Im not dying with you to.., p.1
I'm Not Dying with You Tonight, page 1
Thank you for downloading this Sourcebooks eBook!
You are just one click away from…
• Being the first to hear about author happenings
• VIP deals and steals
• Exclusive giveaways
• Free bonus content
• Early access to interactive activities
• Sneak peeks at our newest titles
Happy reading!
CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP
Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2019 by Kimberly Jones and Gilly Segal
Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by Nicole Hower/Sourcebooks
Cover art © Jack Hughes
Internal design by Travis Hasenour/Sourcebooks
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Jones, Kimberly (Kimberly Latrice), author | Segal, Gilly, author.
Title: I'm not dying with you tonight / Kimberly Jones, Gilly Segal.
Other titles: I am not dying with you tonight
Description: Naperville, IL : Sourcebooks Fire, [2019] | Summary: Told from two viewpoints, Atlanta high school seniors Lena and Campbell, one black, one white, must rely on each other to survive after a football rivalry escalates into a riot.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019008892 | (hardcover : alk. paper)
Subjects: | CYAC: Race relations--Fiction. | Riots--Fiction. | African Americans--Fiction. | Atlanta (Ga.)--Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S3386 Im 2019 | DDC [Fic]--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019008892
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Part I: Mass Disturbance
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
Part II: All Call
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
Part III: The First Brick
17
18
19
Part IV: Fatal Funnel
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
Part V: Aftermath
27
28
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Back Cover
For Drake.
—K. J.
For Kate, who knows why.
—G. S.
“We didn’t understand that the riots had begun…”
—Bart Bartholomew, New York Times photographer and only professional journalist in South Central Los Angeles when rioting broke out following the Rodney King verdict
Part I
Mass Disturbance
1
Lena
McPherson High School
“Waiting for Black is on your agenda, not mine,” LaShunda barks as we leave the building.
I ain’t think she was gonna wait, no way, that ain’t what I was anticipating. I know she’s got responsibilities at home, but she knows I hate sitting out here by myself. If you ask me, this is really about her hating on Black. As usual.
“It don’t cost you nothin’ to walk away,” I snap back.
LaShunda cackles. “Can your grandfather stop speaking through your body?”
“I don’t know what you talkin’ about.” I flip my hair over my shoulder, but she got me laughing like she always does. “Pops got all the best sayings.”
She shakes her head and then looks down at my feet. “Anyway, I see you got them.”
A big smile takes over my face. LaShunda never misses anything I do. She knows me, like, really knows me, and she knew that statement would perk up both our moods.
“They cute, right?”
“Lady, you know they better than cute—they are fire, best friend. If I thought I could cram my size tens into them, I’d be trying to borrow them ASAP,” LaShunda says.
“I saw some size tens in a different style as cute as these. Let me turn a few more checks, and I’m going to hook you up.”
“Go, best friend. That’s my best friend,” she sings, and we both laugh. Her granny, Miss Ann, house is really her house. Miss Ann works two jobs and drives for Uber. LaShunda does all the laundry, cooking, and watching of her three bad, little cousins. Even though she works real hard, she’s not able to have an after-school job or anything. That’s why I love splurging on a pair of fly shoes for her when I can. I like being that person in her life who gives her the little extras. “So are we going to this game-slash-fund-raiser-slash-turnup-slash-piped-up lituation?”
“Yes, ma’am, you know if we don’t see the Dolls dance at halftime, they will kill us.”
“You ain’t never lied.” LaShunda winks. “NaNa, let me get out of here before Gram kills me.”
“Okay, but don’t flake tonight.”
Anyway, it’s okay she has to go. Some days you just want to be alone with your man, and for me, this is one of those days. I’ve been missing him. He’s been grinding so hard lately that we never get to see each other. He always smells good enough to eat. He puts aftershave right on his neck too, because he knows I like to rest my head on his shoulder and just breathe him in. Ooh, that man does something to me. He makes my head spin. I’m so caught up thinking about his fine self that I don’t notice LaShunda walking away until she yells back at me.
“Love you later.”
“Love you later,” I shout. She hates goodbye. That’s the last thing her mom said to her before she passed away from a heroin overdose. She’s never said the word goodbye to anyone since.
I think about texting Black but that will only aggravate him. I know he’s coming, and he always says what’s understood doesn’t need to be said. Not a minute later, he pulls up, bumping the new Kelechi album loud as he can. He has such amazing taste in music. He can’t stand trap music and only listens to real emcees who don’t do all that cursing and hating on women.
