Blended, page 5
“What is that?”
“Where did it come from?”
“How could anyone do that?”
Cell phones are out. Photos are snapped—and shared, for sure. Teachers arrive. Imani, who at this point is sobbing, is led away. They won’t let me or Heather go with her.
Chaos takes over. The police are called. Nobody is allowed to leave. This is crazy!
I didn’t do anything wrong, but I’m so scared. One by one, every single student in our gym class is called into a little room.
I walk in and face the principal, the gym teacher, and a counselor. What are they gonna do? I want my mom.
This is what they ask me:
“What is your name?”
“Isabella Thornton.”
“How old are you?”
“Uh, eleven.”
“What grade are you in?”
“Sixth.”
“What race do you put on your official school forms?”
“What? I’m not sure.”
“Do you consider yourself Black?”
“I guess.”
“Do you consider yourself white?”
“I don’t know. I never really thought about it.”
“Do you have friends of other races than your own?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know any teachers who show racial bias?”
“No.”
“Do you know any teachers who act negatively toward Imani?”
“No.”
“Do you know any students who act negatively toward Imani?”
“No.”
“Have you ever acted negatively toward Imani?”
“Huh? No! Of course not. She’s one of my best friends!”
“How long have you attended this school?”
“Since fifth grade.”
“What clubs are you in?”
“None, really.”
“What websites do you follow?”
“I don’t know. The usual ones. Just to do homework.”
“Do you use Instagram?”
“Not very much.”
“Have you ever been to a meeting about race relations?”
“What? No.”
“Have you ever been to a Black pride meeting at your school?”
“No. I’ve never heard of anything like that.”
“Have you ever been to a white pride meeting at your school?”
“No. I’ve never heard of anything like that, either.”
“What time did you get to the gym today?”
“Just before class. About two, I guess.”
“What did you do when you first got to the locker room?”
“You mean before class? I put my backpack in my locker.”
“What did you touch in the locker room?”
“I don’t know. A bench, maybe. The door. My lock. My locker. A wall. I don’t know!”
“Did you leave the gym during class?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Did you get back to the locker room before Imani?”
“I think we all got here about the same time.”
“Were you ever alone in the locker room?”
“No.”
“Where is your gym locker?”
“Number five forty-two.”
“Do you know Imani?”
“Yes.”
“Are you friends with Imani?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know Imani’s locker combination?”
“No.”
“Do you know anyone who dislikes Imani?”
“No. She’s nice. People like her.”
“Do you dislike Imani?”
“Huh? No! I already told you—she’s one of my best friends.”
“Has Imani ever made you angry?”
“Uh, one time she ate my cookie at lunch. So I ate her chips.”
“So there’s been tension between the two of you.”
“No. We’re friends! We eat each other’s food all the time.”
“Have you ever had an argument with Imani?”
“No. Never.”
“Have you ever seen Imani do anything suspicious?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Do you know if Imani is associated with any racial pride groups?”
“Huh? I don’t even know what that is.”
By the time they’re finished, I feel like throwing up. I don’t see Imani anywhere. I found out later that her parents showed up really quickly. They were taken to another area.
They tell us our parents have been contacted. And school will be canceled tomorrow.
They finally let us go home.
CHAPTER 22
Dad’s Week
NO SCHOOL TODAY.
Noose reports.
News reports.
Police reports.
Gossip.
Phone calls.
E-mails.
Snapchat.
Facebook.
Instagram.
Opinions.
Anger.
Confusion.
Fear.
CHAPTER 23
Dad’s Week
I WAS PRETTY much numb after being questioned. It was like something on TV! No smiles. Just crisp questions. But I can’t even imagine what Imani had to go through. Somebody who lives in her neighborhood texted somebody else that police cars were in front of her house.
Dad and Anastasia really wanted to talk to me last night, but I just couldn’t. . . . They were cool and let me just chill in bed for the evening. Even Darren knocked on my door, asking if I was okay, but he understood and left me alone. I fell asleep before dinner.
Now I’m up way early—even earlier than I would be for school. I’ve been awake just thinking about . . . stuff. Writing in my journal and checking my phone. I’m usually psyched when we have a day off, especially when it falls on a Friday, but this feels so very wrong. I try to call and text Imani, but I guess her phone’s off.
I wonder what Heather is doing, if she’s okay, if she’s as scared and confused as I am. I try to call her, but her phone goes right to voice mail too.
Mom has called and texted me, like, a million times. She’s worried. I keep telling her I’m fine, but my stomach feels gurgly, and I woke up, like, a billion times last night.
Snapchat and Instagram are blowing up. Only a few of us were in the locker room, so it’s nuts how people who weren’t even there have so much to say.
Why a noose?
Why at school?
Maybe it’s a sign.
Of what?
Bad things to come.
That makes no sense.
Folks are a little worried.
My uncle calls it “stirring the pot.”
Your uncle doesn’t even live here!
But why Imani?
I’m scared!
Of what?
