All at once, the cops are walking toward us, fast, like they have a purpose. They’re all in neat rows. Hundreds of them.
They’re getting closer. They aren’t stopping. Are they seriously going to march right over us?
I scramble to my feet when the cops are nearly on us. Around me, everyone else is doing the same thing.
The cops don’t slow down. I don’t understand what’s happening.
A vehicle barrels down the road. A paddy wagon. I’m staring at it, my mouth gaping, when a cop charges at me.
I scream. Everyone’s screaming. The cop is coming straight at me, his club pulled back, ready to strike. All around him, the rest of the cops are running too.
I bend down, covering my head with my arms, and feel a rush of air as the officer runs past me. He brings his club down on the head of the parade marshal behind me, the one who was shouting for us to sit down.
They’re everywhere. Every direction I turn. Cops, shouting. Cops, swinging their clubs. The marshal behind me is lying on the ground, blood pouring from his head. The cop swings his club down on him again and again, striking his chest, his back, his head.
Diane. I’ve got to find Diane. I dart my head from side to side, frantic, but it’s impossible to see who’s who in the darkened chaos. I’ve lost sight of Floyd too.
A man sprints past me, four cops on his heels. One of them strikes the man across his head. He collapses onto the ground. The cop charges toward someone else. Other people come running by, trampling the man on the ground. He cries out, but no one seems to hear him.
“Hey!” I shout. “This man needs help!”
No one seems to hear me either.
Everywhere I turn it’s more of the same. People shout. Clubs wave in the air, then crash down onto heads and shoulders. Protesters are dragged through the streets by their arms or legs and then stuffed into the backs of the paddy wagons. Blood pours from their wounds.
Between the screams, people are shouting, “THE WHOLE WORLD IS WATCHING! THE WHOLE WORLD IS WATCHING!”
I look up. It’s true. There are TV cameras pointed at us from the Hilton. I wonder if we’re on live right now. If the delegates are watching us from the convention floor. Chanting might not change anyone’s minds, but this — seeing this on their TV screens — this should make them see things differently. No one could watch what’s happening here and say this is right.
Then I see Diane. I think it’s Diane, anyway. From the back, it looks like her light-brown hair has come loose from its braid and is spilling over the collar of her denim shirt. A cop is running at her, but she’s looking the other way.
“Diane!” I scream. I run toward her, ready to knock her to the ground to get her out of the cop’s path.
I’m about to grab her when she turns. Only it isn’t her. It’s a boy, his eyes wide with fear.
I’m staring at him, my eyes just as wide, when a hand clamps down on my shoulder and yanks me back with a strong grip.
The cop swings me around to face him. He’s tall and fat, his face spread into a grimace behind his clear plastic visor. His eyes are blue and beady. He looks straight into my face as he slams the club down onto my shoulder with all his strength.
I collapse to the ground, sprawled on my back. The pain shoots into my neck, my head, my arm. It feels like I’m on fire. A heavy boot crushes my hand, someone running past me without looking where he’s going. I barely feel it.
My father was right about the police. I should have listened.
Above me, the cop lifts his club to swing again. I try to cover my body with my arms, but I can hardly move. I close my eyes and wait for the blow.
“Hey!” someone shouts above me. The club doesn’t come down.
I open my eyes.
It’s Diane. She throws herself in front of the cop, both her arms in the air.
“She didn’t do anything!” Diane shouts. “Leave her alone! You already hit her!”
“She’s with those longhairs!” the cop shouts.
“No she’s not!” Diane shouts. She’s standing ramrod straight. It would take a bulldozer to get her out of the cop’s path. “She’s with me!”
Maybe the cop realizes she’s right, that I didn’t do anything. Maybe he doesn’t want to keep arguing over some black girl. Maybe he gets what Diane really means — that I’m with her, with her. Whatever it is, he shakes his head at Diane, like he’s disgusted, and turns away. His club is still raised, ready to strike someone else.
“Come on!” Diane bends down and grabs my hand, the one the man’s boot didn’t crush. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
There’s no way I can move. I’m certain of it. But when Diane pulls me up, somehow my muscles respond, peeling me off the pavement. I stare at her hand, at her face. She’s the only thing in the world that makes sense right now.