“Almost went straight through,” she said as she squinted, leaning closer. “Scoot over under the light.”
I slid my barstool into the center of the kitchen, right underneath the four-pronged brass light. I winced as Mama pressed my lip again.
“Oh!” She held her hand over her mouth.
“Mama, don’t.” I put my hand on her knee, begging her not to cry again.
“You sure the trainer said it didn’t need stitches?”
I nodded, remembering Ms. Duval’s gloved hands giving me a once-over.
“Well, we’re taking you to the doctor in the morning.” She shook her head, planting her arms on her hips. Looking around the kitchen, she sighed. “I know you hungry. I’ll see what I can fix that you can eat. There’s gotta be a can of soup or a box of pudding buried in the pantry.”
I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t hungry, but it was strangely comforting watching her fuss around the kitchen. Adrenaline coursed through my body, making me jumpy, fidgety. My thoughts were far from food. Instead they were still on the field, embroiled in images of the fight.
Coach had already texted the team the league’s verdict. In the absence of definitive proof of fault, both teams would be put on probation, but allowed a rematch. That meant that we weren’t suspended from playing the rest of the season, but we were on thin ice. One more misstep and our season would be over. It was suspicious that the referee had not provided proof of Westmond starting the fight, but I couldn’t even think about that. All I could think about was Marion sitting in some dirty jail cell. I hoped Pops would call from the police station with an update soon.
I should have let Lawrence’s and Brad’s comments slide. If I had walked away from Brad’s taunts, had ignored Lawrence, maybe Marion wouldn’t have been hauled away in handcuffs.
But I couldn’t escape the nagging feeling that maybe I hadn’t done enough.
I didn’t share any of this with Mama. She seemed to relax as she channeled her energy into gathering supplies. Her eyes glazed over as she poured pudding packets into a mixing bowl and poured water into a saucepan. Then she looked out the window and gasped. She stepped away from the sink, wiping her hands on her jeans as she rushed for the door.
I hobbled to the sink and shut the water off, gazing through the kitchen window to where Marion was stepping down from my dad’s truck. He swayed and Pops put his arm around him, guiding him up the porch stairs, where he crumpled into Mama’s waiting arms. His shaky voice traveled through the single-paned window.
“I’m sorry, Mama. I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else to call when my stepdad didn’t show. And with my mom gone...”
“You did the right thing. Hold your head up. Let me see.” She choked when Marion stepped into the light. The lighting on the porch was too dim, and the glass was too dusty for me to see up close, so I shoved off the kitchen counter and ran to stand behind Mama at the door, just in time to see her gently lift Marion’s chin with the tip of her finger.
His eye was swollen shut, and his cheek was puffy. When tears started trickling down Mama’s face, I couldn’t hold mine back anymore. I covered my mouth, hiding my trembling lip.
“Look at what they’ve done to you. To both of you.” Mama grabbed his arm, then reached behind her to grab mine. “My babies.”
“Let’s get him inside.” Pops put his hand on the small of her back and ushered her through the front door.
“Eli, I got it.” She waved his helping hand away before sinking into the chair, rocking back and forth as she shook her head. “I just don’t understand how they could keep him till damn near one a.m.”
“They said I had to wait for processing.” Marion sank to the couch with a sigh.
“They the criminals.” Mama gripped her knees. “Keeping high school boys in a jail cell.”
“Oh, wasn’t no boys. It was just me.” Marion took the ice pack from my outstretched hand and brought it up to his face. “Brad’s dad showed up twenty minutes after we got to the station, yelling at the cops to release him, or he was going to get his lawyer involved. Then they disappeared. Brad never came back to the holding cell.”
Silence claimed the room as we tried to understand. Marion shrugged, offering a half-baked explanation.
“Maybe he got out on bond like I did.” He tilted his head up to my dad, who stood near the edge of the couch. “Thanks, Pops. I swear I’m gonna pay back every last cent.”