Of what might happen.
I ain’t scared of nothin’!
We should protest!
Protest what?
I’m ready to fight!
That’s dumb—who you gonna beat up?
We oughta boycott the hardware store!
How do you know that’s where it came from?
You need to go back to first grade!
Let’s plan a walkout!
Why?
To get out of classes!
That’s stupid.
You’re already out, dummy!
But it would be fun!
Walkouts are serious things—don’t play.
It’s too cold to be walking out. Let’s wait till next month.
I hear a gentle knock at my door. “You up? Can we come in, Isabella?” Dad asks, opening the door an inch, peeking.
I sit up. “Sure, Daddy. Come on in.”
Anastasia’s with him. She’s wearing a silky-looking lavender top that’s made like a sweatshirt. Dad’s in a plain white T-shirt and pajama pants. He smells of fresh coffee as he leans over and kisses the top of my head.
“We just want to make sure you’re okay,” he says.
“Yeah. I’m okay. I guess. Maybe.” I reach up to smooth my puffy hair.
“This whole . . .” Anastasia pauses, then says carefully, “This whole problem at your school . . . is very upsetting.” Her forehead has wrinkled up.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Dad asks.
I look back and forth between them. I could say, I’m fine, and maybe they’d go away. But am I fine? No. I’m kinda freaked, so I go honest. “I guess I am a little scared.” They side-eye each other and wait for me to continue.
“Because a noose means, well, a noose is what they used to hang people. Lynch people. Black people.” There, I said it.
Dad sits on the edge of my bed as Anastasia says, “You’re right. It’s become a horrible symbol of hatred.”
“But why Imani?” Just saying it out loud makes me angry.
“Well,” Dad says, “it seems that her parents are very active in a racial justice group here in town. They drive people from underserved neighborhoods to the polls so they can vote; they march in all the women’s rights and voters’ rights and equal rights demonstrations. They are the kind of people we all should be—not scared to speak out and do stuff to help folks.”
“So somebody threatened Imani because her parents do good things?”
“That’s a possibility,” he says, running his hand along my headboard.
“Are . . . uh . . . you and Anastasia active in that kind of stuff?” I ask nervously.
Dad does the finger-tapping thing he does when he’s getting uptight. “We donate quite a bit of money to those causes. . . .” He stops.
Anastasia finishes for him. “But, honey, the truth of the matter is we don’t really do anything that folks can see. Our contributions are behind the scenes.”
Is it selfish I feel totally relieved by this answer? I honestly don’t care if they give a million dollars to equal rights causes so the world can be better in the future. Right now I’m worried about today. Sixth grade. The only future I’m worried about is this coming Monday. What if it happens again? What if next time someone hurts Imani, like physically? Or someone else? Who looks like her. Who looks like . . .
I reach out and touch my father’s hand. I look at my pale fingers next to his.
“Daddy?”
“What, sweetie?”
“Do you think people think I’m Black or white when they see me? Am I Black? Or white?”
His lips turn up into the slightest of smiles. I can’t tell if it’s a sad one, though. He looks at me with his bright brown-almost-black eyes, eyes with thick lashes just like mine.
“Yes” is his reply. “Yes.”
CHAPTER 24
Mom’s Week
MOM, OF COURSE, is still crazy concerned about the problems at school. She and Dad even had a brief conversation about it yesterday at the handoff, and there wasn’t a hint of snarling.
She tiptoes into my room even before my alarm goes off on Monday morning. It’s still dark outside. She lifts up Grandma’s quilt and snuggles in next to me. Nothing is better than curling up with your mom first thing in the morning.
“You okay?” she whispers.
“Yeah. I am now.” I snuggle closer.
“You can stay home if you don’t feel safe, you know.”
I pause. I know she’d let me if I asked. And I’m betting some kids will not show up today. But I actually want to go to school—I know, I know, that’s just messed up! But I need to be with my friends. Imani still hasn’t responded to any of my texts or e-mails. So I’m really hoping maybe she’ll be there so I can see how she’s doing.
“No, I want to go,” I tell Mom emphatically. “I’m not gonna let one crazy person mess everything up.”
“That’s my brave Izzy!” she says.
“I’m not brave—I’m nosy!” I tell her. “The school must have figured out who did it by now. And I need to talk to my friends!”
“I’ll see if I can rustle up a gourmet breakfast for us,” she says, leaving her warm spot by my side.
“Can you pop open a pack of cinnamon rolls?”
“You got it!” she hollers as she heads to the kitchen. “And don’t be dawdling in that shower like it’s your own personal day spa, Izzy. You still have to make your bed and tidy up—what a mess in here!—and you gotta get to school on time.”
I make a face, but say, “Okay, Mom.”
In the kitchen, Mom, fabulous Mom, has made the cinnamon rolls. Her T-shirt this morning says, “I. Like. How. When. You. Read. This. The. Little. Voice. In. Your. Head. Takes. Pauses.” Ha.
