorites, If Beale Street Could Talk by James Baldwin. Now, the powers-that-be consider some sections of this book to be a little too mature, so we’ll be reading excerpts. That means your tirelessly devoted teacher stood in the library for hours copying and binding these new handouts.”
She held up a thick packet of papers. There must have been forty pages stapled together. I hissed under my breath. I liked Ms. J—she really cared about her class and her students. But she was the hardest teacher I had. By far. We’d only been in school for three weeks, and we were already on our third assignment.
“And since we all love the environment—nod along with me.” She nodded, pointing to her head, signaling for us to do the same. “Yes, since we want to save the planet and my copy machine privileges, I only made half as many copies as there are people in class. That means we’re partnering up for the next project.”
“How are we supposed to read a book side by side?” Darrell piped up from the back of the room.
“I’m sure you’ll work out a schedule with your partner.”
Gabby raised her hand, and Ms. J pointed to her.
“If we can get our own copy, can we do the assignment alone?”
Our teacher chewed on the side of her mouth, considering the possibility. Then she shook her head.
“No, let’s collaborate. Come on, find a partner. If you don’t, I’ll choose for you.” The class shifted at her instructions, eager to choose their own partners.
“Psst!” Darrell whispered, but there was no way I was partnering up with him. He’d stick me with all the work. Ignoring him, I scooted across the aisle toward Gabby and flashed the most charming smile I could muster.
“What do you say?”
Gabby looked around her desk at the pods of two huddled together, at her girl across the room who had already paired off with someone else. Even Darrell, who’d muscled his way to the front of the room, had nabbed Karim for a partner. It was down to the two of us.
>
“Fine.” She gave a weak smile at Ms. J, who turned her back on our corner as she made her way back to the front of the room. Once she was out of earshot, Gabby whipped around. “What’s your number?”
I smiled and sent a silent thank-you to Ms. J for throwing this assignment at us—for throwing us together.
“You can keep the packet,” Gabby said.
“But how are we—” I was cut off by Ms. J, who was clapping her hands again.
“Make a poster board of the themes of the story. You have until October 21 to complete this assignment. This is part of your midterm grade, so take this seriously and don’t leave your work until the last minute. I’m giving you plenty of time to really make this special. If you need supplies, they’re up here. Grab whatever you need when you come get your handout.”
“Look.” Gabby shoved her phone in the front pocket of her backpack and zipped it shut. “I’ll get my own copy of the book online. So, like I said, you can keep the packet.”
I crossed my arms, frustrated that she was drawing such a hard line with me.
“Fine. Will you do your own project too, or am I included in that?”
“Oh, you’ll work on this project if you want a grade.” She stood and slung her backpack over her shoulder. “But we won’t be meeting at your house. Don’t want to give your boys anything else to talk about.”
I dropped my forehead to my desk and moaned into it.
“We can start on it at my dad’s warehouse when you come pick up the battery plugs. Friday night work?”
“We have a game. And there’s a party afterward. After we beat Deerlake.”
“A victory party before you’ve even played?” She raised her eyebrows. “Isn’t that a bit premature?”
“Not at all,” I said. “We’re gonna crush it.”
She rolled her eyes.
“You should come through.” It was out of my mouth before I had time to think about it.
She blinked, her breath catching. Maybe I’d made a mistake by inviting her. I mean, three days was hardly enough time to finish the reading. But I was a fast reader. And if I was fast, Gabby was faster. She could handle it. Plus, I wanted her at the party. I wanted to show her that I wasn’t the same punk who’d left her side freshman year. I wanted a second chance.
“Rus...”
“Come on,” I said. “We can talk about the project there—maybe divvy up the readings between the two of us.”
She laughed. “Nice try. You know we won’t get any homework done at a party. How about Saturday instead?”
“I have to ice in the morning but could come by after?”
“Fine. Let’s say three o’clock.” She pulled out her phone, typing into her calendar as the bell rang. “You better come prepared. And FYI, watching the movie doesn’t count.”
Her wild locks quivered as she shoved past our row of classmates on her way to the door. As I watched her leave, I realized that she hadn’t said yes to the party. But she also hadn’t said no.
4
The wind whipped through the window as Marion and I drove through the back roads on our way to his house. It had been a while since I’d been on his side of the parish, and as we moved closer to the Bayou Glen trailer park, I grew more grateful for that.
“I can’t believe I left my lucky gloves at home.” Marion cussed under his breath with a shake of his head.
Superstition had no place in my routine. To me, a pair of gloves was a pair of gloves. But Marion swore by his gear, and if he was willing to drive all the way out to his stepdad’s house to retrieve them before tonight’s game against Deerlake, they were clearly important to him. And he was important to me.
Winning was important to me too. So we missed the team bus to Deerlake’s stadium just for Marion and his magic gloves. We wouldn’t be too late—their school was nearby in the next parish to the east—but I was the captain of our team, and I didn’t want to be late for warm-up on game day.
“Still can’t believe Pops let you use his truck.”