“Did somebody request an Uber?” He smiles, leaning toward the passenger window.
“I did. I hit the button for cute, so I wasn’t expecting fine. Is it the same fee?”
“Uber Black is usually a little more, but I lower the rate when the rider is fine too.”
We both laugh, and I get in. I lean over to hug him, and he smells as good as I expected. I almost don’t want to let go. I lift my face for him to kiss me and melt into him. His soft lips press against mine, and it feels like sun rays warming my skin.
I gently pull away. “I need to go home and get myself together to be cute at the football game tonight.”
“The game?” He starts the car and pulls out. “Since when is that something you do?”
“My girls doing the halftime, and I’m a good friend, jerk.” I push his shoulder playfully. “But you know, I don’t plan on staying longer than their show. So I’ll have some free time left before curfew.”
“Okay, well, Imma see how I’m movin’ tonight, and you know, I’ll let you know what I’m doing.”
“So, that’s a no?” I say, feeling my mouth twist up.
“I didn’t say no.”
“You didn’t have to,” I say. “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” We pull up a few doors from my house, and I let him kiss me goodbye. “Bye, Black.”
“Later, beautiful.”
I roll my eyes as I get out of the car. I walk in my house and head to the kitchen for a snack.
“What you doing?” Pops asks, not looking up from the sink as he washes the plates. I have no idea why my grandfather won’t use the dishwasher. I refuse to hand-wash dishes, my nails too delicious to be ruined by Palmolive.
“Just making a snack before I get ready for the game.” I sigh. Black usually leaves me in the most amazing mood, except for when he plays like he Hansel, leaving me crumbs.
“What’s got you down in the mouth?”
“Pops, you ain’t even looked at me.”
“Don’t need to. I can hear it. I reckon it’s ’cuz of that little knucklehead you just got out the car
with.”
“Pops, I didn’t—”
He interrupts, “Go to lying and the only game you gon’ see tonight is Wheel of Fortune on the Game Show Network. If you had a nice boy, there would never be a need to lie.”
No, if you gave him a chance, I’d have no need to lie. If I said that out loud, he’d pop me in the mouth. “Am I excused?”
“Go on, little liar on the prairie.”
I don’t care what Pops says as long as he don’t say I can’t go to the game. Imma try to hook up with Black later. I think tonight can end better than we just left it in the car.
2
Campbell
McPherson High School
Football Field
My dad’s truck rumbles into the school parking lot at the same time as the bus carrying the opposing team. We squeeze into a space at the very end of a row.
“It’s good you’re doing this, Campbell,” Dad says, as the bus empties and a long line of beefy football guys in tracksuits lumber out.
Is it? I stay in my seat, remain buckled. I wonder why he thinks it matters if I work the concession stand for one game at this school. I’ll only be here a year—my senior year. Where does he think this one night is going to lead?
While the players head through a gate in the chain-link fence toward the locker rooms, another bus pulls up and hems us in. This one lets out a load of cheerleaders, a dance team, and some boosters. The Panthers and their entourage fill the parking lot. According to what our principal said on the morning announcements, Jonesville is McPherson’s biggest rival, ranked one beneath us in the standings. Or something. I guess they would bus in a big crowd for such an important game.
The only people around seem to be Jonesville fans. You’d think McPherson fans would’ve shown up by now to cheer on the home team at the most important game of the season. Then again, the principal made a big deal about expecting extra security and demanding we all be on our best behavior tonight, so I’m guessing the rivalry gets intense. Maybe it’s better if the Jonesville superfans are settled on the visitor side of the stadium before the home crowd shows.
I look around for people I might know, then realize that’s ridiculous. I don’t know anybody here.
The human throng before us parts, allowing a tall woman with waist-length braids to make her way through. She struggles to push a dolly in front of her with one hand and drag a battered, red wagon behind her with the other. Both are heaped with cardboard boxes.
“That’s Ms. Marino,” I say. She coaches the dance team, teaches my English class, and invited me to work the concession stand tonight. I unbuckle my seat belt and hop out of the car to help her. To my surprise, my dad jumps out too.
“Campbell!” she exclaims. “So glad you decided to come.”
