Kneel

by Candace Buford

  Things were supposed to get back to normal.

  A clank came from the porch, and I looked up. Pops was sitting on the far end with a glass of amber liquid perched on the table next to him. For a moment, he held my gaze, and I froze. I’d gotten used to Pops not making eye contact with me, but that had changed since the Clemson news. He continued watching me, even as he drew his glass to his lips.

  Breaking his gaze, I shoved the trash bag into the black garbage can and shuffled back to the front door. I kept my head down as I took the stairs two at a time, looking at my shoelaces instead of the complicated eyes of my dad.

  “Son, I want to talk to you,” he said, and cleared his throat. He leaned forward, reaching behind him to fish something out of his back pocket. When he pulled it out, he had my car keys in his hand. “Managed to fix up that alternator. The car should start now.”

  “Thanks.” I edged closer, wondering why he was telling me this. I was in a suspicious state of mind, unable to trust anyone, particularly Coach and Pops. “I can’t really use the car. You know, because I’m grounded.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that.” He leaned back in his chair, his bottom lip jutting out as he looked to the rafters. “Spoke to Fontenot last night. So... Clemson? They’ve thrown their hat in.”

  “Yes, sir. Marion and I will practice up. Hopefully he’ll be back on the team when Regan comes to watch me.” I shuffled my feet, feeling weird.

  This wasn’t how I’d imagined talking with Pops about a potential Division 1 scholarship. In my dreams I’d run home to tell Mama and Pops the good news, and we’d jump up and down in the living room, crying and laughing about the long journey it’d taken to get to the dream school. That’s how I’d always pictured it. Instead, I was hunched against a porch column, awkwardly avoiding eye contact with my dad.

  “Well, if I can help with the drills, let me know.” He squinted and chuckled. “I’m as invested in this as you are.”

  I tucked my chin closer to my chest and fought the urge to roll my eyes. Pops had played ball in the ’90s. He’d gotten injured, missed his final season, and found his second chance in me. But I wasn’t living my life for him. That meant I needed his support even when I wasn’t tracking in his exact footsteps. I could have used his support after the Shreveport game, not after the dust had settled. I wished he could see that.

  “So, here you go.” Pops dangled my keys in front of him, but I hesitated to reach for them.

  “What’s the catch,” I asked, tilting my head. For the past few weeks I’d been strapped with a heap of chores big enough to keep me busy late into most evenings. Surely, Pops had something up his sleeve.

  “No, catch.” He shook the keys, stretching his arm farther into the space between us. He winced in pain. “Come on, Rus. My back is barking.”

  “Fine.” I shoved off the support beam and snatched them from his hand. They were the same rusty keys to the same busted Civic—a car that gave me more grief than pleasure most days. But at least it was mine again. I looked up. “So, that’s it? No more punishment?”

  “What did your mama and I say last week?” he asked, his eyebrow sharply raised. “We told you that football was your job, your family contribution. And you’re back on the field. It looks like you’re in the hunt at Clemson. So...no point in you being grounded anymore, I guess.”

  It was true that football was my duty to the family, so when my place on the team was in jeopardy, I expected the backlash. But that wasn’t the true reason behind my punishment.

  “And if I kneel again?” I clenched my teeth, setting my jaw into a tight line. That was the real reason Pops had been angry beyond words. It was why he hadn’t spoken to me for almost two weeks, why he could barely look me in the eyes.

  To my surprise, he threw his head back and let out a cackling laugh. He slapped his thigh, then locked eyes with me.

  “I ain’t worried about that.” He caught his lips between his teeth, as if he was holding back another burst of laughter. “With Clemson on the line—and God knows what other top schools are interested—I am not worried about you taking a knee during the anthem.”

  “Marion’s still suspended, and Officer Reynaud is still roaming free. There’s still a reason to fight.”

  “Yeah, and this corner of the world is really messed up. Ain’t it?” Pops shook his head, his smile faltering. “But you got a ticket outta here, don’t you?”

  I opened my mouth to refute it, but I couldn’t bring myself to. The truth in his words hit me deep in my chest. He had a point.

  My biggest fear was being stuck in Monroe like Homegrown Gary, a washed-up baller with untapped potential. Even Pops lamented being in Monroe. He wished he’d left, played ball, and gotten a better education. As much as I hated the pressure Pops put on me, and as much as I hated the feeling of him living vicariously through me, I was hopeful about the opportunity to play at the top. I’d always wanted something different for my life, and now I had a real chance to leave this town.

  I intended to take it.

  I was willing to stand against injustice, but not at my expense. I’d made the sacrifice of kneeling, and that hadn’t gotten me anywhere but in trouble. As much as I felt salty that Coach Fontenot had stalled me in the locker room during the anthem last night, a part of me thought he’d done me a favor.

  A Division 1 scholarship wasn’t a hypothetical now. It wasn’t some distant, impossible dream. It was within reach, so close I could almost taste it. Was I willing to throw that away for another failed protest?

  I...didn’t think so. Circumstances had changed.

  Maybe it was time I started thinking about me when I was on the field—not all the problems that needed fixing in the world. Maybe it was time I fixed my sights on Clemson and didn’t look back.

