The Weight of Blood (78)

Chris, conscious of those surrounding them, leaned in close. “There’s nothing we can do. We gotta go before they start blaming us for this shit.”

His rationale sank in quick. They meaning the Black kids. The dangerous, explosive ones. Of course, they would blame any white person within twenty feet for ruining their prom. The thought of all those protests on TV made her stomach drop.

They were outnumbered five to one. They had to leave.

Voice gone, she nodded, allowing Chris to lead her out the hall, avoiding death stares before fleeing into the night.

“Hey, hey! Ho, ho! Racist students have got to go!”

Mrs. Morgan stuffed her hands in her jeans pockets, watching Officer Ross sneer at her students. She couldn’t decide whether the other officers were dangerous or not. Most of them were roughly her age, with at a least a decade on the force. But there was an edgy uncertainty in their eyes, like any loud noise would frighten them.

All except Ross. He looked like the kind waiting for action.

Regardless, she stood proudly by her students’ side. It wasn’t time to voice her trepidation. They weren’t scared, and neither would she be. Don’t talk about it, be about it, she thought. She intended to stay until the very end.

“Racist club! Racist club!”

Ross chuckled, shaking his head. “Dumb little assholes,” he grumbled to Officer Channing.

She crossed her arms in front of Officers Sawyer and Ross. “Don’t you think this is a bit too much?” she asked, nodding at their makeshift barricade. She’d seen smaller ones in front of the White House.

Ross smirked, jutting his chin at the group. “How about you call off your dogs, then we wouldn’t have to be here, babysitting your little gang of Malcolms and Martins.”

Deputy West blanched, looking to Officer Marder for backup. But they were the youngest on the force and weren’t used to real conflict. Especially in their own town.

“Hey!” Mrs. Morgan shouted. “These are children! Not animals! They have every right to be here.”

Before Ross could respond, a heckling voice cut through the air. The crowd whipped around.

Kayleigh came running out of the darkness, face red from laughing so hard. She leaped over the train tracks, heels in hand, but abruptly stopped once she caught sight of the protestors, straightening with mock civility.

“Excuuuuse me,” she sang, passing through the protestors with a grin, waving at a cameraman.

“Hey, what’s so funny?” someone asked.

“Maddy Washington, that’s what,” she giggled over her shoulder. Kayleigh gave the officers a salute and then ran through the gates into the country club, squealing with delight.

The students stirred with uncertainty.

“What’s so funny about Maddy?” Kali snapped.

Another set of footsteps. Charlotte and Chris running hand in hand in their direction, a look of panic stretched across their faces.

They crossed the train tracks, passing through the crowd, their eyes low. Charlotte spotted Mrs. Morgan. She opened her mouth but shut it as Chris dragged her through the gates.

Mrs. Morgan’s heart lurched as she slowly turned toward the Barn.

“Oh no.”





Twenty-Two


May 31, 2014

THE ROOM WAS dead silent.

Maddy glanced up at the yellow plastic bucket dangling above her head, the stage lights twinkling off its metal handle, as paint dripped down her arms, shoulders, and back.

The white paint was thick, gooey, the smell so strong it burned her eyes. Every single bone shifted under her skin. Her muscles liquefied, turned solid, then liquefied again. She slowly glanced down at her black dress, now soaked and sticking to her skin, a bizarre work of art. By her foot, her crown lay in a white puddle.

But all she could focus on was the fact that her hair was wet.

She touched her roots with trembling fingers, feeling nothing but paint. Within moments, her hair would swell to a beastly size.

Papa is going to be so mad, she thought reflexively as flashes of flames, water hoses, and hot combs blurred her vision. Her left eye twitched, and a stage light above her head popped.

The room buzzed, a screech in her ear, her heartbeat a slow gong.

She didn’t realize right away that someone was talking to her. Screaming at her.

Kendrick.

She tried to respond, but her throat closed up, tongue covered in baking powder.

Then his hand was wrapped around her wrist, yanking her behind him, off the stage and onto the dance floor. There were other voices, trying to talk to him, trying to stop him, reason with him. As her stiff legs followed, she felt something inside her chest break and crumble like a burnt cookie.

She had no idea her body was morphing to accommodate an erupting savage madness.

The night air brought her back to reality. Shouting came from the Barn behind them. But she couldn’t turn around. Kendrick was walking too fast. She had to take two steps to match his one, heels sticking in the mud. The sash fell off her shoulder, drifting to the ground, and she read the sparkling gold letters one last time.

Prom Queen.

Kendrick picked her up over the tracks, a white paint pattern now silk-screened on his suit.

Voices gasped ahead of them. A crowd of silhouettes. Someone said her name again.

“Maddy?” Mrs. Morgan. “Oh God, Maddy, what happened?”