In this haunting story about family, legacy, and sacrifice, a young Black girl living in a Texas sundown town must find the courage to stand up for what’s right even when it means facing impossible choices—perfect for fans of Dear Martin and The Hate U Give.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Marie Arnold’s Split the Sky, which is out now.
Fifteen-year-old Lala Russell is doing a bad job at being a Black girl. She has social justice fatigue, and she doesn’t want to join the Black Alliance Club at her school (even though she agrees with them). A gifted cellist, she’s focused on leaving her small town and accomplishing her goals and dreams. But Lala has also inherited another gift, her grandmother Sadie’s gift of foresight. She has visions of the future—and they always come true.
In Davey, the Texas sundown town she lives in, there is growing tension, as a Black organization attempts to diversify the nearly all-white part of town. Amidst violent protests, Lala has a vision. In it, a Black teenage boy is shot in the chest by a white homeowner. Now Lala has a mission: find the boy and save him.
But Grandma Sadie has a vision too. After the boy’s murder, a wave of protests breaks out. And the outrage over the casual and frequent slaying of unarmed Black children will result in unprecedented change. Change that won’t happen if the vision is altered. Lala is faced with an existential question—can she allow herself to sacrifice one life to, in turn, save many? And if so, whose life will she choose?
Chapter One
I don’t think I’m good at being a Black girl.
My voice doesn’t harness the power of raging rivers or split the sky in half, like all the Black poets promised it would. I don’t leave others amazed, mystified, or utterly beguiled. That’s what’s supposed to happen when you’re magic. The thing is, not all Black girls want to be magic; some of us just want to be. But I’m not sure that’s allowed here in Davey, Texas.
The north side of Davey— with very few exceptions—is all white. The south side, where we live, is the Black part. Recently, a group called People of Color for Progress (PCP), made up of mostly Black residents, has been trying to change that.
There’s always been an uneasy alliance between the white folks in the north and the Black folks on the south side, and thanks in part to PCP, things have ramped up.
My dad’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts and back into my bedroom, where I’m holding the flyer that’s made me so pensive.
“Lala Russell, are you ready?” he shouts outside my door. Everyone calls me Lala, but my real name is Laveau. It was my grandma Sadie’s idea. She insisted that I be named after Marie Laveau, the voodoo queen of New Orleans. She told my parents that she sensed a mystical presence when she first laid eyes on me. I don’t know if they believed her or not. But they gave in.
“I’m almost ready!” I shout back. It’s not true. I’m nowhere near ready. Tonight, we’re having dinner with the woman Dad’s been dating for the past two months. It’s my and my twin brother’s first time meeting her, and Dad’s a little nervous. He’s been fluffing pillows that don’t need to be fluffed, sweeping parts of the house that were already clean, and rearranging the knickknacks he already arranged moments before.
I put the flyer on my desk and go over to my closet. I need to wear something nicer than the jeans and T‑shirt I wore to school this morning. Before I can pick something out, the flyer draws my attention again. It could be the neon-green paper it’s printed on, or the big, bold font. It could also be their new logo— a black fist that’s pumping in the air with a treble clef cut out in the center. But for whatever reason, it pulls my attention. Someone slid it
into my locker at school today. I go back to my desk, pick up the flyer, and read it for a third time.
JOIN BLACK ALLIANCE CLUB!
HELP US SEND
A MESSAGE:
WE DON’T WANT
CONFEDERATE FLAGS AROUND.
TAKE IT DOWN!
TAKE IT DOWN!
TAKE IT DOWN!
I agree with Black Alliance; a Confederate flag does not belong in Lawrence Ross Academy of Music. It’s a prestigious school that prides itself on music excellence.
But like everything in Davey, our school is stuck in the past. If we were to get the flag situation fixed, another race-related issue would soon pop up. There’s always some race-based problem to rage, fight, and protest against. Who wants to spend two afternoons a week trying to combat race issues? Not me. So yeah, I guess I really am doing a bad job at being a good Black girl.
Here’s the thing: a year after my mom passed away, my dad took us to her favorite place, Port Aransas beach. I had just started locing my hair and made the very unwise decision to roll around in the sand, getting it everywhere. Aunt J washed and shampooed my hair thoroughly when I got home that night. And yet, days later, I found tiny grains of sand still caught in my locs. No matter what I did, I could never get all of it out.
That’s racism in a nutshell. I can’t pick it out, wash it out, or comb it out. No matter what I do, it’s always going to be there. The racism in this town is like those stubborn grains of sand, only multiplied. Somehow, it’s embedded under my nails, in the crease of my elbow, in the space between my lashes, and in my teeth. That’s why I can’t wait to get out of here.
I have a limited amount of time to make my mark in the world, and I don’t want to spend it trying to fix smalltown racism. Take, for example, my favorite cellist, Jacqueline Mary du Pré. When she was twenty, she recorded composer Edward Elgar’s cello concerto with the London Symphony Orchestra. Her playing was aggressive and yet measured and graceful. It would go on to be considered one of the best performances in classical music history.
Watching that concert was like the first time hearing Ella Fitzgerald scat, Kendrick Lamar spit, or Jazmine Sullivan riff: observing a thing of beauty.
But eight years later, Jacqueline was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis and forced to stop playing. I cry thinking of all the music she never got to make. In my head, Jacqueline and I were the same: we loved music so much, we made it our breath.
How much will I have accomplished before my music stops? Will I have had enough time to influence the classical music world? I’ve made a list of the ten great concert halls around the globe that I want to play in someday. What if I only get halfway down the list? I know my destiny is to play awe-inspiring music in breathtaking venues.
I know not every soon‑to‑be fifteen-year-old thinks so deeply about the finiteness of time, but I do. It could be because my mom died when I was only ten. It might be because timing is a key element in music. Or maybe it’s because it seems like every other month, someone that looks like me ends up on a poster with the phrase SAY HER NAME.
No matter what the reason, I get that time is fleeting. I don’t want to waste it joining Black Alliance or any other club that focuses on grains of sand I will never be totally free of. Instead, I choose to focus on playing my cello. Music never asks me to defend my right to exist or apologize for it.