  Pops sat back in his chair, donning his smug smile again. “See? I ain’t worried about a thing.”

  19

  Gabby leaned over my notebook, her head resting on her hand as she read my biggest contribution to our English class project—the written portion. She’d asked me not to watch her while she read.

  It’ll throw me off my editing game, she’d said with a devilish grin.

  But I couldn’t help it. She was so interesting to watch.

  The red pen in her hand hadn’t moved an inch since she’d started reading. I finished cutting out more clippings for our already crowded poster board collage—an attempt at busywork. I couldn’t help but sneak glances at her progress. Every sigh, every shift in her seat had my eyes snapping in her direction.

  If I’d been working on my own, I would have written a perfectly adequate essay—something guaranteed a passing grade with enough wiggle room to spare. I was no slouch in the classroom, though I certainly wasn’t a genius like Gabby. But if I was being honest, I’d spent much longer writing this paper than I had on anything else I’d ever done.

  I eyed the notebook, reading my handwriting upside down. She was on the last page. I fidgeted across from her, wringing my hands underneath the table as I awaited her verdict—and hoped for her approval.

  It wasn’t just that I was hungry for acceptance since I’d been deprived of it lately—although, it would be seriously cool if my teammates got off my case. No, I wanted her approval. I wanted to earn it, even if I had to rewrite the whole damn thing.

  “Well?” I asked anxiously, folding my arms.

  She held a finger up, urging me to be patient, then bit the end of her red pen. After a while, she looked up through her lashes.

  “Well,” she said with a sigh.

  My insides churned, and not in a good way. Maybe she didn’t like it. I was prepared to hide my face in embarrassment, but she cleared her throat and said, “This is good.”

  “Really?” I said, my breath coming out in a rush.

  “Rus, I mean really good.” She flipped back a few pages and read
a line from the beginning. “A life unencumbered by prejudice is a life worth living, worth demanding, even worth fighting for.”

  Her dewy eyes widened and she gulped down a swallow.

  I’d been hoping for this very reaction—Gabby’s wide-eyed wonder. If I could, I’d make sure she felt that sort of joy and inspiration every day of her life. If she’d let me. Because that’s what she deserved.

  But my confidence wavered. I’d written a draft of these words before Clemson popped onto the scene, before I’d discovered a hard truth—social justice would have to take a back seat to my budding football career. Would Gabby look at me the same way if she knew I had no intention of kneeling again this season?

  I studied the way her freckles looked darker in the bright light of the warehouse, and the dimple in her left cheek that puckered when she was concentrating hard on something, hoping that I could just tell her—

  “Is there something on my face?” she asked, snapping me out of my thoughts.

  “Nothing.” I shook my head, afraid to meet her gaze again. It would reveal too much, and I wasn’t ready for her to know about the deal I’d made with Coach and Pops—my deal to not take a knee again.

  Maybe I was a coward. But I accepted that.

  “It’s kind of poetic.” Gabby thumbed through the pages. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  “Thanks,” I said, sitting up a little straighter. I inwardly fist-bumped myself for looking up words in the thesaurus a few nights ago. “I guess I thought...”

  “What?”

  “I thought you’d say that you wrote something better.” I pursed my lips, jutting my chin out. “And you already had it typed up, and that it would be easier to just use your thing for the project instead of mine.”

  Gabby’s cheeks reddened, and she hid her face in her hands.

  “I knew it!” I jabbed my finger on the tabletop. Gabby wouldn’t leave anything to chance, especially one of her final grades.

  “I couldn’t help myself!” She brushed her curls away from her face. “You never know who will pull their weight in a group project. And with everything going on in your life, I just figured...”

  “You doubted me.” The bitterness of having my world turned against me bubbled over, and I said it more harshly than I intended. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

  “But I won’t again.” She nodded solemnly.

  I nodded back, appreciating the fact that she took me seriously.

  “What are those for?” My gaze settled on the far corner of the warehouse near the door leading to the Dupre greenhouse, where dozens of paper bags stood open on the floor.

  “They’re care packages for the homecoming this weekend.” She strode over to one of the bags and rifled through its contents. “My dad usually sets up a table after the parade and hands these out to people who need them.”

  “You just give it away? For free?” I asked, walking to meet her by the bundles. I poked my nose in the bag, imagining what it would be like to give all this away without expecting anything in return. In this bag alone, there was easily fifteen dollars’ worth of fresh produce—salad greens, tomatoes, and the biggest stalk of celery I’d ever seen sticking over the brim of the bag. There must have been a hundred bags lined up and ready to go.

  I pulled a particularly misshapen tomato out of the bag—big and yellow with green shoulders bulging from its crinkled sides. I raised my eyebrow and Gabby laughed.

  “Sometimes grocery stores won’t take the ugly fruit. They want the uniform stuff.” She grinned conspiratorially at me. “But if you ask me, the troublemakers are always the best.”

  She turned back to the table, but not before giving me a knowing look. She made eye contact with me and lingered for a fraction too long, like she was talking about more than tomatoes. Sometimes I got the sense that there was more to her than she let on—a wilder, more rebellious edge that I’d yet to see.

