crumbs, cornmeal, diced apple peels, and sometimes even bugs or worms. The chickens were always eager for whatever Stella tossedâworms and all. Actually, she thoughtthey were pretty rude, pushing one another out of the way to grab the best morsels. She found three fresh eggs and hightailed it back to the warmth of the house.
Waiting for her on the table was hot-water corn bread smeared with the apple preserves. Stella grinnedâMama made the best apple preserves! Jojo was slurping a bowl of cornmeal mush. Stella could smell onions simmering in the big dented pot on the stove, supper already in progress.
âI saved the last of the preserves for you,â Jojo announced.
âThanks,â Stella replied, surprised at his generosity. She munched on the warm, golden-fried bread. Nobody made corn bread as good as Mama.
Papa sipped from a mug of coffee, reading one of his three newspapers. âGotta know whatâs goinâ on in the world,â he always reminded Stella when sheâd ask why one paper wasnât enough.
The front page of the Carolina Times had a story about a Negro college football coach whoâd led his team to victory, and another about unfair treatment of colored workers in Raleigh. Sometimes that paper ran articles about Negroes who were responsible for newinventions or discoveries. Those always made Stella sit up a little taller.
She thought about the masthead of that paper. Its motto was âThe Truth Unbridled.â Stella liked that. Truth. On horseback. Without a saddle or bridle to hold the animal back.
âCan I see one of the other papers, Papa?â she asked, licking her hands free of jelly, glancing at the Rutherford County News and the Forest City Courier .
âSure,â her father said, pushing them her way without looking up. âLots of politics and people this week.â
Stella couldnât remember when sheâd started liking reading the news, but maybe it was because she lived in such a small speck of a town, and she liked how the newspaper helped her feel like she was part of something bigger. Maybe it was because the words on the walls had always been there. She slid both papers closer, taking in events that had happened all over the countryâto white people. Colored people were rarely mentioned in those two newspapers. In a curling, fading copy of the Forest City Courier glued on the back wall was an article about the local literary club who discussed âTheNegro in Literatureâ at one of their meetings. It read, âThis is a topic about which the average individual knows very little.â Stella shook her head every time her gaze fell on that one.
Now, she pushed the papers away. âPapa?â
âMmm?â he murmured, still reading.
âYou think any of the papers will write about the Klan rally last night?â she asked.
Now he looked up. âOh Lord, no, child. First of all, it was so late, maybe nobody else even saw it. But even if someone had, the white papers will never admit to it happening, and our paper would likely be forced out of business.â He gave the page he was holding a shake and added ominously, âOr worse.â
âI thought the Negro paper believed in reporting the truth,â Stella pressed, frowning.
âThey believe more in staying aliveââ her mother began.
But her father broke in. âNever be afraid to be honest and stand up for what is right, Stella,â he said pointedly. âJust remember to balance your courage with wisdom.â
âWhat do you mean?â she asked.
âCatching the Klan is kinda like nailing jelly to atree,â he explained. âYou work real hard, and what do you have to show for it? It just slips down the bark. You understand what Iâm saying?â
âYes, Papa.â She understood, but she wasnât sure she believed everything he said.
Mama filled Papaâs mug back up. âItâs chilly out
Chris Adrian, Eli Horowitz