“Baby, you don’t worry about that.” Then in a softer, hushed tone, she leaned over to Pops and asked, “How much?”
“Three racks.” Pops looked to the side, over at the AC unit that rattled against the wall.
Mama braced herself. We were packing lunches and keeping our spending under control, and money was still tight. I couldn’t imagine pulling our purse strings any tighter, but a loss of three thousand dollars from my parents’ bank account was going to require some serious cuts.
“And I’ll pay you back,” Marion said, barely loud enough for us to hear. “I promise.”
“You don’t worry about that, sweetie. You did right calling us. We’ll get that money back soon as you show up to court, whenever that’s gonna be...” Mama’s cheeks reddened as her gaze drifted to the corner of the room. I could almost see the wheels turning in her head—it could be months until they set a court date for Marion, meaning that three grand would be tied up until then. She blinked, bringing her eyes back into focus. “Ed should be ashamed of himself, not showing up when you called. As many times as he’s called everybody this side of the parish to bail him out.”
“What are they trying to charge you with?” I asked, crossing the room to take the other side of the couch.
“They’re throwing everything at me—disorderly conduct, assault, and resisting arrest.”
“I can’t believe this.” I slid my hands over my face as if it could make this mess disappear. “You didn’t start that fight.”
“I wish I’d had my phone taping it.” Pops cussed under his breath as he stormed down the hall.
“So what are you going to do?” I asked Marion, searching his bruised face for answers.
“I’m going to fight it.” Marion set his jaw tight. “I have to.”
9
“I promise it looks worse than it is,” I said to Gabby the following Monday. I tilted my head back at her outstretched hand. She opened the door of her locker wider so that I could see my swollen lip on her magnetic mirror.
In the morning light, I could see a lump jutting out from the right side of my mouth, exposing the inside of my bottom lip. Surrounding the brownish scab where my teeth had pierced the skin was a yellowish pocket, swelling that the nurse at the emergency clinic assured me would go down in a few days. I rubbed the knot of scar tissue with my tongue, hoping that it would heal quickly.
“It looks nasty.” She hissed, reaching to touch her own lip. “Vicious, even.”
“I’m fine.” I ducked away from her locker, hoping she wouldn’t press it. Students stole glances at my face as they scurried down the hall. Some had been at the stadium the other night and had seen the fight firsthand—witnesses to the miscarriage of justice. Others had heard about it from the news or social media. By now, everyone had seen Marion in handcuffs being escorted off the field like a criminal. It wasn’t right.
“I shouldn’t have taken the bait.” I shook my head as I lost myself in the memory of the fight. Silence is Violence. That’s what the posters around town said, and maybe I let that influence me. But where had it gotten me? Gotten Marion? “I shouldn’t have mouthed off.”
“Rus, this isn’t your fault. They egged your dad’s car. They busted your lip. You’re only human.”
I shrugged. “This is going to blow over.”
“Rus, look... I’m not trying to be a dick, but I don’t think it’ll blow over.” She bumped my side with her elbow, then looked
up at me, her eyes still uneasy. “Marion really hasn’t said anything since Friday?”
I shook my head. After Marion came home from the county jail, he’d planted himself in Mama’s rocking chair, occasionally watching the local news Mama left droning in the living room. I didn’t know when I’d dozed off, but I’d woken up in the morning to a crick in my neck and an empty room. And I hadn’t seen or heard from him since.
“I guess that’s good. I wouldn’t talk to anyone but my lawyer.” Gabby tilted her head. “Does he have a good one?”
“I think so. He’s a public defender. He sounded aight by the way Marion described him.”
“Hmm. My dad’s friend in New Orleans is a lawyer. I don’t think he specializes in criminal law, but he might be able to give Marion more time and research toward his case than a public defender can.”
“It’ll be fine. Marion mentioned he was pretty cool and would help him get some of the charges dropped.”
Gabby snorted. “Yeah, by pleading guilty to one of the charges.”
