This fearless debut novel explores racism, injustice, and self-expression through the story of a promising Black football star in Louisiana. Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis for Kneel by Candace Buford and an excerpt!
SYNOPSIS
The system is rigged.
For guys like Russell Boudreaux, football is the only way out of their small town. As the team’s varsity tight end, Rus has a singular goal: to get a scholarship and play on the national stage. But when his best friend is unfairly arrested and kicked off the team, Rus faces an impossible choice: speak up or live in fear.
“Please rise for the national anthem.”
Desperate for change, Rus kneels during the national anthem. In one instant, he falls from local stardom and becomes a target for hatred. But he’s not alone. With the help of his best friend and an unlikely ally, Rus will fight for his dreams, and for justice.
EXCERPT
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 that—in the direction of the interstate. With glassy, hooded eyes, Marion’s gaze drifted in the same direction, which didn’t 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 mama’s 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.”
“Don’t start.” I slouched against the door, groaning as he bent to inspect the new repair—a slab of cardboard I’d taped to my window this morning. It wouldn’t roll up, and since the weather called for rain, I’d gone for the fastest fix I could find. Marion looked up with a smirk.
“The red duct tape is a nice touch. Dog, I can’t…” 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. “Let’s roll.”
“I feel like this thing is going to fall apart.” Raising an eyebrow, he paced the length of my car—which was his ride home several times a week. “This can’t 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 wasn’t in the best shape. But it got me where I needed to go—and 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 attention—especially from Westmond folks. And when white people got nervous, they called the cops. That’s 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 didn’t matter.
With darkness approaching, it didn’t matter that I was a regionally ranked tight end or that Marion was arguably the best quarterback the state had ever seen. It didn’t matter that we had never been in trouble. All that mattered was that we’d be driving while Black in a car with a cardboard window.
“You got three seconds to get in. Then I’m 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 Marion’s 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.
We’ll have to make it over to Monroe sometime soon.
We’ll let you know if we can swing it.
“He don’t 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 mine—and the golden ticket was a Division 1 scholarship. There weren’t 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 didn’t make every game—sometimes he had a plumbing job. But he certainly wouldn’t miss the season opener.
“Hope he doesn’t try to coach from the sidelines. You know how Coach hates that.”
I cringed, picturing my dad’s 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 Westmond—exactly the worst place to break down. I prayed that we’d 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. It’s nothing.”
Come on, baby, you can make it.
But the strain was too much for the car. With a hiccup, the old clunker shuddered and sighed as the Honda died. Before it had a chance to slide back onto the freeway, I braked and put the car in Park. Just in case, I pulled up the emergency brake.
“I knew something like this would happen.” Marion ran his fingers through his short dreads. “What are we going to do now?”
“Dog, just let me think.” The ramp was deserted, except for an SUV that whizzed by. The driver rolled up her windows before turning left toward Westmond. Given the state of my car and the color of our skin, we’d be hard-pressed to find someone to help us unless they were from our side of town. I shook my head, sighing as I ran through ideas. “What about at your stepdad’s shop? There must be a mechanic there.”
“You know damn well Ed’s not going to lift a finger to help me.” He scowled.
“Right,” I said, mentally kicking myself for even mentioning his stepdad. He was terrible to Marion, always spewing hateful things—things meant to tear him down and eat away at his confidence. He rattled Marion so much that Coach had barred him from coming to our games. But as bad as Ed was to Marion, he was even worse to Marion’s mother. That’s why she took off sometimes. In a lower voice I asked, “Have you heard anything from your mom?”
“No.” Marion gritted his teeth, turning to look out the window instead of at me.
Mrs. LaSalle usually came home after a few days, maybe a week—after things cooled down. But she’d been gone for almost two weeks. That weighed heavily on Marion. I could see it every day in the tightness of his eyes.
“She’ll come back.” I elbowed him across the center console. “She always does.”
“I know.” He looked at me over his shoulder, a lightness returning to his expression. He smirked. “I can’t wait for her to come home and light Ed’s ass up for all the shit he’s put me through lately.”
“That’s the spirit.” I grabbed my door handle, smiling at the image of Mrs. LaSalle whipping her house in order. I hoped that day would come soon. But now we needed to help ourselves by popping the hood of the Civic to see what was wrong. “Let’s see if we can fix it ourselves.”
“Like we know how to fix a car!” He threw his arms up. “Let’s call a tow truck.”
I didn’t have money for a towing service. I barely had enough money for gas.
Cussing under my breath, I shoved the door open and rounded the front, grumbling as I felt for the lever beneath the hood. “How many times I tell Mama this car was on its last leg?”
“I’m not trying to be out here in the white neighborhood at night.” Marion stood beside me, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He looked nervously at the neighboring fields, at the stalks of corn casting shadows in the creeping darkness. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, taking the safety of daylight with it.
“Chill. We’re around the corner from our side of town. We’ll be okay,” I said, but I didn’t believe it. I reached for the battery but yanked my hand back when I felt the hot metal. “Ouch!”
“Are you serious?” Marion hissed at my reddened fingertips. “You can’t catch a ball with a banged-up hand.”
