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lean in and examine them further. As the girl blinked nervously, Beatrice watched her long curled-up lashes catch some of the drops and hold them. The girl finally offered only a small, nearly imperceptible nod to Beatrice to let her know she was fine.
    “Beatrice, what the hell? Are you really that thick? You didn’t learn anything from last month did you?” Simpson shoved Beatrice aside with a force unlike any of the playful teasing the two of them had done in the past. He was angry. “She needs to go on. Now.”
    Shoving him back, Beatrice let all the fury that had been building in her over the last month show on her face. “She’s a little girl. You’re going to beat her with a bat?”
    “I got lost,” the girl whimpered, dropping her head obediently like a dog to its master. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” Her voice was quivering, and that only made Beatrice’s rage grow.
    “God tells us to love everyone,” Beatrice countered with her chin held high. “She’s a lost little girl. She deserves mercy.”
    “Shut up, Beatrice,” Simpson growled, looking over his shoulder and biting at his lip nervously.
    “You can’t seriously think you should beat her with that bat because she got lost near your farm?” she shot back, eyeing Simpson’s hesitation. Surely if he was going to do it he’d have done it by now.
    “You’re a retard, Beatrice. You must be. I know your mama and daddy can barely read and you don’t have no television, but how can you not know what’s going on in the world? It ain’t just about them anymore.” He gestured over to the little girl with the tip of the bat and sent her jumping nearly out of her skin. “They’re stringing up whites now, too. Shooting them. Burning them. White people out there marching with them, trying to get them the vote; they’re getting killed, too. You can’t help them. You ain’t supposed to.” Simpson dropped his bat to his side, but his face was twisted up and angry like he was trying to explain to a horse how to eat with a fork.
    “I don’t get it. Why does everyone hate them so much?” Beatrice demanded, balling her fists together and stomping her foot in frustration. “I’m tired of being dumb about all this stuff. I want to know.”
    “It’s complicated,” Simpson replied as he brushed his hand over his dark brown hair. She saw gold flecks in his eyes that had previously been masked by a fierce anger, and they now caught the light that filtered down through the trees.
    “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” Beatrice said with a shake in her own voice now. She was exhausted. Sick of feeling tired and stupid.
    “You don’t have to do a damn thing and you’re mighty lucky for that,” Simpson explained with an edge back in his voice. “No one is looking to you to do anything. No one is handing you a white hood. You’re a girl, all you gotta do is keep your mouth shut and stay out of the way. Count yourself lucky for that and go on home.”
    “I ain’t gonna let you hurt her. You’ll have to hurt me too. There ain’t no way I’m going home knowing you’re gonna beat on her.” Beatrice stuck out her chin defiantly. Surely this was different than the man on Main Street she’d tried to help. Her father couldn’t possible agree that this little girl, who’d accidently gotten lost, should be beaten by a boy so much larger than she was. The situations were completely different, and she tried to convince herself that she was doing the right thing.
    Simpson drew in a deep breath as though he was trying to calm his temper. “You don’t know what you’re doing, Beatrice. This ain’t kid shit anymore. We ain’t horsing around in the schoolyard. The world isn’t what you think it is. You have a choice to make. We all do. People don’t want any kind of mixing with colored folks. They’re willing to do anything to keep that from happening. And you’re either with them or you’re dead. That’s your choice.”
    “I