The Weight of Blood (23)

“So wait a minute,” Ali Kruger started. “If we combine proms, does that mean we have to have it at a barn?”

“It’s not a barn,” groaned Jada Lewis, one of the Black prom committee members. “It was renovated years ago. It even has a chandelier!”

“Well, why don’t we just have prom at the country club instead?” Ali offered.

“Because the country club said they can’t handle a prom with the entire senior class,” Jason said.

Ali frowned. “But Laura Todd’s sister had a wedding with over two hundred people there.”

Jada pinched the bridge of her nose as if frustrated with having to state the obvious.

“They can handle it. They don’t want to because they don’t want Black people in their bougie-ass club.”

Kenny glanced at the clock. One minute before the bell would ring, but he was ready to bolt through the door, anxious to be anywhere in the world except in his seat.

“They said they can’t handle the numbers,” Jason snapped.

Jada pursed her lips. “Cannot and will not are two separate things!”

“But we have dances together all the time,” Jason carried on. “Spring Fling, homecoming, Sadie Hawkins . . . Why can’t we leave this one tradition alone?”

“’Cause it’s a stupid tradition!” Jada popped. “You know how ass-backwards we look?”

Ali crossed her arms. “If you want to have your prom in the farmhouse, fine, but the rest of us shouldn’t be forced to.”

“And I don’t even see color,” Jason shouted, still wounded by the earlier implication. “You don’t think I wanna party with my brother Kenny? Of course I do! But it’s about tradition! He understands. Why can’t the rest of you people get it?”

Kenny stilled as the bus rolled over him. The words you people had a bite that broke through the dam. Because after all those years, he didn’t understand why his best friend wanted to hold on to a tradition that meant they couldn’t party together, that separated them, when they were supposed to be, like he said, brothers. Which made him question, for the first time, whether they were ever brothers at all.

Kenny eyed Jason, his tone deadly. “What do you think I get?”

Stunned, Jason opened his mouth, but Jada’s laugh distracted him.

“Why you asking him?” she snorted. “He don’t give a shit about us, no way.”

Kenny gripped his seat, avoiding Jada’s sharp gaze. Mrs. Morgan cocked her head to the side as if something had clicked to her.

“You guys, this is silly,” Debbie Locke said, trying to keep the peace. “Jada’s right. This whole separate but equal thing is making us look like some backward-ass hicks. When we’re in the real world, it won’t be like this! So shouldn’t we all just . . . get along?”

At that, Jason detonated, sealing everyone’s fate in a final blow. “Look, it doesn’t matter what that stupid vote says! My dad already talked to the country club. He put a down payment for those of us who still want to have prom the regular way. The rest of you can do what you want! You want to party on a farm like some animals, then good fucking luck!”

Maddy dunked the licked-clean dishes in a sink full of soapy water.

“Did you like supper, Papa?”

“It was fine,” he grunted, stomping off to the living room.

That night, she had made a rack of lamb with glazed carrots and steamed cabbage, a recipe out of her favorite 1969 Betty Crocker cookbook. Over the years, she had tried different dishes and desserts from the book, never straying far from the instructions yet still adding her own personal touches. She needed something complicated to take her mind off what had happened at the store until she was ready to face it. Fear mixed with curiosity sat ready to devour her whole. But the kitchen made her happy, and her father loved her cooking—the only thing about her that he did love. She glanced at the minuscule leftovers on the stove, after he’d gone back for thirds.

“It was fine,” she mimicked under her breath.

No matter what she did, she could never escape being her father’s greatest mistake. A mistake carved in her features, painted on her skin, knitted in her hair. She would never be good enough or white enough. For him. For the kids at school. For the women in the photos plastered on her closet walls. She hated them. All of them. Why couldn’t she be like them? Why, why, why?

Her elbow slipped, knocking a glass over, and in her panic, she reached for it.

The glass stopped inches from the vinyl floor and shot back into her hand.

Maddy froze, her mouth gaping, soapsuds dripping off her arms. The checkered floor twirled like a kaleidoscope. She glanced at the kitchen door, expecting Papa to be standing there, catching her in the act. But Papa was still in the living room, watching Father Knows Best.

She swallowed hard, turned off the water, and hung up her apron.

Papa’s magnifying glass sat on the tip of his nose as he tinkered with the cuckoo clock, eyes bouncing to the TV screen.

It took all she could muster to remain calm. “I’m . . . gonna go to bed early.”

Papa sipped his milk without glancing up. “Don’t forget to say your prayers.”

“Yes, Papa,” she squeaked, and raced up the stairs.

Her attic bedroom had dark wooden floors, a steepled ceiling that creaked whenever the wind picked up, and peeling beige wallpaper with tiny red rosebuds. The one narrow window let in just enough light to make it not feel like a coffin.