Candace Buford - Kneel

A powerful and timely debut novel, Kneel is a gripping story about what it looks like when we demand equity, justice, and recognition of our own humanity.

Kalynn Bayron, author of Cinderella Is Dead

An utterly unforgettable bookone that makes you think, makes you angry and, most of all, makes you eager to demand change.

Rachel Lynn Solomon, author of Today Tonight Tomorrow

An intense and unflinching look at how racism curdles lives in a small Louisiana town. Youll blaze through it with your heart in your mouth and your fist in the air.

Martha Brockenbrough, author of The Game of Love and Death

Unflinching and compelling, Candace Buford turns a bright spotlight on the unjust world we live in.

Annette Christie, author of The Rehearsals and Love Lessons

Candace Buford graduated from Duke University with a degree in German literature, which exposed her to the delightfully creepy side of storytelling by writers like Kafka and Brecht. She also holds a law degree from Penn State Law School and a business degree from Dukes Fuqua School of Business. Raised in Houston, Candace currently lives in the heart of Seattle, where you can find her huddled in caf corners, scribbling away in her notebook. She shares her life with a rocket scientist and a Plott hound, who both ensure there is never a dull day. Kneel is her debut novel.

Follow Candace on Twitter and Instagram, @candacebuford.

CandaceBuford.com

Kneel

Candace Buford

To Jonathan, who always believed in the dream,
even when Id lost sight of it.

Contents

Our soles crunched the gravel of the near-empty parking lot as we walked to my car. I tightened my hold on my duffel bag, looking past my best friend, beyond the patchy lawn of the schoolyard and the gangly water tower beyond thatin the direction of the interstate. With glassy, hooded eyes, Marions gaze drifted in the same direction, which didnt surprise me one bit. Sooner or later, everyone had their eyes on the way out of Monroe.

At the car, I gripped the back of my leg and massaged a knot in my hamstring, which ached with every move I made. Football practice had run long again, and as much as I wanted to win our first game of the season on Friday, all I wanted now was to go home, eat my mamas meat loaf, and melt into the couch. I opened my trunk and piled my backpack and duffel bag onto one side. I waited for Marion to toss in his gear, but he was too busy howling with laughter at my car.

Oh, snap! He brought a fist to his mouth. My boy rockin cardboard windows now.

Dont start. I slouched against the door, groaning as he bent to inspect the new repaira slab of cardboard Id taped to my window this morning. It wouldnt roll up, and since the weather called for rain, Id gone for the fastest fix I could find. Marion looked up with a smirk.

The red duct tape is a nice touch. Dog, I cant... He covered his face with his hands.

At least I got a ride. I cackled and moonwalked backward, wincing slightly through my hamstring pain, but it was worth it. Marion gave me the finger, his smug grin growing wider. Then I clapped my hands, urging him to hurry up. Storm clouds from the gulf crawled across the sky, and I wanted to get on the road before it started pouring. Lets roll.

I feel like this thing is going to fall apart. Raising an eyebrow, he paced the length of my carwhich was his ride home several times a week. This cant be safe to drive anymore.

He had a point. Older than I was, my hand-me-down Honda Civic had seen better days. With a broken window, leaky AC, and an engine that sounded like a freight train, it wasnt in the best shape. But it got me where I needed to goand right now, that was home.

The road skirted the edge of the parish line between Monroe and Westmond, the white town on the other side of the freeway. A passerby might mistake our two towns for one. They were so close to each other, separated only by the interstate. But locals understood the century-old fault lines between the Black and white sides.

With my car looking as janky as it did, it would draw unwanted attentionespecially from Westmond folks. And when white people got nervous, they called the cops. Thats what had happened a few weeks ago to Dante Maynard, a Black kid from Shreveport. In the middle of August during the last week of summer break, he was shot and killed in a gas station parking lot for no reason other than looking suspicious.

The way I saw it, their fear was misplaced. Black kids were being killed by white people. And they were scared of us?

But what I thought didnt matter.

With darkness approaching, it didnt matter that I was a regionally ranked tight end or that Marion was arguably the best quarterback the state had ever seen. It didnt matter that we had never been in trouble. All that mattered was that wed be driving while Black in a car with a cardboard window.

You got three seconds to get in. Then Im taking off, I said, brushing past him.

I crammed my body behind the wheel as Marion tilted his face toward the stormy sky. Shaking his head, he picked his bags off the pavement and disappeared behind the car.

The Civic shuddered as Marion slammed the trunk shut, then dipped to the right as he slid into the passenger seat. He pushed his chair all the way back, making it easier for the seat belt to stretch around him. Coach says Mississippi State might be there Friday. Just heads-up.

I nodded as I pulled onto the road, mildly interested in Marions rundown of his conversation with Coach Fontenot. But I knew better than to get my hopes up. Coach always sent tapes of our games to recruiters and invited them to watch us play live. He was encouraged by their noncommittal responses, but I knew how to read between the lines.

Looks like you have yourself a good team.

Well have to make it over to Monroe sometime soon.

Well let you know if we can swing it.

He dont know who coming or going, I mumbled under my breath as I got onto the freeway.

The truth was, college recruiters were hard to come by, and offers were even harder. Every baller this side of the Mississippi had their eyes on a way out of dying towns just like mineand the golden ticket was a Division 1 scholarship. There werent enough to go around, and that uncertainty made me uncomfortable. I tried not to think about it. All I could do was focus on my game and hope that was enough.

Your dad coming to the game?

You think I could stop him? I raised my eyebrows. Pops didnt make every gamesometimes he had a plumbing job. But he certainly wouldnt miss the season opener.

Hope he doesnt try to coach from the sidelines. You know how Coach hates that.

I cringed, picturing my dads chubby cheeks barking orders from the bleachers. As much as I loved his enthusiasm and support, I hated the spectacle he made at our games.

Marion rifled through his sweatshirt pocket and pulled out a bag of chips. Squeezing it open, he set it on the center console. Want some?

I was pawing for the bag when a loud rattle filled the car. I tore my eyes from the freeway, debating whether or not to pull onto the shoulder.

What was that? Marion grabbed the strap of his seat belt, his eyes growing wider as another gurgle rippled through the air.

No idea. My chest tightened as we reached our exit ramp for Calumet Street, the steepest part of an otherwise flat Louisiana landscape. It was the line that separated Monroe and Westmondexactly the worst place to break down. I prayed that wed be able to make it up the hill and turn right at the stop sign, which would put us squarely in our neighborhood. The car chugged up the hill. We good. Its nothing.