The Weight of Blood (35)

Maddy gulped and glanced over her shoulder at the dead end, then back to Kenny, blocking her one exit. She squeezed the books to her chest.

“Um, hey,” she mumbled meekly.

Kenny blew out some nervous air. Why was he nervous? It’s just Maddy.

“Sooo . . . listen, I wanted to ask you something.”

She squirmed. “Huh?”

“You, uh, probably heard about the whole All-Together prom thing, right? Well, I was wondering, if you didn’t have a date if you’d want to go with . . . me. To prom.”

Maddy froze, her big owlish eyes widening behind her brown frames. They stood in silence for what seemed like forever.

Kenny let out an uneasy chuckle. “Uh . . . soooo is that a yes?”

A whimper escaped her lips. She spun, frantic eyes searching the stacks as if expecting something to pop out and grab her.

“Uhhh, Maddy?” he said, stepping forward, and she shrank away.

“Please, no. Stop,” she begged, choking back a sob.

Stunned, Kenny took another step. “What? Maddy, I’m not going to hurt you!”

“Please!” Another whimper, her eyes jittery glass orbs, her hand up as if to stop him from coming any closer.

Books behind him hurled themselves off the shelf, like a strong gust of wind had knocked them over. Maddy stared at the pile.

“Just . . . please let me go. Please.”

It dawned on Kenny that she wasn’t acting weird or being a freak. Her movements were more like a petrified cornered animal. This was fear.

Damn, what had they done to her?

Solemnly, he nodded and stepped aside.

Maddy shuffled forward, head down, hugging the shelf, putting as much space between them as possible as she passed.

Then, she ran full speed out of the library, books in hand.

Maddy held her breath as she sprinted down the empty hallway—the only way to keep the sob climbing her throat bottled up. Clutching her books like a shield, she turned a corner in a frantic dash for Mrs. Morgan’s classroom. The room was still off-limits due to the earthquake damage, but she slipped inside. They had swept up all the glass, boarded the windows, and pushed the mangled desks against the wall. She hunched down in the corner, peering out to see if Kendrick had followed her. When the coast seemed clear, Maddy coughed out a loud breath. The room spun. She fanned her face, trying to swallow as much air as she could.

They’re trying to get me again.

Her earliest memory of torture had happened during her third day of seventh grade, after social services insisted Maddy start attending school, hoping to acclimate her with the other students, as most of them had been in the same class since pre-K. Maddy spent the week prior excitedly hemming skirts, mending buttons on her sweater, thanking God for the new adventure. But Papa drilled countless warnings in her head: Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t get close to anyone. Stay away from the Negroes; they’re dangerous. Stay out of the sun. Protect your hair at all costs. No one can know. No one can ever know!

For the first time, Maddy had wondered why she had to pretend, why Papa had such a distrust of the world. It all felt so irrational and contrary to the Bible he taught. Proverbs 12:22 says, “The Lord detests lying lips, but he delights in people who are trustworthy.” Weren’t they lying to everyone about what she was? Wasn’t that a sin? Torn, Maddy decided that she would make a friend at school, someone she could trust. She’d tell them everything, testing her theory . . . that Papa could be wrong, and find help to save his soul.

That’s why she remembered the moment vividly: spring field day, when kids played games—balancing eggs on spoons, three-legged races, and hopping in potato sacks. Maddy sat at a shaded picnic table, away from the brutal sun, watching her classmates, wondering who her first friend would be. On the soccer field, a boy named Kendrick Scott tossed a football with some other boys. Palms dampening, she couldn’t help staring. She had never been so close to another Black person before. Could he somehow sense that she was one of them?

SPLASH!

A water balloon cracked open like an egg next to her black-and-white oxfords. Startled, she sprang to her feet, the liquid painting the concrete. She pushed her glasses up her nose and spotted a group of kids holding water balloons in a rainbow of colors like giant M&M’s.

“Why are you looking at Kenny like that?” a girl with bright red hair snapped. “Weirdo.”

SPLASH!

Maddy gasped, instinctively reached for her hair. Still dry. Water and her hair . . . a lethal combination, but she couldn’t tell them why, could she?

“No one can ever know!”

“My brother said your daddy used to sleep with Black hookers,” a boy said. “You Black?”

Maddy’s lungs twisted into a pretzel. “N-n-no. I’m white,” she croaked.

The kids cackled. Did they believe her?

“Well, you stink!” another girl with brown hair shouted, and the group giggled. Maddy, at first so proud of her poodle skirt and sweater, was told within minutes of her arrival that she stank of sweat and old people, her skin greasy with sunblock. She couldn’t take many showers; the humidity would’ve ruined her hair.

“She needs a bath!” the redhead laughed.

“So let’s give her one,” someone suggested.

“YEAH!”

“Bath time for Mad Mad Maddy!”