The Weight of Blood (22)

She wanted it. Had she moved the pen? Was it possible?

Quickly, she placed the pen back and straightened in her stool. If it happened again, she would know she had something to do with it. If not, then the shop had a ghost. Hand up, fingers splayed, she focused on the pen and took a deep breath.

“Move,” she whispered.

The pen sat motionless. Maddy licked her lips, wringing out her jittery fingers.

“Move,” she whispered again, brows pinched.

“Madison,” Papa called. “Did you finish that order yet?”

Maddy hesitated. She didn’t want to end her experiment; she needed to know.

Come on! her thoughts shouted at the pen.

The pen gave a slight jiggle. Maddy brightened at the sight, an invigorating, delicious wave of adrenaline coming over her. She, Maddy, the girl who everyone swore was nothing, was doing the unthinkable, the unimaginable . . . until she heard a door open down the hall.

“Madison?”

Come here!

The pen shook, but the mahogany dining table with the $150 price tag lurched across the room, its feet dragging. It kicked up dust, knocking over chairs and a baseball card display before stopping just shy of the counter. Maddy yelped, covering her mouth with both hands.

“Madison!” Papa shouted.

He can’t know.

She leaped out of her seat, picked up the two chairs and stood near the table.

Papa rushed into the showroom, frantic eyes scanning the floor.

“What happened? What was that noise?”

“Nothing, Papa,” she squeaked, hands behind her back. “I . . . bumped into the desk.”

He scanned the room once more, landing on the spot the table typically lived, then shifted to where it now sat.

Papa shot her a sharp glare. He knew she was lying. She could feel his doubt swimming around them. But he didn’t know about what or why.

“Clean up this mess,” he hissed, storming back into his office.

Maddy touched the table and grinned.

May 9, 2014

It was the day of the prom vote. Early that morning, Wendy had set up two large boxes in the senior hallway, and during homeroom announcements, urged her classmates to fill out their ballots.

Kenny listened to his girlfriend’s voice over the loudspeaker, swallowing a silent, bitter pill. He had no interest in going to prom. Couldn’t care less. He wanted to cruise-control through the last few weeks of school. Instead, the prom vote disturbed the very ecosystem of Springville High, the one they all were accustomed to, poking at unwritten rules and unsaid understandings between the Black and white students. Heated debates in the caf replaced chatter about hookups, parties, and social media posts.

And his damn girlfriend was leading the charge.

Why did she feel the need to say or do anything at all? Was she doing it on his account? Didn’t she know it was the last thing he’d want? The vote was about to cast a bright spotlight on him, and the thought made that bitter pill slogging down his throat unbearable.

Kenny had perfected the art of remaining impartial, though some would call it acute obliviousness. In history class, he ignored the nervous glances during the slavery unit. When a Black kid was murdered for wearing a hoodie, he stopped wearing one. When BLBP protests broke out all over the country, he pretended the news coverage didn’t exist, convincing Jason to have a party at his place instead. He ignored every ignorant comment and causal drop of the N-word. After all, it was in all the songs they loved. He almost managed to make his friends completely forget he was Black. Now, there had never been a bigger elephant in the room.

And as Mrs. Morgan finished attendance, with the pot ready to boil over, Jason stewed at his desk, taking it upon himself to address his homeroom class.

“Look, no offense,” Jason started, angling himself away from Kenny. “But I don’t see a reason to combine proms. Springville has been doing this for years. Why change it now?”

Students murmured agreement with one another, Jason saying what everyone was already thinking. Kenny scribbled nonsense in his notebook as if he hadn’t heard him at all.

Mrs. Morgan tapped her pencil, watching the class’s reaction. “Well, I think combining proms is a start toward restorative justice, community healing, and unity against an archaic practice,” she offered.

Jason shook his head. “Prom’s not supposed to be about all that. Prom is about tradition! Our parents, even our grandparents, they all had separate proms. You just don’t get it because you’re not from here.”

“Well, your ‘tradition’ is rooted in segregation, the very foundation of the systemic racism that has oppressed people of color in this country for centuries.”

Jason shook his head. “You’re making this about race, and it ain’t about that!”

“You call your proms ‘the Black prom’ and ‘the white prom,’” Mrs. Morgan shot back. “That sounds a lot like race to me.”

“You’re just trying to push some liberal agenda on us. Crying foul whenever something doesn’t go your way.”

She smirked. “I’m merely stating historical facts.”

Jason’s face turned into a beet as he glanced around for support. “Well, just because I don’t want to combine proms doesn’t make me a racist.”

“I didn’t say you were,” she said. “I said the traditions that you’re trying to uphold are rooted in racism.”