Kneel

by Candace Buford

  The excerpts from the story were chilling—a Black boy wrongfully accused of a violent crime who had to serve time in prison, spending years looking at the love of his life and his family through plexiglass. It was heartbreaking. But what really angered me was that the story was set in the 1970s, yet wrongful accusations were still happening to Black people—innocent people were still falling short of their potential because of forces beyond their control.

  “I don’t care if Dante’s Shadow is white. He’s channeling Baldwin, so I guess he aight.”

  “Dante’s Shadow?” Her eyebrows rose. She leaned forward, clearly intrigued.

  “That’s what we call him—the dude who’s putting up the Dante flyers.” I looked up just in time to catch a sly grin flash across her face.

  “I kinda like that,” she said, sounding amused.

  She was in a good mood, so I decided now was as good a time as any to ask what happened last night. “You missed a good party.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. I don’t really go out.” She gestured to her brother beside her. “Got my hands full, as you can see.”

  “But you—” Clayton popped up from his seat, but Gabby acted quickly, grabbing his shoulders and pushing him back to the bench.

  “Clayton, sit your body down and finish your work,” she said, her eyelashes fluttering.

  “Oh, I see how it is.” I looked away, embarrassed. Gabby was clearly trying to find a polite way to put me off.

  “It’s not like that. I...” Her eyes flitted away before she looked at me, a small smile dancing on her lips. “I was doing some paperwork.”

  “That’s what Dad says when he has to poop.” Clay dissolved into a fit of giggles, his nose scrunching up as he made fart sounds between laughs.

  “God, Clay!” She tucked her curly hair behind her ear, revealing a deep blush spreading across her face. “Seriously, though. How was the party?”

  “Kind of boring,” I said. “I was sort of hoping you’d show.”

  She looked down. “You know that’s not really my scene.”

  And yet, I’d invited her, just like I’d invited her to that party three years ago. I needed her to see that I wasn’t like the other ballers. I wanted to show her that I’d stand proudly by her side—anywhere, not just at a party—if she’d step out with me again. But I could see that I’d burned her badly. Maybe even more than I realized.

  “You know, that party I brought you to freshman year... I know that wasn’t the right move. I was young and nervous, and I’m sorry. But when you left early...”

  Gabby snort-laughed. “You left first. You left me standing alone for the whole night. Of course, I got another ride home. Then the next day, everyone’s talking about how you went home with another girl that night after you’d asked me out on a date.”

  “Oh, so it was a date? You never admitted that before.” I smiled as a burning blush crept up her cheeks. She turned away, but this time I didn’t let it fool me. She liked to hide her reactions, particularly from me. Maybe it was because she was afraid to reveal too much—maybe Gabby still cared about me. I leaned across the table, trying to reclaim her sharp gaze. “It was a date. And I messed up.”

  She shook her head, half annoyed and half amused.

  “For real, though. If I could go back in time...”

  Her phone dinged on the table, and she snatched it up before I could get a good look.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said as she scurried to the back of the warehouse. “And I’ll tell my dad you’re here, so he can get started on your car.”

  But I had seen what I needed to see.

  The person texting her was named Dave.

  7

  Coach Fontenot tapped me on the shoulder and nodded over to Marion, who stood at the front of the tunnel leading onto the Westmond field. I called to him, and he weaved his way through the throng of players, all suited up in Jackson’s away-game uniforms and ready to play our second game of the season, this time against our fiercest rival.

  Westmond High School.

  By the way Coach’s mustache was twitching, he had something special planned for this Friday night. He lowered his voice to talk strategy.

  “Listen, we gonna do things differently tonight. If y’all win the coin toss, choose to receive, okay?”

  “Coach, I thought you always said to go for the kick so we can receive in the second half,” I said, confused.

  “You see them boys?” He ticked his head to our teammates shadowboxing in the concrete passageway. “They’re fired up. We gotta start hard and strong. This is our chance for redemption and revenge.” The vein on his forehead pulsed with each pump of his fist. “They took the title away from us last year. Who’s gonna show them how big of a mistake that was?”