  The more I got to know her, the more I wanted...more.

  I stepped forward, and words tumbled out of my mouth before I had a chance to talk myself out of it.

  “Would you like to hang out? You know, at the homecoming parade?” My hands started to sweat, and I shoved them into my pockets. Our school couldn’t afford more than one dance a semester, so the student body had opted to have a winter formal instead of a homecoming dance. So the parade next weekend wouldn’t be a black-tie affair—nothing fancy like that. But there’d be a DJ and free food.

  Maybe I could ask Gabby to dance between the hay bales after I finished riding on the Jackson Jackals float.

  “What do think?”

  “Yeah. That’d be cool.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, a blush creeping back to her cheeks. “You know where to find me. Just follow the trail of the troublesome fruit.”

  20

  “Line up five across.” Coach spread his arms wide like he was conducting his greatest symphony. He yanked a crumpled-up water bottle from his back pocket and spat a wad of chewing tobacco into it before tucking it out of sight. He wasn’t allowed to chew tobacco on school property, although I’d seen him slip a couple times. But here, it didn’t matter—the homecoming parade was on his time.

  An organizer for the parade interrupted Coach’s formation instructions by holding his hands up, and I recognized Anthony Tillman—or Mr. Tony, as we all called him. In case you didn’t know who he was, he had it spelled out underneath his official title: Program Director. He always took an active role in the parade because he had one of the nicest cars in town: a black Chrysler convertible. A Monroe parade didn’t kick off without Tony leading the way. He wiggled his fingers in the air to get the team’s attention.

  “Actually, if we could have y’all line up three per row.” He squinted and stepped forward, grabbing Darrell’s forearm. He dragged him to the right so that he stood about five feet away from Karim, then nodded in approval. “There. That should do it. Let’s keep the procession spread out.”

  He cupped his hands over his mouth and leaned closer to Coach, like he was about to say something privately to him.

  “Gotta space ’em out. Give everyone a chance to look at the Jackson Jackals!” he said in a fake whisper, loud enough for the entire team to hear.

  Darrell snickered under his breath in a way that made me think he was laughing at Mr. Tony instead of with him. He could make fun of the process all he wanted, but deep down I knew he was thrilled to be a part of the parade. We all were.

  The homecoming parade was one of the town’s biggest events of the year. And its pride—past and present football players of local renown—were the main event.

  “Now.” Mr. Tony clapped his hands. “Which players will be on the float?”

  He nodded toward a shiny F-150 parked along the street in front of Emmett’s Quick Stop. Attached to the back was a flatbed trailer with streamers dangling from the edge of the plywood. That was our dream-mobile.

  Marion fidgeted next to me at the mention of player, clearly still uneasy about his place on the team. But he was suspended from game play, not from the team as a whole, and I wanted to make sure he felt confident in his place as co-captain. I nudged his side with my elbow, making his head snap up. I nodded, encouraging him to claim his spot.

  “Boys, I—” Coach stepped forward, his gaze bouncing nervously between us and the rest of team and then back to us. “I been over this with y’all. The league hasn’t lifted Marion’s suspension. And I still haven’t received word that the prosecutor’s dropped the charges.”

  “My lawyer say he working on it.” Marion’s jaw tightened. It had been a week since he’d sent his lawyer the video evidence.

  “He’s part of the team,” I said, backing Marion up. “We’re not gonna be on the field. We’re not suiting up for league play. He should be with the team, where he belongs.”

  “I’m here to stay.” Marion took
a step forward, looking at the rest of the team over Coach’s shoulder. “That is, if y’all will have me back.”

  “Shit, man.” Darrell spit on the sidewalk. “We been waiting for your ass to tell the league to go fu—”

  “Language.” Coach snapped his finger and pointed at Darrell. He crossed his arms as he turned to Marion. “Fine. You can come on the float, but no one is telling the league to eff themselves. Got it?”

  Marion lunged forward and hugged Coach Fontenot, then pulled back, coughing through the awkwardness. “Um, thanks, Coach.”

  Then he sidestepped out of Coach’s way and joined the team. Terrance engulfed him with his meaty arms and spun him in a circle. Karim tousled his hair while Darrell playfully punched his shoulder.

  Marion was back.

  “Well, it looks like we’re decided.” Mr. Tony clapped his hands and jumped onto the platform. He waved at Marion, urging him to join him. “We have room for two more players. And then Coach Fontenot will be in the middle.”

  “Sure thing.” Coach nodded and spat brownish liquid on the pavement. He eyed me over his sunglasses. “Lemme talk to ya, son.”

  I took a cautious step forward.

  “Listen, I don’t want any funny business today.” He folded his arms and jerked his chin toward Marion, who was now joined by Karim and Darrell on the platform. “If y’all are planning on kneeling or making speeches or something in between—”

  “We’re not,” I cut in. “Coach, I spoke to my dad. You don’t have anything to worry about.” I held his stare, unflinching. “We’re only interested in representing our team—nothing else.”

  The subtext of my message was clear. There would be no more fights, no more protests, and no more making Coach Fontenot look bad. It seemed to convince him, because he relaxed his stance, and his eyebrow stopped its nervous twitching.