The boy pulled her sleeve harder, and Hazel could feel his urgency. But she stood her ground. It took everything in her not to bare fangs. Hiss at the officer. Spit in his face.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Stanley put both his feet along the edges of the ladder and slide down it—all ten feet—in a swift, singular second. When he reached the floor, he casually picked up a spare broom that rested against a shelf and slowly approached them.
“Don’t mind her,” Stanley said, slightly out of breath, in his thick accent.
The boy, with a final tug, pulled Hazel close to him. Her eyes were still locked on the officer, but Hazel felt the fight leaving her as unexpectedly as it had come. The boy’s scent was overpowering. He smelled like leather and orange peel.
“I’ve got you,” the boy whispered into Hazel’s ear. “I’ve got you.”
Perhaps nothing else would have made Hazel drop her gaze, but she melted at the brown butter of his voice, leaned into him, looked into his eyes instead. His eyes were an entreaty. They simply said: We need to leave.
“Stanley, why on earth you got niggers dancing in here? Even got nigger music on. And here I thought the flood was the end of the world.”
“They’re just kids,” Stanley said.
He took a few steps toward the officer, broom in hand. Added, “Her daddy died in the flood.”
“Let’s go,” the boy whispered. His eyes were pleading.
Hazel relented. She nodded her assent.
The boy took her hand, led her toward the door. He made delicate steps, maneuvering around the shop’s table and chairs. Putting as much distance between them and the white man as possible.
“The fuck a dead, drowned nigger got to do with the price of tea in China?” the officer said, voice rising. “And where the fuck y’all going?”
The boy did not pause in his long, steady strides to the door. He did not pause when they heard the unforgettable sound of a wooden broom handle hitting bone. They reached the door just as the officer said, bewilderment and contempt in his voice, “And what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
The bell over the door chimed as the boy opened the door wide and pushed Hazel through it. “Go!” he shouted.
She ran. Hazel obeyed for the sole reason that she heard the boy’s steps right behind her.
Her father’s boots made her stumble when she took a hard right on Chelsea. But she continued on, dodging puddles the size of small ponds. She heard the boy’s deep breaths behind her, heard his splashes in the muddy water. Hazel kept running.
They ended up at the dead end of Locust Street. It was dark green with heavy southern foliage—bush and bramble, willows and magnolias hundreds of years old grew in a thicket of unkempt brush. Pecan trees lined both sides of the street.
Hazel put her hands on her knees and panted. “I love this house,” she said when her voice came to her.
A colossus was before them. Pale pink. Rain and weather and time must have faded the original brilliance of the color. But it was still elegant in its ghostliness—it must have been built long before the Civil War. It leaned slightly on its foundation. White columns tall as trees held up a wraparound porch. Blackberry bushes just beginning to flower graced the north side of the house.
“Are you crazy?” The boy was hunched forward, still catching his breath. “You could’ve gotten us strung up from a tree.”
Hazel stood up straight. She saw beads of sweat trickle down from the boy’s temple to a dark crevice in his neck. “Girl,” she said.
“What?” He held a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun and squinted.
“He called me ‘girl,’？” Hazel said. “I don’t like that.”