Read Online Grace by Natashia Deon - Free Book Online

song,” Ada Mae say.
    â€œThis song? Swing looooooow. Sah-weet, chariot-ut . . .”
    Josey chases Ada Mae, sucks in big breaths as she go, sending the air back out in song. They slip-slide on slick purple leafs and around a berry bush, scraping thin lines on their legs and arms from thorns. Ada Mae escapes in a twirl around a tree trunk. Her dress gathers between her legs from speed.
    â€œStop it, Josey! Promise me you gon’ quit it or I tell you the truth, I’ll leave you here and let the Witch of the Woods get you.”
    â€œThese are my woods,” Josey say. “Cain’t nobody find me here if I don’t want ’em to. And if you leave me here, you’ll be here by yourself. Honest, Ada Mae . . . who would carry you but me?”
    Josey’s laughter becomes hard coughs. “All these negro children out here alone, about to get ate up,” she say, coughing through it. “But you safe, Ada Mae. The witch would need a big ole mouth to eat you.”
    â€œWell, she ain’t gon’ eat you, neither. You ain’t a negro.”
    â€œI’m black just like you!” she say. “Just not so colored, is all.”
    â€œFine!” Ada Mae say.
    â€œI’m negro, too!”
    Josey’s cough becomes barking. She squats where she is, hard-breathing like she just finished a long race. She closes her eyes and slowly lets air in and out of her throat. Swallows a few times. A whistle joins her exhale. I know these signs.
    â€œYou a’right?” Ada Mae say. “Need some water?”
    Josey grabs her chest, clawing at it to squeeze a bit of air. Ada Mae pats Josey hard on the back, and each swat brings a short whistle. “You need some water?”
    Josey’s eyes redden with strain. She fixes ’em on Ada Mae and they roll back behind her closing lids. “I’ll get Charles!” Ada Mae say, scared now.
    But Josey grabs her arm, stops her, mumbles raspy words in a whisper. “Stay. Please.”
    Ada Mae sits and holds Josey’s hand, wipes the sweat from her cheeks, hoping that Josey’s panting will fade.
    But her whistles rise. “One day,” Josey say, “I’m gon’ marry me a black man . . . dark as blue. . . . Then there ain’t gon’ be no mistakin who I am.”
    A whistle.
    A whistle.
    A whistle.

8 / FLASH
    Conyers, Georgia, 1846
    L AST NIGHT I took off running in the dark, escaping Cynthia.
    H ER CUSTOMERS LURK in dark corners here like shadows, except the whites of their eyes show and move when I move. Their voices call to me in whispers, hissing, one at a time and all together, “Hey! Pss . . . Gal. Come ’ere.” I made the mistake of turning toward the sound last night and saw a man with his trousers down, his hand at his crotch, rubbing and tugging there. That’s when I stole some shoes and ran. A month here’s been long enough.
    I had my Bible and Hazel’s poker with me. Found the poker behind Cynthia’s dresser before I left to follow the North Star to Boston where negroes belong to themselves.
    I started running from ’round back of this brothel where Cynthia never go, then on the road past Albert’s blacksmith shop. It was glowing orange from the furnace inside. The color traced every gap of the building. Grit from the road rolled under my soles and wet grass lapped my ankles. I was only five steps into the field when a sharp pain shot to my head and forced me to stop.
    Blood shot out my nose in rhythm with my heartbeats. I pinched it and spat out what trickled in my throat, then staggered my final steps. I looked to the sky trying to find my North Star but there were so many. Their pinpricks of light grew to suns, blinding and burning. The world spun around me: Albert’s shop . . . black space . . . Albert’s shop . . . black space. I fell to my knees, needing to throw up. It was the last thing I remember.
    I woke up late last night and found