This Is My America(32)
I let myself think about the future for a moment, then pause. The urgency of here and now brings me back down.
“First I need to help Jamal. Whoever got to Angela could be after him,” I choke out.
“My story won’t be Jamal’s.”
“Jamal will come home if you’re free.”
“Their minds are already made up about me. Help your brother. Get him to come home. He can win if he speaks out. They already filled their heads about me from the moment we moved into town. Watching us, being outsiders. Convincing themselves of whatever fit their narrative. So, when the Davidsons ended up…” He looks away, and I know he’s had this thought a thousand times. “Ended up dead. Town already upset we’re taking some of their jobs. Who’s easier to believe, someone who’d been a part of that community for years, or me? So, it ain’t that complicated, girl. But that don’t mean that Jamal’s roots to the city can’t be planted. He’s no outsider. He can do different than me.”
I can see the weight of not being home, able to help us, pulls on Daddy. I stay with him another twenty minutes, finding anything else to talk about. Daddy holds on to my hand like he wants to drain every last second he can with me, slowing down the clock that’s running out on him. The same clock I live and breathe by.
When our visit ends, I expect him to get up and leave right away, but this time when we both stand, he gives me a long hug, even though we both know he shouldn’t. It takes everything in me to not break down and cry. I’m so focused on him I barely hear the guards yelling, “That’s enough!”
He doesn’t seem to hear them or care that they’re approaching us. We only let go when the two men are within steps of us. The COs rush him along, but all I see is Daddy, everything else grainy and blurry as I watch him line back up and blend in with the rest of the inmates.
RUBY BRIDGES BRAVE
Mama didn’t force me to go to school when Daddy was arrested. Jamal and I stopped during the trial and didn’t return until a few weeks after. She tried to shelter us from the news, but every channel covered the murder trial. You’d either have to choose to tune it out or completely shut it off. I didn’t want to go to school anyway. Quincy was still recovering; it put him a year behind so he’s in my grade because of it. Without him, I thought I’d be bullied forever before Dean stepped in. Eventually I knew we had to go.
To give me courage that morning of the first day back, Mama told me about Ruby Bridges, a little girl from my hometown in New Orleans. How brave she was as a first grader going to school with guards because white folks didn’t want her integrating school. Mama talked to us about being brave, the same talk she gave Corinne last Wednesday when she left for school. Mama had me imagine how hard that must’ve been. That anything I was going through would pale in comparison. Then she dug around and found a Ruby Tuesday pin from the restaurant, so I’d think about her when I was at school.
I hadn’t touched that pin in years, but on Wednesday I gave it to Corinne. Now with Monday rolling around, I wish I had it for myself. I dress baggy so I’m swallowed up by my oversize tank top and black yoga pants.
Mama doesn’t care I only have a few weeks left of school. She doesn’t trust Jamal’s teachers will be fair. He’ll go from As to Cs, since his missing assignments will turn to zeros, but she’s hoping it’ll at least be a passing average so he can graduate. I need to be there so they don’t forget that we’re real people—“good kids.”
In fifth grade, when I went back to school, I wore earbuds on the bus to drown out the chatter about Daddy. There were snickers, taunting, jokes, but never a crowd.
Today is different.
Media outlets are parked on school property, roaming the lawn. Lights hover over classmates being interviewed. Mama took Jamal’s car to work so I can drive her car and lay low at school. I fling on my backpack and baseball cap. With the media outside, it’s chaotic enough that I think I’ll go unnoticed, as long as I put my head down and skirt to the front doors of the school.
Justin Draper doesn’t let that happen, though. He stops the camera operator from NBS and points to me with his booming voice. “That’s Jamal Beaumont’s sister.”
My mouth opens; I look to my left and right, unsure of the best escape route, the camera moving closer to me as other media outlets pick up on who I am. Each one angling to get their exclusive. If this wasn’t about Jamal, I’d embrace it, use it as an opportunity to talk about Daddy.
They get closer, and I feel the blood rushing from my face.
I’m frozen, until a hand swoops under my arm and steps in front of me, blocking the cameras.
Quincy.
“We’re going to the west gate out by the track. Ready?” Quincy says with a rushed, heavy breath.
I nod, his arm securing me, and we go on the move. I follow his body, weaving in and out of crowds that haven’t caught on that the cameras are after me.
The west gate is usually locked in the morning unless there’s an early track practice. I pray Quincy knows what he’s doing.
There’s a buzz behind me, cameras clicking. People talking, coming after us. I block it out, listening to Quincy tell me to duck my head and he’ll take care of the rest. He takes off ahead of me; even with his limp, he’s still fast as hell. He races toward the door, then skips, leaning heavily on his left leg. It doesn’t stop him from hopping and gliding to the door.