She’d just watched Martin—who knew full well she was observing him that particular period—walk his high-school class through a well-considered discussion of gender, power, and the historical erasure of women and the marginalized. Heard him declare with quiet passion that their stories mattered.
That, by inference, her story mattered. Thatshemattered.
Brandi Rose Owens. Born female and poor. Unlikely to appear in any history textbook.
She understood her own worth and power. The choices she’d made to honor the former and preserve the latter.
Now she knew he did too.
But what he’d intended by the lesson, she hadn’t the slightest idea.
Seven
The Marysburg High School Seasons’Greetings Festival, as far as Martin could tell, was experiencing a full-fledged identity crisis.
On the one hand, the mid-December gathering featured an inflatable Santa, a giant wooden dreidel, and a colorful, beaded unity cup, not to mention all the baked goods one would expect from a winter fundraising festival. Fudge, fruitcakes, rugelach, sugared doughnuts, sweet potato pies, and more types of cookies than he could count.
His stomach growled, and he tried to remember how much cash remained in his wallet. Not enough, that was for certain.
A veritable blizzard of paper snowflakes hung overhead, and colored strings of light draped over every booth. All appropriate for winter. Fair enough.
But there also appeared to be a limbo contest occurring off to the right. Plastic bags of cotton candy jostled for retail space next to pumpkin pies. An enormous fake palm tree hovered over a selection of grilled burgers and hot dogs for sale. And if he wasn’t mistaken, a cluster of girls dressed all in black was gathered around…
A dunk tank? Really? In December?
From behind the circle of girls, he heard a distinctthunk. Then a breathless squeak, quickly followed by a splash and gleeful cackles from the surrounding crowd.
Yup. A dunk tank. In December.
“The girls’ softball team holds a mean grudge.” Keisha appeared next to him, braids swaying with the shake of her head. “It’s been two years, and they still haven’t forgiven her.”
He blinked at her, confused. “Excuse me?”
“You’ll see.” Keisha grinned. “But you may not believe what you’re seeing.”
Whatever. He had more pressing questions to ask. For instance: What the actual fuck?
“I don’t…” He swiveled his head to survey his surroundings, spotting a hula lesson in the far corner next to a pin-the-red-nose-on-Rudolph game. “I don’t quite understand the theme of this festival.”
“It’s exactly what it says. A Seasons’ Greetings Festival. Seasonzzzzz,” Keisha emphasized. “Plural.”
His brows rose. “I thought that was a typo.”
She recoiled. “Are you kidding? The English department would slaughter us all in our sleep if we abused our apostrophes so badly.” Her eyes had gone wide, and after darting a look around them, she pointed an accusing finger. “Don’t even joke about that.”
He raised his hands. “I won’t. I promise.”
The English department did seem rather intense, now that he thought about it. He should have noticed during the whole Frankenstein IsNotthe Monster Initiative earlier in the year, given all their posters and morning announcements and costumes and yelling during staff meetings. Not to mention the assembly.
A quality production, but the hand puppets had been overkill.
Keisha directed a hard stare his way. “Good. Anyway, we used to have two festivals. One for winter, another for summer. But we had trouble getting enough volunteers for both, so we merged them into one big fundraiser in the middle of the year. Then the decision had to be made about which season to celebrate, and no one could choose. So Principal Dunn said screw it, let’s do both.”
“Thus the caroling snow-cone purveyors.” He rocked back on his heels. “This festival truly has it all.”
“It does.” Keisha patted him on his arm. “I need to get eggnog in a coconut before they run out of those little umbrellas. While I do so, I suggest you study the dunk tank a bit more closely.”
Bea would want pictures of the festival, since she and her mother were visiting Virginia Tech that weekend, so he got out his cell and wandered in the direction of the splashes and a veritable army of black-clad young women.
