Your Plantation Prom Is Not Okay, page 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2023 by Kelly McWilliams
Cover art copyright © 2023 by Kimberly Glyder. Cover design by Jenny Kimura.
Cover copyright © 2023 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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First Edition: May 2023
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: McWilliams, Kelly, author.
Title: Your plantation prom is not okay / Kelly McWilliams.
Description: First edition. | New York : Little, Brown and Company, 2023. | Audience: Ages 12 & up | Summary: High school senior Harriet is still grappling with her mother’s death when an unwanted property sale causes her to join forces with her new neighbor to stop Belle Grove Plantation from turning into a wedding venue.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022030023 | ISBN 9780316449939 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316450133 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Plantations—Fiction. | Racism—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Grief—Fiction. | LCGFT: Novels.
Classification: LCC PZ7.M47885 Yo 2023 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022030023
ISBNs: 978-0-316-44993-9 (hardcover), 978-0-316-45013-3 (ebook)
E3-20231228-JV-PC-VAL
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
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CHAPTER 1
LET’S START BY getting one thing straight: I do not live on a plantation.
Not the kind you mean.
Once upon a time, enslaved people did work sugarcane in Westwood’s fields, but years ago, Mom, Dad, and I restored it into an enslaved people’s museum—and that’s a totally different thing.
Of course, there is a Big House at Westwood, white with columns like thick marble teeth, poised to devour everything in sight… but we don’t sleep there. Dad and I live in a new home in the woods, because we’re not about to be the Black family in the horror movie that doesn’t leave the haunted house.
I’ve been a Westwood tour guide since my fifteenth birthday, when Dad gave me an ID card and his blessing to teach the hard truths we learned while restoring this place. I love what I do, but guiding tours can really take it out of you. It’s the proximity to suffering, to a history that should feel ancient, but doesn’t. In the long grasses, amidst the orchards and bare-floor cabins and whispering live oak trees, time collapses like a wormhole. Yesterday is today and tomorrow feels impossible. You know what I mean, especially if you’re Black or Indigenous or otherwise marginalized. You don’t even have to live on a plantation museum to breathe air soaked with history you can’t escape.
At the end of today’s long shift, I’m sitting slumped at my desk in the Welcome Center, vaguely staring at our exhibit on the Middle Passage. My last tourists have finished buying their books and postcards, the parking lot’s emptying out, and I’m stuck here manning the phones, wishing to God that we’d invested in central air. Southern summers don’t mess around.
But my biggest problem right now is a jackhammer.
Last year, a mystery woman purchased the plantation next door: a neglected cane farm called Belle Grove. All summer, they’ve been doing endless construction. It feels like I can hear every hammer striking every nail.
If I know anything about River Road, which is plantation central on this stretch of the Mississippi, there’s zero chance that Belle Grove’s being transformed, like Westwood, into a memorial. More likely than not, it’s about to be some awful bed-and-breakfast—and I’d bet my right thumb the proceeds will benefit somebody white.
And the jackhammering. It goes on and on. I’ve never been so ready to clock out, get home, and fall into a Netflix-shaped hole.
With two minutes until closing, I slip a sweaty lanyard off my neck. The ID tag reads HARRIET DOUGLASS, VOLUNTEER GUIDE. Outside, a high voice spirals out of control, and that’s when a bad feeling sinks its claws into me, familiar to anyone who’s ever held a customer-service position. You get a kind of premonition that some bull’s about to go down—especially when it’s bound to make you late.
In my case, the premonition takes the form of a stout white woman—one of my four o’clock tourists—making her way across the grounds, a surly preteen in tow.
Please don’t come in here, lady. I am not in the mood.
A silver bell rings, and she’s arrived. Her hand’s wrapped around her phone like a claw, and her kid, maybe twelve or thirteen, looks utterly resigned. Like he knows his mom’s about to make a scene. I don’t want to stereotype, but her Ritz-Carlton visor totally screams Vacation Karen.
Behind the desk, my spine snaps straight. Customer-facing systems engaged.
Meanwhile, I rack my brains, trying to remember if she looked this pissed on tour. But honestly, I didn’t pay her much mind. I was too focused on Mr. Goodman, a Black retired janitor who came to our museum looking for his ancestors.
