Page 24 of Lula Dean's Little Library of Banned Book
Secret Keeper Girl. This was it. Beau took a deep breath. No matter how disgusting it was, he promised God he’d always be nice to his mama. AndMs. Throgmorton.EspeciallyMs. Throgmorton. He turned to the first page and began to read.
Are you there, God? It’s me, Margaret.
Oh no, Beau thought. It’s only page one and she’s already asking God for help.
But he summoned his courage and kept reading. A few chapters in, he let down his guard. There’d been no gory bits so far. It was just a book about a girl getting her period, which turned out to be a normal thing. In fact, he was a little ashamed that he’d been so freaked out by it. The story was pretty good, though, and the girls in it were funny.
More than anything, Beau was thankful he had something to read, because he hadn’t been allowed downstairs since his dad had returned. Randy Sykes and a bunch of men were sitting around the dining room table. His mom had come home, too, but she hadn’t made dinner. He could hear her crying in her room. He would have gone to comfort her, but he had a feeling that was not what she wanted.
It was after dark when he heard his brother bounding up the stairs. Then his door swung open. Peter ducked inside, a bag of ranch-flavored Doritos in his hand. He closed the door and stood there with his back against it, as though he’d just made a narrow escape.
“Holy shit,” he said.
“Oh!” Beau had forgotten about the bright pink book in his lap. “I swear. I was just curious!”
“What?” Peter saw the book. “Dude, I don’t give a shit if you’re gay. Dad just resigned as mayor.”
Chapter 11
This Blood and Soil
The plate-glass windows of Val’s Beauty Spa on Main Street looked out on Jackson Square. The downtown park was the reason Troy had been named one of the prettiest small towns in the South ten years running. Oaks and magnolias lined walks that all led to a moss-covered marble fountain right smack dab in the center that sprayed cool jets of water into the air eight months out of the year. Every summer, pranksters would dump a bottle of Dawn dish detergent into the water and a magical dome of glistening bubbles would rise up to the heavens. In front of the fountain stood the handsome, mustachioed statue of Augustus Wainwright, the general in the Confederate Army who’d owned Avalon, an enormous plantation on the outskirts of town. Sherman had marched out of his way to burn the mansion, sparing the town of Troy from his wrath. Temporarily bankrupted, Wainwright had risen again, becoming one of the wealthiest men in the United States less than five years after he signed his oath of allegiance. On the far side of Jackson Square stood the county courthouse he’d built—the pride of Troy, if not all of Georgia. A giant brick layer cake of a building, complete with Doric columns, Juliet balconies, and topped with a gleaming golden cupola. In private, Wainwright had called it his personalfuck youto Ulysses S. Grant.
Growing up, Beverly Wainwright Underwood had heard the courthouse story told a thousand different ways. It was meant to make her feel proud ofher heritage, her town, and her state. And it had—until she started to learn what it all really meant. But that revelation had taken young Beverly a while to reach. When she was a child, she’d been taught things were simple. The War of Northern Aggression had been a barbaric invasion—an attack on the Southern way of life. Before everything went wrong, all the rich families who’d settled the land had been lifted up by God himself, who’d blessed them with good brains, excellent breeding, and a Puritan work ethic. The Black folks who’d toiled in their homes and on their farms—first for free, then for next to nothing—were every one of them lucky to be there. They were all so happy they danced and sang in the fields. Meanwhile, the poor whites who drank and stole and spread venereal diseases only had themselves to blame for their misfortunes.
These ideas had been hammered into Beverly’s head from the time she was old enough to listen. There hadn’t been anyone around who could set her straight—or was even the slightest bit interested in doing so. In school, she’d learned her ancestors had fought for states’ rights. No one mentioned that the “right” they were so keen to defend was the institution of slavery. The historical markers around town recalled the heroism of Confederate soldiers defending their homeland. She attended parties thrown on the lawns of old plantations where girls dressed in hoop skirts and floppy Georgiana hats that tied in velvet bows under their chins. She’d followed tour guides through magnificent old houses and never noticed the humble shacks out back. She’d listened to the older generations tell stories passed down about the years before the war and come away enchanted by a South that was Camelot, Eden, and Tara all rolled into one.
And even if none of that had made an impression—even if she’d slept through history class and skipped all the parties—the inscription etched beneath the statue of Augustus Wainwright would have been impossible to miss. People believed the man had composed it himself, and every citizen of Troy knew it by heart. They set it to music. They recited it before football games. They had it hammered into the granite that marked their own graves.
Bow Not Before Tyrants
Fight for Your Freedom
Sacrifice All but Honor
And Die with Dignity
This, she’d always been told, is what it meant to be a citizen of Troy. It was a way of life—a dedication to honor—that her ancestors had given everything to defend. What was there to argue with in those four simple lines? Beverly might have gone to her grave none the wiser if her mama hadn’t gotten sick.
When the diagnosis was first made, Beverly took a leave of absence from Vanderbilt. It was first semester of her freshman year, and she assumed she’d be back after Christmas break. By then, however, the cancer had infiltrated her mother’s lymph nodes. Trip told her there was no rush—she could return to school whenever she was ready. But Beverly had known there would be no going back. Her mother needed her in Troy. If she was going to expand her mind, she’d just have to educate herself.
Of course in those days there were no bookstores near Troy. No Amazon to deliver. No streaming documentaries to watch. So Beverly turned to the local library. The librarian back then had been a woman named Jeanette Newman. She never wore a spot of makeup or ironed out her natural curls. These eccentricities, along with a degree from some school in Vermont and the kudzu-eating goats the librarian kept in her backyard, inspired many of the town’s fancier types to refer to her asthat hippie.
“Don’t let that hippie try to sell you any reefer,” Beverly’s mother ordered when Beverly mentioned she was walking over to check out some books.
“Oh, I won’t, Mama,” Beverly promised. Correcting her mother was out of the question. It just wasn’t done. “I only take reefer if it’s free.”
“Beverly!”
“Don’t worry, Mama. If I get some, I’ll be sure to share with you.”
Her mother shook her head, but Beverly could tell she was struggling to stifle a laugh. Beverly had always gotten away with saying things no oneelse would have dared. Everyone knew a girl with dimples and perfect white teeth and a blond ponytail with the ends curled just so could never do any wrong. Beverly sometimes wondered if anyone other than Trip could see the real her.
That was before she got to know Jeanette Newman.
The librarian had three number-two pencils stuck in her hair that morning. Beverly couldn’t tell if they were there on purpose or how long they’d been there.
“Well, I wasn’t expecting to see you today,” the librarian said as Beverly approached the desk. “Aren’t you supposed to be off at school?”