“Nah, he wouldn’t plead guilty for something he didn’t do.” I thought of Marion’s bruised face, his jaw set tightly as he said he would fight the charges.
Gabby sighed and dropped her backpack to the floor.
“Rus...that’s how our justice system usually works. The prosecutors overload you with charges and make it seem like taking your case to trial is a death wish. Then they push you to take a plea deal.”
I frowned. That didn’t sound like justice to me.
“I have respect for PDs, but most of them are so overworked that they push their clients to take plea deals instead of going to trial. He’s seventeen, but they’re probably going to try him as an adult. That means he’d have a criminal record. Every school he applies to, every job interview he goes on—that record will follow him everywhere. Marion deserves more than that.”
I nodded, letting it all sink in. Everything she was saying sounded convincing. I wanted to prevent Marion from paying for this for the rest of his life. I’d told him we’d take care of this, that I’d help him in any way I could. But hiring a fancy lawyer from New Orleans was out of my reach.
“We can’t afford a lawyer.” I bent my head low. There was no way Pops had anything left in the bank after posting Marion’s three-thousand-dollar bail.
“Then we’ll beg him to take Marion’s case pro bono. I’ll ask my dad for his friend’s number, and I’ll give him a call tonight. If he agrees, I can pass your number along, if that’s all right?”
“Seriously?” My eyes glazed with tears, but I blinked them away. “You’d do that?”
“Sure. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
My heart swelled, my breath catching. A few weeks ago, Gabby and I were nothing. Now, we were friends. I couldn’t help but wonder where we might be in another three weeks. My lips throbbed, and not just from the pain from my bruise. But I shook it off, regrouping.
“It’s going to be tough to find time for Ms. J’s project with everything going on, but I think I have time tonight, if you’re free?”
“Look, Rus. Don’t worry about the Baldwin project.” She exchanged her morning books for her afternoon ones and shut her locker. Her face was soft as she tilted her head up to me. “Seriously, we finished most of it last weekend, and we still have a few more weeks until it’s due. You should just focus on—”
“My face?” I sputtered a chuckle. It surprised me, but it felt good to be able to laugh. I nodded toward the other end of the hallway, inviting her to walk with me. “I’m fine. Really—you should see Marion’s face.”
“I know.” She shook her shoulders as if trying to ward off a chill. “He looked pretty banged up when I saw him.”
“Wait.” I turned quickly, searching her furrowed brows for answers. “When did you see Marion?”
“Just a few minutes ago.” She paused, looking confused. “In the breezeway.”
As we approached Coach’s office, we found a crowd huddled on the edge of Fontenot’s window. Muted yelling came through the panes. Standing head and shoulders above most of the students, I didn’t have to fight for room to see Marion hunched in a chair across from Fontenot, looking defeated.
“You can’t do this to me.” Marion cried from the seat opposite Coach. “Please. I’m begging you.”
“Let me get through, y’all.” I elbowed my way past the knot of students until I filled the doorway.
“It’s not up to me, Marion.” Coach Fontenot sank to his elbows. “You know I’d do anything for you, but my hands are tied here.”
“What’s going on?” I asked, closing the door behind me so that the whole student body couldn’t eavesdrop.
“I’m just telling Marion—”
“Coach says I can’t play no more,” Marion cut him off, his gaze wild as it darted between me and Coach. I felt like the wind was knocked out of me. Playing a game without Marion would be like sending me onto the field without my right hand. And for Marion... I couldn’t even imagine what it would feel like to have to sit the bench, this season of all seasons, when it mattered the most.
“Now, I didn’t say that.” He raised his hands in surrender. “This is coming from the league, son. I just got off the phone with them this morning.” He turned to me, his eyebrows slanted in appeal. “If it were up to me—”
“No. No. I can’t... This is all I got.” Marion rocked back and forth in the chair opposite coach, rubbing his bruised temple. “Just call the league back.”