  “We are,” I said a little louder than intended. But I was amped up, ready to rise to the challenge. I clenched my jaw thinking about Marion’s dislocated shoulder, Brad’s slurs, and Pops’s trashed truck.

  This was the chance for payback I’d been waiting for.

  Fontenot clapped his hands, signaling everyone to follow him. We barged onto the rain-soaked field, so charged up that we welcomed the jeers of the home crowd. Darrell and Marion waved their arms at the Westmond stands to rile them up even more. The stadium flooded with boos and calls for us to go home.

  Not tonight—not before we got that payback.

  I scanned the packed bleachers for my parents. The floodlights bored into my sockets, but I blinked the brightness away, squinting as I skimmed through each row. There, near the middle of the center section, my parents stood clapping. Mama made eye contact with me and bounced up and down, tugging on Pops to turn and wave at me. I blew her a kiss before looking away.

  Karim rolled his sleeve up and kissed his newly minted tattoo of his mother before flashing it to the stands. With a halo of black and white sunbeams radiating around her black afro, the ink of Ms. Williams posed as Mother Mary—complete with a bowed head and hands folded in prayer—stretched from the top of his shoulder to the crook of his elbow.

  He pounded his fist above his heart then turned to bump chests with Marion. They collided with a thud, making our fans roar. It drowned out Westmond’s new mean-spirited chant.

  That’s all right. That’s okay. You’re gonna pick up trash someday.

  They were cocky, and it pissed me off that they had reason to be. Even though we were just down the road from the dinky Jackson Jackal field, we were in a different world. The bright lights reflected off their shiny new bleachers and gourmet concession stands. Still, I took consolation in the fact that money alone couldn’t buy them a win.

  Our drumline beat a rhythm that held the crowd captive, and the cheerleaders were in full swing, shaking their pom-poms as they twirled like dervishes. This might not have been our turf, but we claimed our space with every trombone blast.

  Westmond High jogged in, bursting through a blue-and-white booster club banner with their mustang mascot emblazoned on it. They lined their benches and took off their helmets so that we could see the white lines painted across their cheekbones—white paint suspiciously like the color of the letters I scrubbed off Pops’s truck last week.

  My nostrils flared as I stepped forward. Marion elbowed my side.

  “Imma say what you always tell me—save it for the field.” He extended his arm to hold me in line just before the announcers asked the stadium to rise for the anthem.

  The guest singer, dressed in a sequined dress, stepped onto the field and belted out a slightly off-key version of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” I mumbled the words, my mind dead set on payback for Westmond’s dirty tactics.

  I wanted to win more than ever.

  Coach swung his headset microphone up and yelled down the line of players. “Russell, Marion, go on. Remember what I said.”

  Marion and I stepped forward
and walked to the center of the field where the head referee stood with the Westmond team captain and his second.

  “What’s up, homeboy?” Brad asked. His summer tan had started to fade, but his stupid sneer remained the same.

  “I ain’t your homeboy,” I said with a growl.

  “He’s right, dude.” Lawrence, the Westmond team captain, grinned. “Don’t egg him on.”

  “See y’all found a better use for that paint,” Marion said. He grumbled under his breath, something about hoping it was toxic.

  The referee cleared his throat to point our attention toward the task at hand. “Jackals call it.” The coin flew above us, deciding our fate as it turned in the air. But we didn’t take our eyes off the Westmond players. They didn’t tear their eyes away from us either.

  “Heads,” Marion and I said in unison right before the ref slapped the coin down on his arm. He lifted his hand to reveal our victory.

  “What’s it going to be?” he asked us.