Long ago, he’d heard a rumor that one of his kinsfolk passed through Westwood. He wore an old-fashioned camera slung hopefully around his neck, and every time I looked at it, I felt like the red heart emoji, cracked in half. The group held their breath while he examined our memorial wall, inscribed with the name of every enslaved person who worked this land. The green-black marble shone, shivering like water… and there it was, his family name. Mr. Goodman let out a surprised huff, and then broke down in big, gulping sobs. Black men, tough all year long, often weep at Westwood, but I never get used to it. The sweet older white couple from Florida started crying right along with him, snuffling into their matching flamingo shirts.
But this lady I’m facing now? She looked straight-up inconvenienced—and she didn’t shop like the other tourists. I bet she’s been sitting in her rental car this whole time, just stewing.
“Excuse me, young lady! Where is your manager?”
I hate this part. “Ma’am, what seems to be the problem?”
She jabs a finger at me. “You are the problem. This isn’t a plantation tour. It’s an ambush.”
Between my ribs, a critter I call the rage monster wakes up, flexing sharp claws. Ever since Mom died, I suck at controlling my temper.
“I mean, the nerve of trying to make us feel guilty for something that’s not even our fault!”
“We never intended—”
“And what about the Westwood family, hmm? They built this country, but you don’t have a kind word for them. Don’t you know slavery used to be normal? There were good owners, too.”
That phrase, good owners, explodes behind my eyes like a firework.
It’s a tale as old as time: A white woman who’s read one too many historical southern romances takes a vacation to Louisiana, then shows up at Westwood expecting to see the plantation from Gone with the Wind. She wants nothing more than to visit rooms full of antique furniture, maybe buy a cute parasol from the gift shop and call it a day.
But what we do here isn’t like that at all. Westwood is more like the Holocaust Museum—or the 9/11 Memorial. Some ex-plantations will sell you a fairy tale, but here, we tell it like it is.
Why can’t this lady see that?
Dr. Maples says that when I feel overwhelmed, I should look around. Remind myself what’s real.
Outside the window, a willow sways in the swampy breeze, and the chickens nap in their coop. Dad’s scared of chickens—I know, right?—but Mom always wanted fresh eggs in the morning. Now that she’s gone, I take care of the flock.
I turn back to my angry tourist.
“At Westwood, we focus on the perspectives of enslaved people. I’m sorry you feel guilty, but that wasn’t our intent.”
The woman throws her son in front of her like a shield. “Look at my Brayden. Just look at him. He’s traumatized.”
Brayden slouches, obviously wishing he were anywhere but here.
Like I’ve been dunked in freezing water, I suddenly miss Mom.
As a museum operator, she never blamed white folks for the feelings they brought to our tours. She’d know exactly how to reach out to Brayden—how to calm his mother, too.
My mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out. I just don’t have my mother’s irresistible calm. Don’t have anything of hers, really, unless you count the tiny upturn of my nose.
“I know it’s cool these days to be the victim, but this was a bit much. Those creepy statues of African children. This is not what we signed up for at all.”
Though my smile stays stitched in place, fury mounts behind it.
Unlike Brayden, the enslaved children memorialized in statues throughout Westwood were actually traumatized—their childhoods stolen forever. One of the Lost Girls stands outside the office, overlooking the chicken coop. She’s dressed in sackcloth, and her eyes are open, iron-forged sores.
Her name is Louisa.
In a snap, I tumble off script. “What exactly were you expecting from a plantation tour, ma’am?”
She’s thrown. “You know—Civil War heroes and the antebellum lifestyle. The real history.”
“Our mission, as clearly stated in our brochure, is to fight present-day racism with historical education. If we don’t study the past, we’re doomed to repeat it. There’s no reason to be ashamed by what you don’t know about this country’s racial—”
“Are you calling me racist? My best friend is Black, young lady!”
Karen takes a threatening step toward me, smelling of sweat and sunscreen.
“Where’s your manager?” She cranes to see behind me, then starts banging on the call bell. “Hello? Is anybody there?”
My “manager” is my dad, and he’s a historian with a doctorate from Stanford. Right now, he’s busy working on his new book. I’m not about to bother him for this Real Housewife of Wherever.
I snatch the bell away. “It’s just me today.”
“Well, I don’t accept that.”
“You’re welcome to put your complaint in the comment box.”
Her eyes drop to the old shoebox we keep as a decoy for aggressive guests. She snatches up a piece of paper and scribbles intently, sweat clinging to the hairs on her upper lip. Past her shoulder, the sailcloth of the Middle Passage exhibit shudders in the breeze, beckoning to those who care.