“I tried everything, but the rule book states plainly that players charged with violent crimes can’t suit up.” He shook his head slowly, like he’d tried to find a loophole but come up short. “Best we can do is get this cleared up so we can get you back on the field.”
“And how long is that gonna take?” Marion gripped the front of Fontenot’s desk, his arm trembling. “The public defender said this process could take months, even a year to get resolved. So, all I’m asking is for you to call them back. We gotta appeal this.”
“He’s right, Coach.” I stepped forward, placing my palms against his desk. “Marion is this team. We can’t lose him because of something he didn’t even do.”
Coach’s hair tangled in his fingers as he hunched over his desk. “Boys...the rules are clear here.”
“Call them back!” Marion sprang from his seat, his arms outstretched. “Rus, tell him.”
“There’s no wiggle room?” I asked, desperation hitching my voice up a few notches. “Maybe he can agree not to suit up for the rematch. Then he can play the other games.”
I thought my reasoning was fair, but before I even finished, Coach’s head was swinging left to right. I saw it in his eyes; he’d obviously been on the phone all morning trying to iron this out.
Marion’s suspension was set in stone. And it was for more than just the one game. He could miss the whole season, if his case took as long to get resolved as the public defender thought.
I turned slowly, afraid to meet my best friend’s dewy eyes. “Marion...”
“Don’t, man.” He held a hand up, and a gasp escaped his lips. It was followed by another, then another, until he was doing something I’d never seen him do. He was crying. Through a jumble of sobs, he said, “I can’t get recruited from the bench. My life is fucked!”
He barged out of the office, and I scrambled after him.
“Come on, Marion.” Darrell touched Marion’s shoulder, but he ripped his hand away.
“Don’t!” he shouted, making Darrell cower away. His chest heaved with ragged pants as he barreled down the hall. “Move out the way, y’all.”
“Marion.” I jogged after him, desperate for him to take a breather. But he didn’t turn around, instead choosing to break into a jog down the breezeway.
“Don’t follow me,” he called over his shoulder.
I froze on the spot,
fighting the urge to run after him. But it didn’t feel right. It was the first time in a long time—maybe ever—that something bad had happened to me or Marion, and we weren’t going through it together.
* * *
It was late, well past dinnertime, and Marion hadn’t turned up. He wasn’t answering my texts, not even my parents’ calls. But I knew where to find him.
The football field was quiet when I rolled up, the only sound the hum of the floodlights towering above. A silhouette with dreads stood next to a canvas bag of footballs. As he reached to grab another ball, he stumbled but found his footing and sent it flying to the back corner of the field. Marion could always perform under pressure.
He suffered at home, where his stepdad beat him and his mom frequently abandoned him, and at school, where his teachers talked down to him. The field was the only place where he was on top.
And now that had been taken away from him.
“What part of ‘don’t follow me’ didn’t you understand?” His body rumbled through a burp.
“It’s just me, man.” I held my hands up, walking slowly.
He threw another ball across the turf, then staggered up the steps to one of the bleachers, where he’d tucked a forty under the bench.
“You got every right to be pissed.”
“Pissed don’t even cover it, man. Pissed is when my stepdad throws a beer bottle at my head. Pissed is when I ain’t got enough money for a Coke. But this? Nah, this is beyond all that. It’s another level, man.”
I edged closer, careful to give his anger the space it needed. I sat on a bleacher below him.
“And you know the really fucked up thing? I keep thinking it could be worse.” He hopped down with a hysterical laugh. “Like, at least he didn’t shoot me.”
“Don’t think like that.” My chest tightened at the thought. This was bad, but...his comment reminded me that it could be so much worse.
“But you know what? Reynaud might as well have shot me. Because he just took my life away.” When Marion turned to me, his eyes were bloodshot. “Ed always said I’d end up in jail. Are those the only choices we have? Jail? Shot in the street? The system is rigged. I ain’t never getting out of here.”
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