“Yeah, the Civic wouldn’t start this morning, so my folks are gonna catch a ride to the game with Karim’s mama. Hopefully Mr. Dupre can bring it back to life—we need two cars. For real.”
I tried not to think about Mr. Dupre or Gabby, instead focusing on turning onto the narrow drive that led into Bayou Glen. The truck’s tires crunched on the gravel road as I pulled in front of a pale green double-wide with brown shutters. A silver sedan sat in the driveway.
Marion bent forward and grumbled into the dashboard. “Ed’s here. You better wait outside. And turn the truck around so that it’s facing the exit.”
“Okay.” I nodded slowly. When it came to his stepdad, Marion was always dead serious. I searched for Mrs. LaSalle’s car along the street but didn’t see it. She still hadn’t returned home. Marion would be facing his stepdad alone.
“I’ll be as fast as I can.” He pushed his door open and hopped down from the truck, skirting a stained mattress that had been left on the road to rot. He looked over his shoulder, twirling his finger while he mouthed, Turn around. Then he disappeared around the side of the house, where I knew he’d slide inside through his bedroom window.
I repositioned the truck, backing into a neighboring driveway before pulling out to face the other way. The noise disturbed a dog chained to the trailer across the street from Marion’s. It ran full tilt at the truck, barking and snarling as it strained on its chain.
The door to Marion’s house swung open. He stumbled out, falling to his hands. Ed followed, yelling something I couldn’t hear, but I didn’t have to. His face looked like that angry pit bull—nasty and vicious.
I flinched as Ed threw Marion’s gloves in his face. Marion reached to the grass to pick them up, and when Ed stepped toward him, my hand reached for the door handle. If he shoved Marion again, he’d have to deal with both of us. But Ed tripped over his slippers, giving Marion a chance to skirt around him. I put the truck in Drive while Marion stormed across the lawn and climbed into the truck, his nostrils flaring.
Ed pumped his arms as he followed him, stopping to bang on the driver’s side window. He wanted me to roll the window down, but Marion yanked my shoulder back.
“Just drive. We’re done here.”
“Y’all boys is soft!” Ed spewed from the other side of the glass. “You think you something but you ain’t, understand? You ain’t shit.”
“Rus, drive!” Marion yelled.
I pressed the gas and the truck lurched forward, kicking up gravel as we sped away. Ed held his fist up, cussing and calling us cowards, but after a few yards, we couldn’t hear him anymore. Marion fanned his hand, hissing through the pain.
“Are you going to be all right?”
“I’ve played through worse. You know that.” He slipped on his right glove and flexed his fingers.
“He needs to go back to jail.” I skidded onto the main road, afraid to slow down or look back. “Seriously, next time we call the cops.”
“What? So I can end up in the system?” He sighed. He’d be eighteen in February, but if he got tangled up in foster care for the months until then, it could be just enough to derail his chances of getting into college on a football scholarship. He shifted to face me, his jaw set, eyes unblinking. “We’ve got one last season to play for recruiters, and I don’t feel like stirring up shit with the finish line so close. You understand?”
“Man, you might not make it to next spring,” I said.
I glanced at the limp hand he was nursing in his lap. If Coach Fontenot caught a whiff of a blown joint, he’d surely dig deeper into the reasons behind the injury. Shoot, he was still checking on my elbow, even though the trainer said I was all healed up. And it was only a matter of time before Ed did more damage.
“Promise me you won’t call the cops, okay? Nothing good happens when they get involved
.”
It didn’t feel right, but I nodded in agreement. It wasn’t my secret to tell, and Marion was practically grown—it was his decision to make. I clenched my jaw and pressed the gas pedal harder, sending the truck flying down the country road. I didn’t slow down until we reached the stadium parking lot.
* * *
The opposing lineman grabbed me by the sides and swung me around before I could gain any yardage. I struggled to keep the ball tucked to my chest as he pinned me to the ground. My head thudded against the grass.
I was vaguely aware of the whistle blaring, signaling the end of the play. But I was too busy trying to catch my breath. That big Deerlake player had literally knocked the wind out of me. My chest rose and fell in short spurts as I gasped for air.
“Move. Give him room.” Marion elbowed his way past Karim and Bobby, and looked at me from above. “You okay?”
When I nodded, he extended his hand to help me get up. A muffled whimper escaped my lips when I felt my ribs creak, but I gave Marion the same look he’d given me as we sped away from Ed—the look that warned him not to blow up my spot.
Don’t say a word. I’m fine.
The Deerlake lineman checked to see if I was okay and gave me a pat on the shoulder, which I appreciated. The last official game I’d played had been against Westmond, where no one was a good sport. Marion deposited me on the bench, his eyes still worried as he turned toward the field to set the next play. Beads of sweat trailed down my face, pooling at the tip of my nose before raining down on the turf. My shoulders burned, and I hung my head low, panting—still trying to catch a breath in this godforsaken heat.
I snatched a water bottle from the folding table next to me, avoiding the pleading eyes of my lineman, the dude who was supposed to have my back as I ran the ball.
“Rus, dog, I’m sorry,” Karim said.
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