Read Kizzy Ann Stamps for Free Online

Frank Charles Feagans.”
    And at that, I felt hard, tight fingers circle my upper arm. I knew enough to put my left hand up to Shag, who was already snarling. I’d been careless to speak smart to a white boy in a public place — if my dog attacked, we’d have no end of trouble.
    It was Mr. Feagans, of course. He said he’d have to make me an example, and I don’t think he ever took a breath, carrying on in front of everybody like I was a sneak thief when all I’d done was let his son know to stop bothering my dog. Remember how I said the ground changes when he’s near me? This time those eggshells cracked under my feet.
    “I’ll need a switch,” he said. “One of those forsythia branches,” he suggested, and I knew his heart was a cold, dark thing.
    Forsythia is a tricky little shrub. It looks like it’ll be slight, like it won’t hurt, but there is no sting like the strappy sharpness of a smartly snapped forsythia branch. After my first experience with Mrs. Warren’s use of the forsythia for a switch, I gained true understanding of the wild-eyed terror of the horses who feel the whip as they pull wagons through town. And I learned a real respect for the old vet, Dr. Fleck, who abandoned a whip long ago. He refuses to coax with more than the heel of a heavy boot, a click of the tongue, and a polite request for more speed.
    I forced my legs to carry me to pluck a forsythia shoot. I refused to give Mr. Feagans the satisfaction of my fear. I refused to cower.
    But I cannot lie, Miss Anderson. It is a long, long walk back when you carry a switch. I dreaded what that switch would feel like, and more so, I dreaded the pleasure I knew Mr. Feagans would get from it.
    I ignored the stares of the others — I’ve gotten pretty good at ignoring looks and the stolen glances that more polite people give me. That I can usually handle. I have to.
    But I could feel anger coursing through me, Miss Anderson. Anger like James has been feeling toward that white coach. Anger like I didn’t know if I could control. Anger like I shouldn’t be telling you about, but somehow I can’t hold away from this pencil nub.
    Mr. Feagans decided it was beneath him to hold me and actually do the whipping himself. “One of your own kind should dirty their hands with your like,” he said. He pointed to the crowd and singled out a huge black man, muscles coursing and rippling through his clothes. “You there, you look like the man I need.”
    “I’d kill the child,” the man murmured. Another voice, a quiet voice, spoke up from the crowd. “I’ll do your dirty work.” Mr. Felix stepped forward. “I’m wiry and strong. I can hold the girl and spank her.”
    “’t’isn’t a spanking I want her to get, but a beating.”
    Mr. Felix acknowledged the task. “I can do it.” He flexed his forearms, and Mr. Feagans nodded agreement. Mr. Felix grabbed me in one arm and grabbed the whip in the other. He whispered in my ear, “I’ll be as quick as I can, though I can promise a little pain — it’ll hurt, girlie, or he’ll hurt us both worse. No way ’round it. Only way out now is through this.”
    He gave me one lashing for each year of age. I kept my gaze down at the dirt and pushed my hand up over and over to signal Shag to stay. She growled and snarled — she is no dumb animal, that’s for sure — but she did as I signaled.
    There were folks aplenty by the time he finished — black and white, old and young. Frank Charles paled out (I didn’t know white folks could turn whiter, but he sure did), and I heard a few gasps from the folks gathered — gasps at Mr. Feagans’s enthusiastic insistence that Mr. Felix whip harder. I also heard some nervous talk at the welts already rising on the backs of my legs, but not one being stood or spoke up.
    Except Shag.

    Thank you for the real journal book. Getting it today, the first day of school, with everyone getting one, is wonderful. This way I can keep writing to you, but letters would