Chapter 7 Harper #3
I hear him shuffling papers. “Let’s see… apparently, Dylan stood up in front of the class and argued with Mr. Hampton that the end of slavery did not represent meaningful freedom for Black Americans.
That the Thirteenth Amendment’s exception clause that allows for involuntary servitude as punishment for crime was deliberately included as a continued means of slavery.”
“You said that already,” I point out.
“Um… yes.” A pause, more papers rustling.
“He went on to argue that the war on drugs was, in his words, ‘a targeted policy that criminalized Black and brown communities at disproportionate rates, which he connected directly to mass incarceration.’” His voice tightens slightly.
“And then he argued that private corporations are currently profiting from incarcerated labor, which he called—and I’m quoting directly—‘slavery with a different name.’”
“Was he wrong?” I ask, my anger rising. “About any of it?”
A careful silence. “Well, some of that is a matter of personal opinion—”
“Mr. Okafam,” I cut in over him. “I’m having a hard time understanding how a bright student who wants to debate the ramifications of slavery is a bad thing. Shouldn’t you be celebrating a student who’s interested enough to want to learn about these things?”
I can hear the offense for questioning his dedication to engaging young minds in his measured response. “Ms. Hawthorne… I take great pride in our work here at the school, but he hijacked the entire curriculum from Mr. Hampton. That was not on the lesson plan—”
“Maybe it should be,” I say, and then because I’ve had enough of this conversation, I get him to the point. “Mr. Okafam… tell me what you want me to do. Is Dylan in trouble and do I need to come pick him up?”
“Um… well, Mr. Hampton was recommending detention, but—”
“I tell you what. You go ahead and give him detention simply for engaging in one of the most important pieces of history our country has, and I’ll have an appointment with the superintendent by tomorrow. Or,” I drawl as a more appealing option,
“you can give him a stern talking-to and send him back to class. I will also be happy to talk to him tonight about maybe finding a more appropriate time and place to have those types of debates. How’s that sound?”
My eyes lift to find Julian watching me with rapt attention and I had completely forgotten where I was sitting.
“Um, well,” the principal stammers. “I will absolutely talk to him, and I’d appreciate it if you would too. Now that I think about it, detention isn’t appropriate in this situation if you can get Dylan to maybe take it down a notch or two in class, okay?”
“Yeah… sure. I’ll handle that tonight.”
We exchange goodbyes and I set my phone back down. “I’m sorry I had to take that and even sorrier you had to listen to my drama.”
“You have a son who got in trouble at school?” Julian asks.
“My brother, Dylan,” I explain. “He’s seventeen. He—” I exhale. “He got kicked out of AP History for arguing that the end of slavery wasn’t the happy ending his teacher implied it was.”
Julian’s expression doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes shifts. “I think you handled that magnificently,” he praises with a lopsided smile. “He sounds like an interesting young man.”
“He is. He’s a good kid, but he’s opinionated, and sometimes that gets him in trouble.”
Julian sets his napkin on the table and leans back slightly, a look of genuine curiosity settling on his face. “Why does your brother live with you?”
I open my mouth to answer but then Julian’s phone buzzes on the table between us.
He holds a finger up to me, an apologetic smile, connecting the call.
“Talk to me, Sybil.” I watch as Julian listens intently to whoever is on the other end and then he says, “Hold on just a second, Syb.”
His gaze comes to me as he pulls the phone slightly away.
“I’m sorry to cut this short, Harper, but I’ve got a minor emergency I need to get back and handle. Do you mind getting the car and I’ll have the rest of your lunch boxed and pay the check while you do?”
“Of course I don’t mind,” I say quickly, rising from my chair at the blunt reminder that I am on duty and a paid employee. “I’ll be out front.”
Julian gives me a curt smile, starts to place the phone back to his ear, but then halts. “And one other thing, Harper…”
“Yes, sir?”
“I’d very much like to hear more about Dylan when I don’t have a phone glued to my ear,” he says.
Why that causes my heart to do a double hammer is beyond me, but I give him a small smile in acknowledgment. “See you outside, sir,” I murmur.
“Julian,” he calls after me, but I don’t look back, instead weaving through the restaurant toward the exit.
The early-afternoon light adds a tinge of warmth to the air, and I turn up the block toward the garage, my breath visible in small clouds.
I’d very much like to hear more about Dylan when I don’t have a phone glued to my ear.
It shouldn’t feel like anything. It’s small talk. A professional courtesy people say and don’t mean.
Except Julian Langley, from everything I’ve observed in the last two days, doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.