“Dammit, Dorothy,” he said.
TUESDAY, MAY 24, 1921; 7 DAYS BEFORE
ISAIAH
The sun rose the following morning, but Isaiah hadn’t slept a single wink. He’d barely blinked since realizing Dorothy Mae had stolen the only thing that shouldn’t be stolen. His mind was woolly with worry and questions. What could she possibly want with it? Why would she steal something so personal? Who had she shown it to?
He’d spent the night answering his own questions with the worst, and most plausible, conclusion—Muggy was behind this. Then Isaiah had to spend more hours talking himself out of it and do a roundabout right back to the same outcome—Muggy, of course. It was, after all, his style. They’d done horrible things like this together thousands of times. No one in Greenwood was safe from their mischief, but Isaiah thought his friendship was his shield. Armor from the embarrassment and pain inflicted by his best friend.
In the very journal he’d likely stolen, Isaiah wrote a poem about Muggy entitled “The Shield.” It was a short burst of a poem, and if Muggy ever got his hands on it, there would be no place to hide from the wrath. Isaiah would be a lightning rod, drawing all fire from every other poor victim in Greenwood. Muggy would be relentless. Isaiah couldn’t remember the poem verbatim, but he knew the circumstances in which he’d written it.
Muggy had taken a sanitary pad from a small freshman girl named Mary’s open pocketbook, dipped it in ketchup, and slyly stuck it to the outside of her skirt. When she rose, he loudly, no, obnoxiously pointed and screamed, “Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary!”
It was her nickname from that moment on, and Isaiah, weakly, sadly, ashamedly, laughed along. Afterward, Isaiah peeled off to the bathroom, disappearing into a stall for privacy. That’s when he took out the felt-tipped ink pen that was poking him in the thigh all night long and wrote “The Shield.”
Could he have left his journal at school in his locker? That whole remembering-writing-in-it thing could’ve easily been yesterday or the day before. His mother was surely mistaken—no way she saw him holding it that afternoon. The days were bleeding into one another anyway. What was it? May? He was certainly mistaken.
The sun peeked over the trees in the distance, and he told himself he was worried for no reason at all. He pulled on a pair of cuffed pants and a crisp white T-shirt to wait at the curb for his best friend. The sun brightened more and more as the moments passed.
Isaiah glanced at his watch—7:36 A.M. He’d been waiting for fifteen minutes longer than usual, but surely Muggy had just overslept again, silly boy. That’s all. Isaiah chuckled to himself faintly.
7:47 A.M.
7:56 A.M.
8:00 A.M.
Already late, he began walking alone.
Back and forth went his mind between overreaction and trouble. Between worst cases and best. Belonging and cast out. The what-ifs were the worst of it, he knew. The lead-up was always more dreadful than the actual event. Wasn’t it?
It reminded him of the one time he entered the school-wide talent show. It wasn’t worth it after all—that lack of sleep, upheaval of guts, twisting of mind. All for some measly applause and a trophy. He’d won actually. Against jugglers and sopranos and toe dancers. He’d won the whole thing with a poem about history. A poem that he’d written on a wrinkled, stained napkin moments before walking onstage. A poem that had since attached itself to his memory and never released.
To pass the time and forget his current predicament, he began to recite it to himself. Walking the smooth walkways, past Mrs. Tate’s prizewinning juniper, unintentionally flailing his arms as he spoke.
“The past is the past,” he started in a low, growly voice he’d practiced for years. “But it’s not the past just because time has passed. The past is right here in our faces. Breathing sour breath of captors on us. Enslaving the brave. Braving the shame. Shaming us away from our real African names…”
“I remember when you did that,” someone said from behind him. “You beat me that year.”
Isaiah was genuinely shocked by Angel’s voice interrupting his thoughts. His mind was now empty. Void of words or thoughts. There was only Angel in the flesh. Keeping pace with his quick, tardy walk to school. He looked down at her slightly dirty white shoes. Though they were dingy and cheap, her stride in them held beauty. The worn indenture at the tip of her shoes pointed like she was floating, not walking.
He could hear himself breathing through their silence. He sounded like a raging bull, in and out and out and in. She must’ve been disgusted by it. Any girl would be. He held his breath for a few seconds, then choked dusty Oklahoma air into his lungs.
She laughed.
Cut by her laughter, he felt the instinct to speak in a lounge-lizard drawl he’d used on other girls. His body began to lean into a performance walk, every stride long with a catch at the end. Girls liked that, he thought. He curled his upper lip as if it were holding on to a thick cigar.
She laughed again.
Huh, he thought.
He cut his act and began walking normal again. For the first time in a while, he had no idea how to walk or talk or think. He had to lift a foot, one at a time, as if she’d made him forget the simple things about life. Every few steps, he glimpsed over at her pointed toes.
“I’m taking the job,” she said.
He tripped on his feet a little as she spoke, but recovered. But his nerves kept his lips from parting to respond.
“I think it’s a good opportunity,” she added, clearly waiting for him to say something (anything) in response, but he couldn’t. He’d just say something wrong or awkward or dumb.
“I never knew books were really your thing,” she continued through the natural pause she’d given him to say something. “I suppose I should’ve. Your poetry is beautiful.”
“How do you know my poetry?” His words came out a bit too forcefully, like caged birds breaking free one at a time.
Taken aback, she didn’t reply this time.
They turned the corner toward school. He had less than a block to say something that meant something. To charm the angel he’d pushed around since they were small. To tell her how much he loved the way she danced or walked or spoke about things that mattered. Approaching the gate, he grabbed at her hand but missed. She’d walked ahead a bit and didn’t notice the attempt. When he tried again, the back of his hand brushed her backside. And that she felt. Heat rose in his ears, and his stomach became instantly upset. He was such an idiot.
“I didn’t…,” he started. “I was trying to … never mind that. I swear I didn’t mean to.” He kicked at a stray rock sitting atop the dusty earth at his feet. “You like politics?”
He really was such an idiot. A one-trick pony. A wurp. A wet blanket. Of course she didn’t care about politics. She was a good Christian girl whose single dance could shift the mood of Greenwood’s largest church. Such! An! Idiot!
“I do like politics, actually,” she replied, kicking the rock back at his foot, challenging him to an impromptu game of rock soccer. “In the world we live in, it would be irresponsible not to.”
His muddled mind didn’t register her response. “Wait, what?” he asked before too-forcefully kicking the rock into her shin.