The Weight of Blood (20)

She scoffed. “I didn’t even tell you what day it is.”

A heavy silence filled the room, and Kenny’s bottomless stomach quickly shut closed. He glanced at his mother’s crestfallen face, torn about how to intervene. Kali knew their father hated the Black Student Union, furious she’d started it to begin with. But she seemed to enjoy recklessly pushing his limits. As long as she proved her point—no matter how well intentioned or politically correct—she didn’t care who was hurt in the line of fire. It made Kenny both annoyed and envious of her defiance.

“So, um, Mama, you think we can have barbecue for graduation? Maybe invite family from the East?” Kenny asked, breaking off a piece of cornbread.

“That sounds like a great idea,” Mrs. Scott said.

“Now, we gotta be careful who we invite. Especially around here,” Mr. Scott warned. “Folks don’t know how to act. And everyone’s gonna want a piece of you.”

Kali pursed her lips with an eye roll then grinned. “So. Kenny,” she started, practically singing. “How are you gonna vote?”

Mr. Scott lowered his fork, his eyebrows pinched. “Vote for what?”

“Prom,” Kali said, still staring at Kenny.

Mr. Scott turned to him. “You’re not getting mixed up in all that mess, are you?”

Kenny shot Kali a stony stare, pissed that she would bring up what the entire town was gossiping over. As if their father needed another reason to give him a lecture about keeping his head in the game.

“Well, I don’t think it’s such a bad idea,” Mrs. Scott said. “Prom been like that since we were kids. About time they switch it up.”

Mr. Scott shook his head. “Makes no sense, coming with all these changes late in the year like this.”

Mrs. Scott raised an eyebrow at him. “It ain’t never too late to do the right thing.”

Kenny tensed, smashing a slice of cornbread with his fork.

“Don’t see why I gotta vote,” Kenny mumbled. “Ain’t like I’m going to prom.”

Kali snickered. “You tell Wendy that?”

He hesitated, his eyes flickering down to his near-empty plate, hands rolling into fists under the table. Wendy hadn’t said one word to him about prom, hadn’t even brought up the insane idea that had thrown everyone into the fryer. Per usual, she just went forward full-throttle without running anything by him. If he voted, no matter how anonymous they insisted the vote would be, someone would find out, and it would be a blatant choice of sides. Voting for a combined prom would be a betrayal to his friends—friends who could really do some screwed-up shit, but still his friends. Voting to keep it the same would be a betrayal to his kind—a kind he barely acknowledged but couldn’t deny. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

And in the middle of it all was Maddy Washington. He wondered what she thought of the aftermath of her hair video, how it had divided the entire town. He’d watched her once in AP Chemistry. Not checking her out, just curious about Jules’s daily punching bag. The way she picked at her nails, clawed at her hair, fidgeted in her musty sweater. If he had known she was Black . . . would he have done anything different?

“You’re right, son,” Mr. Scott said with an approving nod. “What they do with prom has nothing to do with you. What’d I always tell you?”

Kenny sighed. “Be silent but deadly.”

“That’s right. You lay low, keep quiet, mind your own business, and be so good they can’t ignore you. That’s how you win the game.”





MADDY DID IT


EPISODE 3

“The Good Old Days”

Michael: Alright. Take a look at this clip one of our associate producers found. It’s a segment from the local news channel, featuring none other than Thomas Washington.

Tanya: Well, there’s definitely a resemblance! Those eyes . . .

Michael: Get this—he had the first-ever issue of The Incredible Hulk comic from 1962, in mint condition, that sold for almost two hundred thousand dollars at auction.

Tanya: Wow, quite a bit of money, isn’t it?

Michael: Indeed! That’s how he was able to buy his antique shop on Main Street and named it—wait for it—the Good Old Days. And it actually was quite a hit. People from all over the south came to trade memorabilia. Western-themed tin lunch boxes, retro furniture, vintage radios, old Coca-Cola posters . . . you name it, he had it. According to locals, Maddy worked there every Wednesday, and some weekends, starting in middle school, when the state no longer allowed her to homeschool. But until that point, no one had ever seen her. Here, read what Portman wrote about Mr. Washington in his book.

Tanya: clears throat “Thomas Ralph Washington was the youngest son of Reverend John and Reba Washington. Reverend Washington was from a long line of godly servants. He ran a tight ship with an iron fist. A woman’s place was in the kitchen, and his three boys were responsible for maintaining the home. He founded First Evangelical, a protestant church with a small congregation of no more than fifty on their best day. But he always believed the Lord would provide.

“Thomas was a late baby for the Washingtons, leaving him eighteen years younger than his siblings. Once his brothers left the nest, they were never heard from again.

“In school, Thomas had an affinity for world history and, like his baby-boomer mother, he was obsessed with the golden age of America. That 1950s post-war era when girls wore poodle skirts, boys had James Dean haircuts, records played Elvis, and everyone gathered to watch The Dick Van Dyke Show. He wanted to live in an idyllic Norman Rockwell painting. With his pocket protectors, high-waist pants, and thick glasses, he was an easy target for bullies. While most teens his age wanted a Mustang, he drove around in a 1960s Oldsmobile. By his senior year, he began tracking down collector’s items, traveling as far as Texas for yard sales and antique shows. He transformed the family’s bomb shelter into his own museum, where he could hide away from his abusive father, drinking Coke out of glass bottles and flipping through old Archie comics.