Long Black Curl by Alex Bledsoe

this mess in the first place. It didn’t take long for that to change, though, and their society quickly became a mirror of the one they’d left: two groups, diametrically opposed in almost every way, with their own leaders.
    Luke’s family was part of the group that stayed under the Feller. And now they had the leader of the other group, Rockhouse’s opposite number, seated at their table. If she ate or drank anything they offered, it might affect the extremely tenuous balance of power even more.
    â€œWell, it’s a good thing Luke found you,” Elgin said. He got up and took the string-tied note to the counter, where a pile of medical bills waited. He tucked it beneath them, returned to his seat, then spooned mashed potatoes onto his plate.
    Mandalay looked at Luke. “Yeah, it sure was. If I ain’t said it yet—thank you.”
    â€œNo problem,” Luke said.
    One of his sisters, older and with glasses, sat down with an accordion and began to play. The music was infectious, and it took all of Mandalay’s self-control not to tap her foot along with it. The sound filled the kitchen, and Luke’s older brother patted out a rhythm on the table edge.
    Mandalay gripped the edges of her seat as tightly as she could. If there was danger in sharing food or drink, then there was a possible apocalypse for her if she joined in their music. The problem was, music was insidious—you could find yourself humming, or swaying, or head-bobbing along with it before you were aware.
    Claudia sang in a high, keening way that blended seamlessly with the accordion:
    Well, you look so fine
    In that borrowed suede jacket of mine
    Now, cozy up behind the wheel
    Of an aquamarine automobile
    We’ll just take it slow
    Listening to songs on the AM radio
    No particular place to go
    Valiant and Fury girls.…
    Mandalay felt the music swelling in her, connecting her with the years—millennia—of songs of the Tufa. The song ached with loss, with friendship and love that once flourished and danced among the flowers in the rain, but was now old, and tender, and reaching out for comfort. She wanted to cry, and fought mightily as her vision blurred. To admit this intense an emotional response to their music was to give them a level of power over her that could easily spell her doom.
    The family, except for Luke, harmonized on the next verse.
    Well, the Valiant finally died
    And I sat and said my last good-byes
    I saved a hubcap for my walls
    Called the garage to make that haul
    Well, the tow truck guys were drunk
    And they complained it was a piece of junk
    Yeah, that junk was my life
    Valiant and Fury girls.
    Mandalay bit the sides of her cheeks until she tasted blood. The song draped over her like a cerecloth shroud, the weight of its ache as heavy and final as the pressure of that wax-dipped funeral cloth.
    Then Luke said, “Mama, y’all stop it.”
    Claudia stopped singing, and the accordion choked off with a melodic wheeze.
    â€œLuke, you apologize to your mama or you’ll get the whippin’ of your life,” his father said.
    Luke stood up. His face was red, and his eyes shone with tears of anger. “You can whip me if you want, Daddy, but it still ain’t right, what you’re doing. Mandalay don’t want to sing with us, and that’s fine. She’s a guest in our house.”
    Elgin stood, grabbed the back of Luke’s shirt with one hand, and began to unbuckle his belt with the other. “Boy, I’ll teach you to disrespect—”
    â€œYou will not,” Mandalay said quietly.
    Everyone froze and stared at her.
    She stood, her fingertips resting on the table. Her voice took on a quality of ancient, unyielding power. “You will not lay a hand on this boy. You will not punish him for standing up for what he thinks is right.” She said these things as simple statements, not orders. It was as if they were an already accomplished