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little liar on the prairie.”
The portables were probably meant to be temporary, housing overflow classes until the district could add on to the building, but as far as I can tell, they look like they’ve been there for about thirty years.
“You called me Becky, but my name is Campbell.” “Like the soup?” Her tone is sharp, but her mouth curves up at one corner. It’s nothing close to a smile. But it’s there. “Yeah,” I say. “Like the soup.” “And people think black kids have stupid names.” She shakes her head. “Okay, then, Campbell Soup. You ready to get ya ass outta here?”
“We’ll go straight to the parking lot. It’s full of cops, we’ll be—” “You want to go to the cops? You must be playin’!”
“They ain’t gonna bother you, maybe! They look at you and see a poodle. They look at me and all they see is a pit bull.”
“They’re all soft as gummy bears. That one over there—the big guy? Look at his arm when we get up close. He got a Hufflepuff tattoo.”
Ms. Johnson has the pulse of this neighborhood. She’s better than Black Twitter at keeping up with news.
They stand out like nothing else on this out-of-control street, wearing more camo clothing than the army and a hat with a Confederate flag on the front.
you were there. It didn’t start out about looting or all that. Did them news people show up before, when they was having a peaceful protest? Was anybody listening when they tried to approach things in a civil manner? No. But when shops start burning down, here they come. I’m not defending looters, but you’re not even trying to understand. When you push people to their breaking point, and they ain’t got no power, they’ll find a way to take it.