The momentary sting disappeared almost as quickly as it came. The pain was nothing compared to my elbow, which was currently wrapped in kinesiology tape underneath my sweatshirt, begging to be iced and rewrapped. My body was my greatest asset, and I couldn’t risk another injury before Friday’s game.
All the surrounding car parts were hot to the touch, so we fanned with our hands, hoping to speed up the cool down.
A shiny black BMW with tinted windows made its way up the ramp. I didn’t expect it to stop—just blaze by like there weren’t two kids stranded on the side of the road. It idled at the stop sign but, to my surprise, didn’t turn left. Instead, the white reverse lights flickered on. My fingers twitched nervously as the sports car backed up. Would they jump the battery, or us?
The dark window rolled down and my breath hitched as I recognized the driver—Bradley Simmons, one of Westmond’s varsity football players. I grumbled under my breath. By the malicious gleam in his eyes, I could tell he had no intention of helping us.
“Yo, homie.” He leaned over the caramel-colored leather seat, and even in the waning light, I could see that his cheeks were red from a summer tan—probably from an expensive vacation on a beach in the Caribbean or Cabo or wherever rich white people wasted time. He pointed to the on-ramp ahead. “The impound lot is one more exit down.”
“You’re hilarious, Brad.” I really didn’t have time for trash talk from a Westmond football player. Not in the darkness, away from the watchful lights of the field.
“What? I just want to catch up. Haven’t seen y’all since we whipped you in the playoffs.” He cocked his head, a pout pursing his lips. The echo of that disastrous game—the one that had knocked us out of the state championships and haunted me for the better part of a year—filled the silence between us.
Jackson and Westmond High had been evenly matched, tied for first in the regional rankings. But they’d had home field advantage and played with the knowledge that the refs wouldn’t scrutinize their fouls as closely as they did ours. We were up by two touchdowns by the last quarter, but that changed when two of their players sacked Marion. And I mean sacked—brutally pinning him to the ground and dislocating his shoulder. I’ll never forget the sound of Marion screaming in pain, the image of him writhing on the ground as tears filled his eyes.
Westmond played dirty—on and off the field.
“Keep driving.” Marion stepped forward, instinctively reaching up to his left shoulder. “Unless you tryna help.”
“With this garbage?” He pointed at my boarded-up window. “I wouldn’t know where to start. Better off leaving it.”
My heart rate ticked up, hammering loudly in my ears. Wasn’t it enough that he had everything? The better-funded school, the fancy car, the state championship ring all belonged to him. And still, he felt entitled to my time, my smile. It wasn’t fair. But I had to keep my cool.
Brad leaned closer, waving his finger in a circle around us. “Y’all are garbage. Y’all know that, right?”
I started to take a deep breath, but Marion snapped before I had time to steel my nerves. Rage flashed across his eyes as he shoved off the car.
Oh, shit!
“That’s it!” He stalked toward the BMW with his hands curled into fists.
I lunged and gripped his shoulder, but he tried to wriggle out of my hold.
“Get off me!”
“Take a sec, bro!” My voice shook as I struggled to keep him in check. Marion wasn’t a fighter, but it looked like he was about to make an exception. I couldn’t let him do it, no matter how much I wanted to see that sneer wiped off Brad’s sunburned face. I put a hand on Marion’s chest to keep him at bay. “Don’t let this fool win.”
“How’s your shoulder, homeboy?” Brad sneered. “Ready for round two next week?”
The threat ignited Marion’s anger even more, and I pushed harder against his chest. I couldn’t blame him—he had every right to be upset. Last year’s injury was the kind that could have ended his football career before it even started.
“Why don’t you get out your car and say that to my f—”
He was drowned out when Brad leaned into the center of his steering wheel and blared his horn. I released my hold on Marion to cover my ears.
“Sorry.” Brad cupped his hand over his ear, pulsing the car horn between bouts of laughter. “I can’t hear you.”
Then his tires lurched forward, kicking up loose bits of gravel as he sped through the stop sign and disappeared into his town beyond the tree line. He hadn’t done us any favors. In fact, he’d made the situation worse. Because honking his horn and screeching his tires was like shooting a flare in the sky, alerting every cop in the vicinity to our presence.
That was his privilege. He didn’t need to worry about getting hassled by police. But that was our reality.
“I’ll be damned if I let him call me trash.” Marion stood huffing in the road, his fists still clenched as he looked toward Westmond.
“Man, forget him.” I was angry, too, and I wished there was something I could do. But guys like Brad could get away with starting fights. Guys like us couldn’t. I slapped Marion’s shoulder. “What does Coach always say? We get ’em back—”
“—on the field,” Marion finished the well-worn phrase, his chest still puffing as he turned away from the intersection.
We retreated to the car and fanned the engine. In the hushed darkness, I could feel Marion calming, which allowed me to release my tensed muscles. We fell into an uneasy silence, letting the hum of the cicadas overtake us. No one passed. Nothing moved. Still, we stood there—two boys on a backwoods road, headed nowhere fast.
Excerpted from KNEEL by Candace Buford © 2021 by Candace Buford, used with permission from Inkyard Press/HarperCollins.