Brayden rolls his eyes upward, examining our ceiling—and my heart goes out to him. His mother’s a lost cause, but Westwood might be a formative experience for this kid. He could use what he’s learned to grow up differently from his mom. It’s a slim chance, but not impossible. And it’s one of the reasons Westwood exists.
While far-off construction workers holler, I try to catch his eye.
What would Mom say to him?
She always found grace under pressure. Even for racists. Especially for them.
Just then, my very favorite chicken, Rosemary, pecks the back door. Tippity tap. She’s notorious for flying the coop.
“There.” Red-faced, Karen punctuates her letter. “Don’t be surprised if you find yourself out of a job. It’s completely inappropriate to discuss whippings and—” She lowers her voice to a stage whisper. “And sex around children.”
I blink. “What?”
She scowls. “That woman.”
Face heating, I rear back. We don’t talk about sex on the tour, obviously, but we do tell the truth about the women Westwood purchased specifically for the purpose of bearing children.
I think it’s Anna’s history that she objects to.
Poor freaking Anna.
I always save her story for the end, as I’m leading the group across the Freedom Bridge. According to Dad’s findings, Anna was a teenaged girl who bore five children in five years—all of them sold away from her. Just think about that: She birthed her babies, held them, nursed them, and then handed them over to a stranger who would never, ever love them.
Anna ran from slavery three times. Louisiana plantations followed a very specific protocol for those who tried to escape. As punishment, she suffered ear cropping, whipping, and branding with the fleur-de-lis. But she never stopped running. Eventually, Westwood’s enslavers sold her to a plantation in Barbados as a “breeder.” They wrote her up like cattle, in scratchy, evil penmanship: Anna, strong-willed, but an excellent breeder.
Dad doesn’t know what happened to Anna in Barbados. The historical trail went cold. Today, her sculpture stands proudly on museum land, her gold-brown back sprouting a pair of gigantic angel’s wings.
“That woman was a human being,” I grind out. “I only told her story.”
“That’s a fine way to spend your time, telling unsuspecting people nasty stories like that. What must your mother think?”
At the back of my throat, I taste blood. “Keep my mother out of your mouth.”
“Are you threatening me?”
Deadass we’re threatening you, lady! the rage monster crows. You are everything that’s wrong with this country! NOW SIT DOWN. BE HUMBLE.
Self-preservation holds me back. Some women actually do find me physically threatening. Never mind that I’m only five foot four. Sometimes, I feel like white people live inside a video game.
“I want the price of our tickets returned. Right now.”
“No refunds.”
Rosemary pecks louder, clucking for corn.
“Well, make an exception.”
I hesitate. “Hang on.”
Karen smiles triumphantly, but I’m not about to return her money. I open the back door and let Rosemary in. She nips grumpily at my ankles. That’s my girl. I pick her up—her white feathers velvety against my cheek—and carry her to the desk.
Brayden makes a sound in the back of his throat.
I think hard at Rosemary: Do it for Anna.
Like a good attack chicken, she spreads her wings and launches herself at my disgruntled tourist.
Vacation Karen stumbles back, hollering, “What is wrong with you people!”
And there it is: plain-as-day racism.
For the first time, Brayden looks directly at me.
“Come on, Mom,” he whines. “I want to go back to the hotel.”
On impulse, I reach for one of Dad’s books—Oral Histories of the Transatlantic Slave Trade—and offer it to Brayden, whose preppy-ass name is not his fault. My heart’s pounding. All that anger transformed into need. The rage monster rolls over, whimpering and showing her belly. After all, we don’t run this museum for our health. We have a mission. Mom’s mission.
“Take the book. Free of charge.”
Brayden’s mother is running from the now-grounded chicken, clutching her purse like the bird might steal it.
“Don’t you speak to him! Brayden, come here.”
In the end, Brayden doesn’t take the book. Sadness pinches my heart, watching him follow his mother out the door. Behind them, glass slams, shuddering.
I groan, regretting setting Rosemary on my unhappy tourists. Wishing I were more like Mom. After a while I glance out the window, making sure Vacation Karen’s really gone.
Then I pull her letter out of the stupid comment box.
Our tour guide should be FIRED for the way she spoke to me, and I WILL be leaving a Yelp review!!! Westwood Plantation doesn’t deserve one more tourist. What a WASTE of an afternoon.
Poisoned by the toxic fumes of this white lady’s rage, I sink helplessly back into my chair. A negative Yelp review would be trash, because we need tourists now more than ever. Restoring a plantation’s not cheap—my parents took out over two million dollars in loans. We could lose money we don’t even have.