  “We’ll receive,” Marion said with a tiny wave at the opposition. Brad and Lawrence raised their eyebrows, clearly surprised by our choice to change up our usual formula. I smiled as Marion and I turned our backs on them, satisfied that we’d caught them off guard. Anything that threw Westmond off their game put us one step closer to that W. We whispered strategies to each other, Marion running bold plays past me, but we were interrupted by Brad’s shouting.

  “Whatever. It doesn’t make a difference,” Brad called after us. “Gonna end up cleaning toilets, just like yo’ daddy was cleaning mine last night.”

  “Shut your mouth.” I turned and shoved a finger in his direction. “I’m coming for you once that whistle blows.”

  “Come on.” Lawrence stepped forward, his hands extended between Brad and I. “Be cool, my nigga.”

  I inhaled sharply, covering my mouth. Marion whipped around, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he massaged his temples.

  “What he say?” His voice climbed three octaves as he gripped the sides of his helmet. “Please, tell me this dude did not just drop that word.”

  “So what if he did?” Brad yelled over Lawrence’s shoulder as he puffed out his chest.

  My lips smacked as I tried to find words, but I came up with nothing—I was in shock. This white dude, who probably listened to gangster rap but interacted with zero Black people, thought the N-word had somehow slipped into his domain. He thought that it was his for the taking. Just like white people felt entitled to everything.

  No. I had to draw the line somewhere, and it was here. He couldn’t say that word.

  “Just chill.” Lawrence shook his head at us, and I could tell by the casual way he stood, the relaxed parting of his lips, that he didn’t think he’d said anything wrong. In fact, he thought he was diffusing the situation. “We cool. Let’s play some ball.”

  But we weren’t cool.

  “Ref, you heard him say the N-word,” I said to the referee standing beside us. “That’s an automatic game suspension.”

  The league rules were simple—no racial slurs on the field. And that went for all players, even the Black ones. We weren’t even allowed to drop the N-word, let alone egg people’s cars and call them garbage.

  “Listen.” The head referee stuffed the game coin into his back pocket before putting his hands on his hips. He looked at Lawrence, nodding his head toward the exit. “If I hear that word again, you’re off the field.”

  The ref stepped between us, which garnered murmurs from the crowd. Something was brewing, and fans on both sides could sense it.

  “That’s not fair. They ain’t allowed to say that word.” I stepped closer to the fray. “If you heard it, he’s gotta go.”

  “You know what? We straight, ref.” Marion stepped so close to Brad that his chest came into contact with the referee’s outstretched hand. “’Cause this dude gonna drop the ball as soon as he catches it. Like he always do. And we’ll shut it down from there.”

  My chest rumbled through a laugh as Marion held his hand up for a high five. Then, with the same hand, he waved at the Westmond captains. “Buh, bye.”

  Brad slapped Marion’s hand away from his face, then shoved him backward with both hands. The force sent him tumbling to the ground, taking me with him. My teeth chomped on my bottom lip.

  Pain shot through me, and my eyes snapped shut as I breathed through the sting. When I touched my lip, I drew back bloody fingertips. I must have bitten straight through.

  The referee blew long and hard on his whistle, frantically waving his arms in front of him, but it was too late for that. Brad had drawn first blood, and if I couldn’t get this bleeding under control, the league wouldn’t allow me on the field. Marion scrambled to his feet, a look of shock and anger on his face.

  “Oh, you tryna get hood?” He pushed Brad into Lawrence. “Trust me, you don’t wanna go there.”

  Brad lunged for Marion, grabbing the front grating of his helmet. He dragged him forward and thrust his knee into his gut, making him collapse to his knees. Marion grabbed Brad’s legs, bringing him to the ground too. The two of them tousled on the ground, growling.

  “Get your quarterback off mine!” I shouted at Lawrence through the side of my mouth. Blood dripped through my fingers.

  The other referees ran across the field, blaring their whistles too. A medley of yellow and white flags spurted from their pockets in the direction of our scuffle.

