Page 112 of Bound By Fury

“That’s a good question,” Headmaster Matsoukas chimes in, and I roll my eyes internally.

It’s so typical, so dismissive, that I have a hard time spitting my words out in explanation.

“No, they don’t say anything about the women being tried or charged. Just that they were accused of committing ungodly acts. They talk about them like they were devil worshippers or something. It’s there between the lines.”

I try to keep my voice neutral. I don’t want to seem confrontational, but to deny it would be to deliberately erase the history of these women.

“Do you not think it’s possible they were lynched for being Black?”

I nod, folding my hands in my lap and pinching the flesh between my thumb and forefinger until the skin goes numb.

“Acts against God at that time could mean anything. Adultery, drug use, promiscuity, belligerence… the list goes on, really. I’m sure the accusations of these women ‘worshiping the devil’ was a mere exaggeration, local hysteria after the trauma of having to adjust to the societal changes happening at the time.” She looks at the headmaster over my shoulder as if this is so simple and I’m just a kid unable to comprehend something that the adults find elementary.

This time I can’t stop my voice from rising. “But why would they include that information in the article then? Rumors about strange happenings… And it’s not like the women were given a chance to defend themselves. There’s no information on what they actually did, just a bunch of random accusations and rumors from the townsfolk. The articles frame the lynching like it was justice.”

“Did they ever find the people who lynched them?” Without realizing it, I’ve called the static to my fingertips. I can tell she feels it too, because her hands lift to her head where her hair is beginning to curl toward the sky.

“I-I don’t know. The article didn’t say.” It takes everything in my power to keep my voice even. “Apparently the women were hanged right after the school burned down.”

“That’s fascinating,” Headmaster Matsoukas interjects weakly, as though he knows I’m fighting a losing battle.

“Humph, well, it seems to me like perhaps there was some sort of unrest going on at the time. Certainly didn’t necessitate such a horrific end, but it also doesn’t lend any validity to your claims,” Dr. Rogers says with an air of finality.

I am going to pull my hair out. There it is again, that boiling-over rage. I despise the way it controls me, but I shoot to my feet just the same.

But what is there to say? The women weren’t tried. Or convicted. There was no proof of their power. The articles didn’t even say the word witch.

Odds are it was just racism and hysteria.

My body and my mind are split in two. Though my mind feels a particular sorrow. Perhaps I’ve been wrong this whole time. About everything.

But as I meet Dr. Rogers’s scrutinizing gaze, something twists in my gut.

No, she’s wrong.

I can feel it.

“Thank you for this impromptu history lesson, Dr. Rogers,” Alastair says, clapping his hands once as he stands, his voice strained.

I take a step back, distancing myself from the both of them.

“It’s important that we do away with historical disinformation, as it can be particularly reductive. And especially here, at a school with such an uncertain history, we pride ourselves on our DEI initiatives, fostering a better educational community and progress that acknowledges the context from where we came.” He sounds like a podcast ad.

All I know is that my power is still pulsing through me, and if I don’t get out of here quickly, I’m afraid I’m going to level this fucking school to the ground.

“Can I be excused? Please?” My voice is tight, my hands aching from holding in the magic.

“Yes,” the headmaster says. “Think about the things we talked about, okay? This is your last warning before your record starts taking on strikes.”

I clear my throat and nod before brushing past Dr. Rogers.

“I really do hope to see you at the Centennial Night of Remembrance.”

I throw a thumbs-up over my shoulder and check the flyer that’s still in my sweaty hand. It’s in two and a half weeks.

Dr. Rogers barely leaves enough room for me to squeeze by. When my shoulder brushes hers, I feel the power leap, hungry and searching.

I smile when her hiss rings out behind me.