Even though John Mark rarely drinks the stuff, he takes the time to brew coffee for Mom every morning. It’s sitting on the table in her favorite mug, with three almond-flavored creamer packets beside it. John Mark is really nice to Mom that way. Between that and the cinnamon rolls, the kitchen smells extra good. It makes me feel like maybe the day will be okay.
Sweet rolls gobbled, milk gulped, jacket zipped, and it’s time for me to go. Mom gives me a hug, and I lug my Casio, my backpack, and my piano music out to John Mark’s truck, which he’s already got running, warming it up. I sling my stuff onto the backseat, being careful with the keyboard. John Mark will bring it when he picks me up from school, so I can practice at Waffle House until Mom gets off work.
We are almost to school when he pulls the truck into a parking space about a block away.
“What’s up?” I ask.
Finally he says, “This thing that happened at school, with your friend Imani, makes me sick to my stomach.” Then he pauses. “And, well, I feel like I need to tell you a couple of things—about me.”
I look at him kinda sideways. “Huh?” I’m wondering where he’s going with this.
He rubs his hand across his face. Then he says, his voice low and quiet, “I know the kind of people who do horrible stuff like hang nooses.”
Say wha . . . ? I wait one click, then ask him carefully, “You do?”
“Yeah, I grew up with them. My mom and dad—they were flat-out racists. I spent a lot of time hiding behind the sofa and bein’ scared.”
It’s hard for me to imagine John Mark as a little boy. He’s so big and tough looking now. “What were you hiding from?” I ask.
“My dad loved him some liquor, and he’d have his friends over every Saturday for whiskey and whatever. After they’d had two or three drinks . . . or more, they’d really relax and start talking smack. They’d say really nasty things about Jewish people and Black people and folks from other countries who lived here—basically, anybody who wasn’t white.” John Mark grips the steering wheel like he wants to snap it in half.
“What did you do?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he admits, sounding sheepish. “Nothing at all. At least, not to my dad. He’d a beat the crap outta me. I was just plain scared of him.”
I sorta understood.
“My father, he never changed,” John Mark continues. “But I swore I wouldn’t grow up to be like him. I ended up having friends of every color at school, and I knew that none of the stuff my dad said was true.”
I look away. “I’m kinda glad I never met him.”
John Mark’s nodding, nodding. Then he turns to me and says, his voice suddenly loud for inside the cab of a truck, “I am NOT like my father, Isabella. You need to know that.”
I look over at him. Tears have actually welled up in his eyes. My mom has found herself a really good guy, I think for the second time that day. And now it’s me who’s almost teary.
We sit in the truck in silence for a long time. Then he shifts into drive and we roll into the school parking lot. There are a lot more cars in the drop-off line than usual. It looks like kids who usually take the bus seem to be getting rides from their parents today. Then I count two . . . five . . . no, six police cars! Some have lights flashing. Some just sit there, in the way of the buses and cars. I lean forward. What’s going on?
Kids are standing around, huddled in groups. Everything looks okay, but it just feels wrong. There are police everywhere! I’m starting to freak. What if more bad stuff happens? I’ve got a clencher grip on the door handle.
John Mark reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You’ve got this, Izzy. And I’ve got you. You hear?”
I blink. And breathe. I squeeze back. “Yeah,” I say, letting my breath out in a whoosh. “I’m good. Thanks, John Mark.” And I mean it.
Cars are inching to the drop-off point. John Mark stops the truck in front of a large group of Black students. They look like eighth graders.
“You sure?” John Mark asks.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I tell him. But I’m not okay. I totally have the jitters.
He seems to know this. So John Mark, the ruddy-faced, black-leather-jacket-wearing, muscle-bound, tattooed white guy, gets out, walks around the front of the truck, and opens the passenger door. He bows and offers me his hand. I take it and hop out of the cab. Then, with the truck still running, he walks with me right up to the front door of the school.
I’m too nervous to look to the right or the left. John Mark then winks, bows to me once more, and heads back to the truck, the heels of his boots thunking with every step. He climbs back into the cab and, purposely, I’m sure, revs the engine, just once.
Then, as the bell rings for us to go inside, someone touches my shoulder. It’s Clint Hammond, the white boy with the gorgeous green eyes. What makes me reach up and smooth my hair?
“Nice truck,” he says. Then he disappears into the crowd of kids.
CHAPTER 25
Mom’s Week
TODAY MR. KAZILLY’S classroom is quiet, tense. Nobody jokes or goofs around. When the bell rings, we’re all sitting, just waiting. Heather’s in her seat, but no Imani. I bite my bottom lip. No Imani. Mr. Kazilly is wearing a sharply creased white shirt, a red velvet vest, and maroon slacks. He looks stupendous, to use one of his words.
“Sooo,” he begins, “let’s talk about what happened on Thursday.”
I bug-eye Heather—he’s really gonna go there!
Everyone looks down at the floor. He waits. And waits. Until I can’t stand it, and I raise my hand.
“Yes, Isabella.”
