Read Fire in the Streets Online

Authors: Kekla Magoon

Fire in the Streets

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Acknowledgments

CHAPTER
1

B
AD THINGS HAPPEN IN THE HEAT, THEY
say. It's headed to be a scorcher. Dawn just barely cracking, sweat sheen already on the skin. Today could turn into a lot of things, but when it's hot like this, ain't none of them good.

There's a knot in my stomach the size of my fist. No, bigger. Today's the sort of day when it's best to lay low, and that's not what we're doing.

Hamlin steers the old pickup through the Chicago streets real slow, headed toward the demonstration downtown. Squeezed up next to him in the cab, me and Emmalee and Patrice sit silent. We squint through the windshield into the sun rising over the lake.

It's strange, the three of us being together like this but not saying nothing. Patrice knows how to work her mouth, and I can give her a run for her money. Emmalee always gets her word in too, no question. From the time we meet
up every morning till we get to school or the Panther office, wherever. Jawing. And here we sit all wide-eyed dumb like strangers.

Then again, we're usually alone. Right now Hamlin's sitting so close his elbow bangs into me with every turn of the wheel.

“Sorry, Maxie.”

“It's okay.” But I hold my arms crossed over my chest to keep him from hitting anything private.

In the back, perched among the boxes, is Raheem and the kid we all call Gumbo, real name: George. He came up from the way South some time ago and his voice holds that certain twang. Nice enough guy, decent-looking. People mostly say the same about Raheem, but seeing as he's my brother, I can't really judge. He's back there and probably looking over my shoulder, as usual. Maybe even wishing he hadn't let me come along.

Raheem's always saying how he's responsible for me, which means he won't let me do anything that counts and he says “Maxie, when you're older” as the answer to just about everything. Raheem's a Black Panther already, and I'm going to be one too, just as soon as they let me. Fourteen's not old enough, apparently.

Hamlin bends over the steering wheel as the truck curves through the Loop. He's vigilant, studying our surroundings
like he's taking the temperature of things, as we get closer to the park. Block after block, the city comes awake—store windows snap open, people ease along the sidewalks, sip coffee, buy newspapers.

Today's headlines should have been enough to scare us into staying home, with all their talk of police riots at the demonstration last night. Now everything seems calm and quiet. Like a regular Tuesday morning. Except for the police vehicles lining the streets, many more than I've ever seen at once.

Emmalee yawns, breaking the stillness. Cuts a sideways glance toward me. Beyond her, Patrice is chewing on her nails, the only one of us not even trying to hide her nervousness. I breathe out long and slow, trying to settle the knot in my belly. I got us into this, and we don't even know yet what
this
really is.

I'm not usually scared to go to a demonstration, but Raheem says this one won't be like any demonstration we've ever been to. He tried to warn me off coming, but I have to be there. The Democratic National Convention is the biggest thing to happen in Chicago since . . . I don't know what, and if there's going to be a demonstration and the Panthers are going to be there, then I'm going to be there too. I told him, plain as day.

The girls came along because we go everywhere together.
Around the neighborhood people run our names together like one word: “Hey, MaxiePatriceEmmalee.” Inseparable. Close like sisters, for as long as I can remember. Through good times, sad times, crazy times. Right now qualifies as a downright rough time. The world is shifting—exploding, really—and none of us knows how to deal with it.

At least once a week, Emmalee still breaks down crying over Dr. King being killed, even though it happened nearly five months ago. She carries this book of his writings in her backpack like a Bible, all the pages folded down. We tried to tell her, if you fold down
all
the pages, what's the point? But then she only cries harder. Patrice is matter-of-fact about it, thinks everything's going to work out in the end, which is so far the opposite of me that sometimes we end up spitting, fighting mad at each other.

When I told the girls I wanted to join the Black Panthers, Patrice called me a hothead. Emmalee was excited but scared. They don't know what joining entirely means and neither do I, but I know the Panthers are going to change everything and we have to be a part of it. When we go down to the community center on Wednesdays to hear Leroy Jackson speak, he makes me feel like things are finally going to get better. The Panthers are going to make it so that we never have to worry about being hungry, or losing our apartment, or getting arrested for no good reason.
When Leroy throws his fist up in the air and shouts
“All power to the people!”
there's this energy that rises up around me that's like nothing I've ever felt before.

I tighten my fists in my lap. Maybe if I clench hard enough, I'll start to feel powerful inside, instead of scared.

Emmalee sighs, leans her head against mine. She spreads her hand across my knotted knuckles. Her gentle fingers clutch mine, tight and trembling. I know she's scared, probably more than me. I wouldn't have made them come with me, but they've always got my back. That's how it is with us.

Hamlin turns a corner, and suddenly the road ahead is clogged with cars. The vague echo of many voices chanting begins to reach us. I can sense the rhythm of the chant but can't quite make out the words. It doesn't sound familiar. Nothing about today feels familiar. This is an anti-war protest, Raheem told me, not a civil rights demonstration like we're used to. Most of the people there will be white. I try to pretend we're heading toward any old protest, but it's no longer so easy to pretend because I can see them weaving among the cars. White face after white face, all tensed up and in a hurry. Traffic is practically stalled letting them pass.

Hamlin hums quietly for a while, which covers us in some kind of spell. Safe enough. I don't mind the closeness in the cab. All pressed together like this, nothing can get
to us. For a while. Then Hamlin stops humming, taps the wheel twice with his thumb, and the world beyond our little pocket merges closer.

The protestors seem to be coming from everywhere, out of buildings and alleys and some of the cars, carrying things and climbing over whatever's in the way. A girl with white-blond hair and dirt-smudged skin edges around our front bumper, holding hands with a guy who has a thick bandage of white gauze taped to the side of his face. He stumbles, and she steadies him. Then they move on, away.

I glance across the cab at my friends, knowing it isn't the time of day or Hamlin either that's got our tongues tied. There's something in the air. Heavier than heat and thicker than humidity. A feeling like we're rolling into trouble.

CHAPTER
2

T
HE TRUCK INCHES ALONG. EVERY SQUEAK
of the worn brakes sounds like seagulls. Hamlin's trying to get us close to the park, but the traffic is something else. Roads closed and cars sent around the long way to make room for the protesters flocking toward the park. We watch them squeezing among the cars to get to where they're going, dragging their signs and flyers and friends and tripping along their way. They form a fast-rushing stream that seems neverending, a thousand faces like so many white-capped waves.

I start to worry about what'll happen when we get out of the car, because it's just the six of us right now. Will we be swept into the flow, and drown?

Hamlin thumps the steering wheel, mutters something that sounds like “Is this even worth it?”

But it's already been decided. I was in the Panther office last week when Leroy Jackson and some other guys were
arguing about whether or not the Panthers should have a presence at the Democratic National Convention.

“There's no place for us there.”

“We gotta take a stand against the war.”

“It's a white protest. They don't care about us at all.”

“We need all the allies we can get.”

Leroy, who's in charge, decided that it would be worth sending people to the protest, partly to sell copies of
The Black Panther
, our community newspaper, but mainly just to be a presence in the crowd. I really hope the others get here soon.

“We'll be okay,” I say out loud. Maybe I'm answering Hamlin. Maybe I'm reassuring the girls. Emmalee's fingers still grip my locked fist.

Hamlin glances at us. “Yeah. Just stick together,” he says. “No matter what happens.”

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