Not to the Swift

Chapter 19

The Friday school day ended on time, but an eerie sensation hovered over the staff and students at Franklin Middle School. René noted the muted conversation in the halls, the hurried manner with which everyone carried out the last business of the day. In a small community like the Twenties, word—even vague and uncertain word—spread fast.

Somethin's up tonight, René thought as she walked out the double doors at the front of the school. Mikeyla leaned against a tree on the small school lawn, and René headed for her.

"I thought you'd never get outta there, Ray-Ray."

"Sorry, 'Keyla. Can I use your phone to call my mom?"

"Sure."

"Hey mom. I'm out with Mikeyla, workin' on a class project. I'm gonna have dinner at her apartment, if that's ok. It is? Thanks! Sure, I'll be home by then. Bye."

Mikeyla took back the phone and they started walking. "How much time she give you?"

"Six thirty at the latest."

"That's not gonna be enough time, girl." Mikeyla dialed a number. "I got a plan."

René watched the other kids scattering toward their homes, each one "movin' with a purpose" as her dad would say. The skies were clear blue, but the atmosphere in the Twenties felt odd, like the buildup to a cloudburst of rain on an overcast day.

"Mom, I'm gonna be at René's place. We're workin' a class project. You know how Pearson is. Yeah, that one. Can I be back by eight? How about seven thirty then? 'Kay. Bye, love you."

Mikeyla smiled like she won a prize. René frowned. "I can't be out that late. My mom gonna call askin' where I'm at."

"Yeah, but how long do you think it'll take for her to start callin' my mom? Fifteen minutes? Half an hour? That buys us more time. We get in a little trouble when we get home, but we get better pictures and way better stories."

René thought it over and laughed. "That might work."

"Hey," Mikeyla added, "if they flip out, we blame it on the protests, say we got blocked off from home or somethin'. They'll be so glad we got home safe, they won't care we're late."

René grinned. "Girl, you hella smart, you know that?"

Mikeyla stuck her chin up in joking arrogance. "That's why you picked me as partner."

"I thought you picked me, 'Keyla."

"Of course I did. I'm hella smart." She checked her phone. "Battery's charged up. I got my notepad. You got yours? Let's scout out some good vantage points."

The girls dashed off, eager to begin their careers in sixth grade journalism.

* * * * *

Maria Melendez ran her hands through her hair and checked her makeup in a compact mirror, then waved to the cameraman. "Let's get this quick and get the hell out of here."

Behind her, a mass of protestors bustled and jostled against the barricades outside Precinct One Twelve Headquarters. The sunset sky painted downtown Stapleton in fiery orange tones likely to match scattered scenes of looting and burning sure to play out that night.

Something's especially off about today, she decided. "Let's get a few common folk reactions, a few panoramic shots, and maybe a clip of police organizing their ranks."

Meanwhile, Maria pondered the buildup of tensions over the last few weeks. Non-violent protests started soon after Chris's death, but they were fairly small and completely peaceful. Sure, the people were mad, but they came out to lodge their complaints, make their voices heard, and call for action against Officer Mason.