I can’t think why I did. Ms. Marino explained that this year, the proceeds from concession stand sales will be used to fund renovations to upgrade the rest of the athletic facilities so they’ll be as nice as the fancy new football field. The only catch is, the teams have to man the stand. Of course, as the athletes are too busy during games to work the booth, they’ve been asking for volunteers. I didn’t raise my hand when Ms. Marino asked, believe me. No one did, even though she practically begged for help every single day this week. The entire class dodged her. The awkward silences that followed her more and more desperate requests made me squirm. That’s probably why, when she caught me as the bell rang this morning and asked if I’d ever run concessions before, the word yes came out faster than an excuse.
My dad takes the dolly, I hoist a couple of boxes off the top of the wagon, and we follow her toward the main gate. She leads us past two dance team members raising a glittery SUPPORT FIELD RENOVATIONS banner up to the top of the fence.
“Good job, girls,” she calls. “Finish hanging that, and I’ll meet you in the locker room in ten minutes for warm-ups.”
The familiar ring of a coach giving orders makes me flinch. Words like those reverberated through my nights and weekends once. Back when I used to be on a team. I look quickly away from the girls and their mascot-logo warm-up suits, and scurry after my dad and Ms. Marino.
The huge concrete stadium looms above us, casting a shadow over the concession stand, which is a relief. There’s a good couple of hours of daylight left, and this wooden booth will be enough of a sauna without sitting in the middle of a sunbeam. The shade is the only thing to get excited about. Otherwise, the concession stand is a disaster—a rickety box built of plywood and two-by-fours, with big windows on one side covered by a rolling metal security grill, and below them, a lip of wood that juts out and is probably supposed to be the service counter. Ms. Marino dials the combination of a padlock hooked onto a hasp near the top of the door, slides it off, then yanks the door open, the knob wobbling loosely in her hands. With her, my dad, me, and the dolly, the booth is crowded to capacity. A third of the boxes and the wagon are still outside.
How is this going to work?
I don’t point that out, though. I just help ferry the boxes.
My dad stays long enough to help cram all the supplies into the concession stand. “Okay,” he says, when the last of the packages have been shoved into cabinets. “I’ll see you after the game, Campbell. Pick you up right outside the gate.”
“You know,” Ms. Marino says. “The dance team always celebrates at Mr. Souvlaki’s after home games. I think, after working the booth for us tonight, you’ve earned honorary team member status. You should come with us.”
I’m stunned. “I don’t really know any of the girls.”
She smiles gently. “This is how you get to know them.”
“Mr. Souvlaki’s?” Dad’s frown lines cut deep into his face as he considers this invite. “That Greek place up on Woodland Street?”
“Yes,” Ms. Marino says. “Pizza’s perfect, Cokes are cold, and they’re both cheap! And I’ll be there, as will both of our team moms. Plenty of adult supervision, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Campbell, I was planning on heading up to the cabin right after the game. I’m not thrilled about getting up there that late,” says Dad. He sets a hand on my shoulder, like his trip is breaking news to me. Like I’m disappointed and need comforting.
“You’re going out of town?” Ms. Marino asks, deflating.
“Just him. But he’s my ride home, so.” I feel a strange mix of regret and relief churning around in my stomach. “Maybe another time.”
“Oh,” she says, her smile back and beaming. “That’s no problem. I can drive you home after dinner.”
What? No, no, no. As if being the new girl isn’t pathetic enough. Now Ms. Marino is my ride?
Dad says slowly, “That could work. If I leave now, I’ll reach the cabin before it gets too dark.”
I protest, but in vain. My teacher and my father lock down my Friday night plans, he happily heads off to his fishing cabin, and before I even make sense of how it happened, I’m escorting Ms. Marino as she goes to get more supplies. We head toward her portable classroom, which is housed in a big square trailer on cinder blocks between the main building and the football field. 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. Ms. Marino chatters on about wanting to have the best sales records tonight of any other team that’s taken a turn running concessions, telling me the rules of running the booth. They’re nothing new—take this seriously, give accurate cash back, blah blah—but everything else here is. Her words wash over me as I wipe the sweat from my forehead and let my mind wander to what might be happening back home in Haverford. Which I shouldn’t think of as home anymore, since I probably won’t ever live there again.
“This fund-raiser,” Ms. Marino says. “It’s partly about raising money to renovate the concession stand. It’s such a disgrace compared to the new stadium. All kinds of donations welcome—construction supplies, for example.”
Ah, there’s the ulterior motive that isn’t related to my popularity status. She knows my dad owns Carlson’s Hardware down in the commercial district on Seventh Avenue. She can’t have ever been in the place, though, if she’s hoping he’s got anything extra to donate. I smile blankly back at her, pretending not to get the hint.