  A few of the game security guards charged full tilt toward the site of our failed coin toss, hands hovering over their firearms. Officer Reynaud brought up the rear, huffing as he sidled up next to me. My chest caved. He was the last person I wanted to see in an already tense situation.

  He wasn’t dressed in his police uniform, instead wearing the green polo shirt that all of the security guards wore, but off duty or not—he was still a cop. And now we were surrounded by them.

  “Get ’em up.” He waved to the two green shirts beside him. One pried Brad from on top of Marion while the other two hooked their hands beneath Marion’s armpits and dragged him to a standing position. Red-faced and winded, Reynaud stepped in front of Marion. “You lost your mind, boy?”

  “You should be asking him that.” I pointed a shaky finger at Brad, who stood next to the officer who’d nabbed him. Brad wasn’t restrained. But Marion was. “We didn’t start this fight.”

  “I saw it all.” Reynaud held his hands up. “And you better watch yourself, or you’re going to the station too.”

  “The station?” Marion wiggled in the grasp of the security guard holding his arms back. “You’re seriously trying to arrest me? I didn’t do anything!”

  His eyes widened as a zip tie tightened around his wrist. The officer muttered the Miranda rights, but Marion wasn’t focused on them. Instead, he looked to me, tears pooling in his eyes.

  “You should be arresting Brad!” I gestured to Brad, who stood with his head bowed, pretending to be sorry. I turned to Lawrence. “Tell him who started this fight.”

  Lawrence looked away.

  Marion stopped squirming, and his shoulders slackened with the click of the second zip tie, a resignation to the inevitable.

  “All right, come on, son,” Officer Reynaud said, flicking his fingers to Brad. Obediently, he walked to Reynaud’s side—still without his hands bound. But at least he was being taken to the station like Marion. Reynaud put his arm around his shoulder and turned to me. “Get on home and don’t start no more trouble, ya hear?”

  I whipped my head around and saw my team retreating into the tunnel in the corner of the field. The league must have postponed the game. My breath hitched. We wouldn’t be playing tonight.

  “We’ll handle this, I promise!” I shouted as the guards guided Marion to the gated exit on the far side of the field. I wasn’t sure how we’d get him out or pay for a lawyer, but I wanted Marion to know that we’
d be there for him. That I had his back, as his teammate and his best friend. As his brother. “I promise,” I repeated to his retreating back, even though I knew he could no longer hear me.

  8

  Don’t start no more trouble—Mama kept repeating it, each time with even more acid on her tongue. She mumbled it under her breath as she prepared another ice pack for me.

  “That old fool.” She grunted under her breath and paced our tiny kitchen. She shook her head as she leaned against the faded yellow wallpaper. “It’s the fools you gotta watch out for, you understand? They the most dangerous.”

  The bag of ice cubes hit the counter with a clunk as she leaned forward, her gaze locked on the TV screen in the living room. The local news was on; at the top of the hour, they ran through the headlines. And the Westmond/Jackson High School fight was at the top of the list.

  Shaky camera footage from someone’s phone served as the visuals. In it, you could see Marion and I scrambling on the ground, me clutching my face while Marion grabbed Brad’s knees and brought him to the ground.

  Then the camera panned out to show the rest of our team bristling on the sidelines. Coach Fontenot and the assistant coaches were holding their arms out as wide as they could, making sure no one stormed the field. Coach’s mouth chomped up and down, barking orders so loudly that the audio picked it up, “Stay back! Hold the line!”

  I remembered that the Westmond coaches had the same struggle keeping their players off the field. But the video didn’t show that. To the casual observer, the video kinda made Marion and our team look like the aggressors. I hoped Fox 5 News would get a better video—one that showed Brad starting the fight.

  A painful bruise smarted against my rib cage just above my stomach. I switched out the semi-melted ice pack for the new one, wincing as I pressed the hard surface against my side. I teetered on my barstool, gripping the edge of the kitchen island for support as I breathed through the pain. But it was my lip that hurt the most. Mama held it between her fingers, studying the teeth marks.