Hope you all enjoyed your Father's Day weekend. :) Thank you for reading this story. I'll post more tomorrow. :)
Abbie and Crane sat in desks in the schoolroom, munching on the extra sandwiches and sweet tarts Crane packed in his lunch for them.
"Did you make this?" Abbie said.
He wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Yes. This is my mother's recipe. She loved to cook."
"My Mama loved to cook, too. Jenny took it up after she died. Helps her feel close to her. What happened to your Mama again? She was sick, right?"
She recalled he told her this that day he gave her his scarf. She wasn't really sympathetic for his losses then.
"Yes. Both of them were. They died from pneumonia."
She reached for his hand. "It's tough losing both parents. Do you have any siblings?"
"Unfortunately, no. I'm an only child. My mother had trouble conceiving me to begin with. She wasn't able to have any more children after I was born."
Abbie was grateful she wasn't alone in her grief. She had her sister; her sister had her. Crane had no one.
"How did you cope? Who did you talk to?"
"I talked to my best friend Abraham VanBrunt. He's more like a brother to me."
"I'm glad he was there." She finished the rest of her sandwich. "What were your parents like? I think you told me they used to read to you."
"They did, particularly plays from Shakespeare. They were quite dramatic. I believe working in theatre encouraged their antics. That's where they met." He smiled. "Mother made the grandest gestures and facial expressions while my father could easily transform his voice."
"The theatre can rub off on people, I've heard," she said. "My parents were silly, but sweet. They joked and laughed, danced around the kitchen. Mama was so witty. And dad had this deep voice."
She missed her parents, their bright black love.
"I believe mine have found peace. That's comforts me sometimes."
"I don't know if mine ever got that. The man who shot my father wasn't even put in jail. We never got justice."
Exactly like there was no justice for Stella or May or all of the other black Americans killed because of a white person in a white hood or in a blue police uniform or in regular clothes. The law would never them, never protect her.
His hand tightened around hers. "I'm—"
"You don't have to keep saying that. It's not your fault the world is fucked up."
He sighed. "I cannot fathom what that must feel like. I can only imagine how maddening and infuriating it must be for you."
It felt like stones stuck in her throat that suffocated her screams, her need for air, for release, for freedom. Everything in her fostered, and she couldn't let it out. It stayed in her gut, rattling and bumping around until one day it would come forth. She wouldn't stop it if it did.
"It is." She paused. "I wonder what our parents would think of this, of us being friends. How did your parents feel about black people?"
"Though I love my parents, they did not think or speak highly of black Americans. They barely interacted with them unless they had to. It still disappoints me to this day. It angers me, even. They hired a black maid once. She was the sweetest lady. Her name was Irene. She left caramels under my pillow. My parents terminated her position after she accidently knocked over my mother's favorite dish. My mother called her the n-word, and my father fired her. I never understand how they could treat a person that way. I was furious at them as a child, sad, but I never spoke to them about it until I was older. They were wrong. I told them as much. We never saw eye to eye since. My father disowned me. My mother tried to look past it."
"I'm glad you aren't like them."
His parents weren't shit to her.
"So am I. It seems rather ironic, doesn't it? I could have easily adopted my parent's small-minded views. You have every right to refuse my companionship, every reason to be skeptical of my intentions, especially considering what happened to your parents, your friend, and even Mr. Corbin's bakery. Yet, here we are, forging our own paths."
She nodded. "Here we are."
They finished their dinner in the quiet.
"I believe we've discussed enough of the heavy. Shall we continue our lesson?"
Abbie smiled. "We could use some light-heartedness. Up."
Crane wiggled out his coat, took the position he had yesterday.
"Remember: balance posture, power." She crossed her arms and sat on the teacher's desk to examine his stance.
He practiced the front kick.
"That was good, but don't look like you're about to play hopscotch."
He huffed. "I do not—"
She raised her eyebrows.
He stood straight while she walked from the desk. "Let's try this. I get my girls to practice on each other. One of them plays the role of the attacker; the other is the attackee."
"I couldn't possibly pretend to—"
"Crane. It's just for learning purposes. You won't hurt me. Ready?"
"Must we?"
"If you want to land this front kick, yes. Take your position."
He did.
"Now, I'm coming at you." She rushed to him. "Where will you put your foot?"
He boot gently landed on her knee.
"That's right. Try again. I know it probably feels funny, maybe a little silly. Your body isn't used to being in this position. Some of the girls were like that, too. It takes practice. Soon, the stances will click. You'll get it."
"You are an encouraging instructor."
"Thank you. Let's try an exercise. Stand on one leg. If you drop it, you start over."
"A drill sergeant, too."
She smirked. Her students called her that, too. When they complained or got smart with her, she added time to their warm-up exercises. "Five minutes."
"Five?"
"Ten."
He huffed, mumbled under his breath about boot camp.
"You want to make it fifteen?"
"No. What is the point of this, Miss Mills?"
"Balance. My dad made me and Jenny do this. I make my girls do this. I'm making you do this. It helps. Use your core. Breathe."
She stood on the side of him, placed one hand on the mid-section of his back. Her other hand touched his stomach. Though he was lean, there was strength in him.
"Take deep breaths." She demonstrated. Then inhaled and exhaled with him.
They looked at each other as they did so. She didn't know what she felt suddenly. There was a kicking in her, a thick drumming. With him, she believed they could face anything, that they could withstand segregation and lynchings and assassinations and their own shadowy lives and the darkened world that would swallow them without each other's light. His gaze told her that. And her eyes couldn't fall elsewhere.
Her voice was petite, close to a whisper. "Stop looking at me like that, Ichabod."
"Like what, Miss Mills?"
She cleared her throat. "Your breathing. Take your time."
He squirmed after a while.
"Are you ticklish, Crane?" She wanted to mess with him again.
"No."
Her fingers wiggled across his stomach. He lost his balance, laughed.
"You should run, Miss Mills."
And she did. He chased her around the classroom for a good five minutes. She slid desks in his way to deter him. It didn't work. Eventually, he caught up with her, held her to his chest. His fingers fidgeted down her waist. Her laughter vibrated off the rickety desk chairs. It felt good, free.
They ended up on the floor, breathless and light from their childish behavior. Both of them leaned against the wall.
"I miss laughing," Abbie said.
Things have been so heavy that she hadn't had any fun or relaxed.
"As do I, Leftenant."
"Leftenant?"
"Yes, as in lieutenant, as in that's what you remind me of when you instruct. You are powerful, fearless, fervent. I am in awe. You are beautiful in your element."
She didn't know whether to blush or giggle. "Thank you, Crane."
"You are welcome. I suppose we will continue our lesson tomorrow evening?"
"Yeah. With no distractions." She nudged his arm.
"We shall see what happens next." He helped her up.
They gathered their things and took the brief walk across the street to her apartment building.
"I will see you tomorrow, Leftenant."
She smiled at his silly nickname for her, shook her head. It was one she didn't mind though. "I'll see you tomorrow, Crane."
He bowed for her. She blushed, went inside, and prepared for bed. As she lay under her comforter, she wouldn't let herself admit what she wanted. She wouldn't admit she wanted his eyes to tell her they could withstand. She wouldn't admit she wanted his hands, his lips, and his tongue to tell her that, too.