Charlotte and the Twelve by Andi Cumbo-Floyd

Author:Andi Cumbo-Floyd
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Andi Cumbo-Floyd

13

W

hen Mom, Isaiah, Javier, and I got to our house, I could feel the jagged reality of what had happened settle in my chest. We had almost heard a confession, and someone had stopped it. Actually, no, not someone, something. The weight of racism had let its momentum fall against that small gathering, and if we weren’t careful, we’d all be crushed.

“Who do you think hired him?” Mom asked as she slid her feet under Isaiah’s thigh on the sofa, a cup of chamomile tea in her hand.

“Who knows? The Citizen’s Council? One of their wives, maybe?” He took a sip of his beer and leaned back. “I guess it doesn’t really matter.”

“Now what?” Javier said.

I wanted to rally and say something like, “Now, now we fight!” and lead us forth to battle like Nat Turner. But all I could see in my mind was Turner’s bloody body hanging from a tree. What good is fighting when it gets you killed?

I took a deep breath and looked into the fire in front of me. Its warmth licked my skin, and I could feel my own resolve shriveling in its flames. I heard the door open behind me.

“So I have some news . . .” Marcie was standing right behind me.

I turned to look at her over my right shoulder. Her light-brown skin was pink from the cold air outside.

“There’s evidence we don’t know about.”

She sat down on the arm of the sofa next to Mom. “My great-uncle Hubert . . . you’ve met him, Mary . . . well, he was at the gathering today. Tall, skinny man. Black hat.”

I nodded.

“He caught up to me at home and gave me a photograph. He said someone—he didn’t say who—had given it to him this afternoon, that they’d slipped it into his hand as he was leaving.”

She handed the photo to Mom. Mom’s head pulled back on her neck, and then she passed the photo to Isaiah, who scowled at the image for a long time before sending it on. I was fairly sure I wouldn’t have a fingernail left by the time it got to me, and when it did, I let out a puff of air. “Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing?”

Isaiah stood up and started pacing behind the couch. “I think so. Didn’t someone tell us Granger drove a ’49 Olds? And that’s definitely the school.”

“And that’s definitely a hose running from the car to the window.”

Someone had taken a photograph of the murders.

I stared at the picture and felt the living room recede behind me. I could feel the breeze of fall move the hair at my ears, and I could smell leaves in the air. I heard the car’s engine running and the laughter of the three boys in front of me. It felt so real.

Marcie grabbed my elbow and leaned around to look into my face. “You okay?”

I gave my shoulders a shudder and nodded.

“No, really? Don’t give me that shrugging crap.”

I looked up into my best friend’s face and saw her brown eyes looking straight into me.

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