“Now what are you talking about? I know what’s right and wrong. And you hanging out with a colored is not right. What would your parents th …”
Kent’s words hang in the air, his sentence unfinished. He knows what my parents do. He knows we’ve had Mr. Overton, our new Local president of the NAACP, over for dinner. Kent saw him when he dropped by that evening last spring.
I point a finger to his chest and feel like Olvie. “It’s time for you to leave, Kent. You’ll never understand.” I turn to go inside.
He grabs my arm. “You’re full of shit, Grace. All this time I thought you were smart enough to—”
My eyes burn coal. “Let go of me.”
“Problem, Chicken Coop?” The familiar voice sounds protective.
Isaac saunters up the walkway and up to the front porch. He’s about the same height as Kent, but thinner. Yet his presence towers over Kent a hundred times over. When he looks at Kent, his eyes don’t shift, don’t blink.
“What are you looking at, colored boy?” Kent says, but his wobbly voice betrays him.
“Not much,” Isaac says.
Kent pulls back a fist then launches it toward Isaac’s face. Isaac catches it somewhere in mid air. Kent opens his mouth, then closes it.
“You see, Massa,” Isaac says. “I ain’t s’posed to fight with white folk. So, my Daddy and my Mammy both taughts me to be quick on these here feet. Ya know, to’s protect m’self from de harms dat be.”
“You stupid, nigg—”
“Nigerian, you were about to say.” Isaac says losing his accent. “Right, Kent? Because when a white person says that other word, it means they are ignorant about walking in the footsteps of humanity. I highly suggest you leave Mrs. Monroe’s porch and bike it to that theater. You show good movies there.”
Kent’s mouth opens. His chin drops. He can’t quite manage the puffing out of his chest. His posture deflates until he reaches the curb. Kent straddles his bike and points to Isaac. “Your plow needs cleaning, boy.”
As he rides off, Isaac yells, “Ain’t got one no mo’. Done sold it to my Massa.”
I turn to Isaac. “I didn’t know you were such a tough guy.”
Excerpt from WIP, Bare Bones of Justice (working title), set in 1963
Daily word prompt: Local