The Liberation of Gabriel King (14 page)

Way in the back, under the picnic table closest to the school building, there were two people hiding out. I could see them clearly even though they were far away.

I poked Frita in the ribs. “Look,” I said.

There were Duke and Frankie. For a minute, my heart beat fast, just like it always did. But then I realized which of us was hiding out and which of us had most of Rockford and Hollowell behind them. I remembered what Mrs. Wilson had said about people coming to the rally to report back. I don’t know how I knew it, but right then I was one hundred percent certain that Mr. Evans and Mr. Carmen were nowhere
nearby. They’d put Duke and Frankie up to coming here instead, and that struck me as extra chicken.

I looked at Frita and Frita looked at me, and I knew we were thinking the exact same thing. We could get Duke and Frankie in some trouble if we wanted to. All we’d have to do was tell Terrance they were here, or maybe scream or yell for an adult. Frita could even whup them herself if she wanted to, but that’s not what we did.

“Ready to go?” Frita asked.

“Yup,” I said. “You think Jimmy Carter will show up today?”

“Maybe,” said Frita. “But either way, it sure is a good crowd. I think just about everyone in Hollowell
and
Rockford showed up.” She grinned and looked back at Duke and Frankie. “That’ll show any Evans to call me a nigger,” she said, and I thought, Yup, that was some true. You did not mess with Frita Wilson.

Frita got set to run. “Race ya.”

Then me and her took off in a cloud of dust and I imagined what our feet must look like to Duke and Frankie watching us from way back under the picnic table. For a minute I almost felt sorry for them stuck under there, hiding out.

Then I was running fast, climbing the bleachers, and Terrance was making his friends squish over so me and Frita could squeeze in. Then Mr. Wilson was introducing my pop for real and he was standing up there in his brand-new tie with the shiny tie clip, and I was standing up to wave at him
so he would remember that there ain’t nothing so scary when you’ve got someone you love.

That’s when I thought about Duke and Frankie one last time, and this time I didn’t feel scared or mad or sorry for them. I hoped that maybe someday someone would liberate them too. Then maybe they’d figure out what love and courage were all about, and life would spring open like a lock that found its key.

So many people lent their time and talents to this book. First and foremost, I’d like to thank my editor, Kathy Dawson, for her hard work and vision. Her insight has been invaluable. I’d also like to thank my agent, Ginger Knowlton, who is the friend and advocate every writer dreams of.

My parents, William and Linda Going, are my best readers. My dad provided his expertise on spiders, catfish, and all things biological. He also accompanied me on a trip to Plains, Georgia, and read every draft of this book, even when I told him not to. Thanks to my mom for sharing her understanding of the children’s book market, and for her instincts about what makes a great read.

Thank you to Dustin Adams for his unwavering support and for lending me his considerable writing talents as he critiqued draft after draft with patience and skill. Brenda Zook Friesen and Tobin Miller Shearer provided valuable anti-racist feedback. I’m also indebted to the St. Thomas community and The People’s Institute for Survival and Beyond for prior anti-racist training. Thanks to Bob Strangfeld for sharing his historical knowledge and documents relating to 1976. I am grateful to Laura Blake Peterson, Elizabeth Gold, Susie and Laura Haldeman, Sara Sheiner, Zachary Miller Shearer, Tasha Toney-Thomas, and all those who read and commented on early drafts of this book. Thanks to Nicole Kasprzak and Nathan Bransford for their work behind the scenes.

Last but not least, thank you to Carol Daley for her work on the website and to April and Ben’s Simple Things Bake Stand for providing the nourishment necessary to complete a novel (i.e.: fabulous cookies and baked goods).