“Like I said, us girls have to stick together,” Ariella replies. “I’d do anything for you, bestie.”
We slip out of the living room, my heart pounding as we convince my mother that I’m spending time at Ariella’s. Surprisingly, she believes us, likely thinking I need a mental-health break from the brutality of training. Or maybe it’s because I always hang out with Ari when we’re at home in New Orleans. Besides, Ariella doesn’t know our family secrets, so Mom probably doesn’t think we could be involved in much more than our usual gossip and hijinks.
We drive away in one of the Bentleys, the manor fading behind us. I imagine Malcolm’s smile, the warmth of his touch. Soon, very soon, I’ll drop her off and travel through time to be by Malcolm’s side, and no amount of danger will keep me from him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEENEmma BaldwinBIRMINGHAM, 1953
I’m bubbling with excitement as I approach the small Alabama diner, thankful I’m soon to see Malcolm again. A red neon sign buzzes above the entrance, casting a warm, nostalgic glow. Outside, the summer evening air is thick with the scent of honeysuckles and fried green tomatoes.
Malcolm is waiting by the door, leaning casually against the brick wall. When he sees me, a smile brightens his whole face. My heart thuds harder, anticipation growing with each step. He walks toward me, and the world feels right.
“Hey, Star,” he says, offering a warm hug. His embrace is everything I needed, but it stirs something dark inside me. As his arms wrap around me, I feel a familiar, gnawing hunger. My fingers twitch, craving the feel of my hands slick with his blood. I imagine the coppery scent of it filling my nostrils and his body broken on the concrete at my feet.
I shake my head, trying to clear away the violent urges. Clenching my fists and inhaling slowly, I focus on the good in him, willing the bloodlust to stay buried. “Hi,” I reply in a strained voice.
The curse’s evil impulses never bother me when I read his letters; theyare gone when we are apart. So I pray that they won’t rise and ruin the day we’ve planned today. Malcolm deserves the best of me, not the monster lurking beneath my skin. And we can’t solve any of our problems if we spend the day fighting.
He pulls back slightly, looking at me with concern.
Can he tell I’m struggling?
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah, just tired… and happy to see you.”
He smiles, and the tension in my chest eases.
“I’m happy to see you too. Let’s head inside.” Malcolm pushes the heavy wooden door open with a creak, revealing the diner’s dingy interior. My body tenses. We enter the dim room. Cigarette smoke and the smell of stale coffee float through the air, mingling with the buzzing of neon lights and blaring country songs on the jukebox.
I nervously wring my fingers and dart my eyes around. We are the only Black people in this room.
Malcolm gives me a cryptic smile and grabs my hand.
“Colored section’s in the back!” a shrill female voice says from the shadows.
Colored section? I’d rather eat at home than give my business to a company that would segregate me or treat me like I am less than someone else. My heart pounds, knowing that we are not welcome here.
Malcolm leads me toward the back. “Come on,” he whispers, sensing my hesitation.
A wrinkled waitress with bleached-blond hair and an expression that looks like she’s been sucking onions all day glares at me. “You deaf?” she demands. “I said the colored section is in the room in the back.”
I’d be humiliated and angry at the venom in her voice, the way she looks at me like a rat, a pest that needs to be controlled—if I cared about anything stupid racist folks say. Luckily, I don’t.
“Trust me.” Malcolm smirks at the waitress, looking at the dusty floors, smudged windows, and ragged red booths lining the walls. “We don’t want to eat in your section.”
My heart throbs as Malcolm pulls me past her and heads toward therear of the dimly lit room. “There’s better company in the back anyway,” he whispers to me.
What is he up to? I was so happy to see him again that I forgot how much I hate coming to the Jim Crow South in the fifties.
We pass a scowling man in a red hat who’s hooked over a plate with a biscuit drowned in gravy and a woman holding a greasy menu as she sits alone at one of the rickety wooden tables in the center of the room. Most of the tables are scarred by graffitied hearts and names, but one table has a Confederate flag etched into the wood. I think about all the statues of Confederate soldiers I saw on the way here and wonder why some people spend so much time worshiping dead traitors who were willing to go to war against our country, fighting and dying to keep my people enslaved. Anger bubbles inside me when we pass a pissed-off couple with pale faces glaring at us as they shove greasy burgers in the caves of their mouths.
“Why meet here?” I hiss at Malcolm. My teeth are gritted, my eyes scanning for threats.
“Trust me,” he adds.
Trust him? My instincts scream,Run!Tension suffocates me. I stay away from sundown towns like this, where brown skin makes you a target. Danger lurks in every corner, and hate brings out the worst in people.
We step through the chipped doorframe at the back and into the colored section. The air shimmers and twists in a kaleidoscope of colors. My belly drops. The ground crumbles as we are sucked into a void of darkness.
