“It won’t take me but a minute to show him how to fix it, then you can lock me up,” Weed said. “And I can do the parade and get locked up again.”

He looked up at her, fear shining in his eyes. He could tell Judge Davis understood something bad would happen if she let him go home. He turned around and looked at his mother.

“It’s okay, Mama,” he said. “It ain’t got nothing to do with you.”

Tears filled her eyes, and his got a little swimmy, too.

The C.A., whose job it was to punish to the fullest extent of the law, finally argued the case.

“The release of him is an unreasonable danger to the property of others.” He quoted the code. “I think there is clear and convincing evidence not to release him.”

The judge leaned forward and looked at Weed. She had made up her mind. Weed’s heart jumped.

“I find there is probable cause for the state,” the judge let everybody know, “and an adjudicatory hearing will be held twenty-one days from today. The state may summon witnesses, and the juvenile will remain in detention. But I order that the juvenile be released into the custody of Officer Brazil this Saturday.” She looked at Weed. “What time is the parade?”

“Ten-thirty,” Weed said. “But I gotta be there earlier than that.”

“When does it end?”

“Eleven-thirty,” Weed said. “But I gotta stay longer than that.”

“Nine A.M. to one P.M.,” the judge said to Brazil. “Then back in detention pending the court date.”

35

THE MORNING OF the Azalea Parade Weed’s soul was as light as light itself. He wished he could paint the way he felt and the way the morning looked as Officer Brazil drove him to George Wythe High School, where the Godwin marching band was waiting and warming up.

Weed was proud and sweating in his polyester and wool blend red-and-white uniform with its many silver buttons and its stripes down the legs. His rolled-heel black shoes looked like new, the Sabian cymbals polished and safely in their black case in the back seat.

“Too bad you haven’t had more time to practice,” Brazil said.

Weed knew that out of the 152 members of the band, he was probably the only one who had missed a week of practice. He hadn’t had a chance to look at his drill charts or work on forward march, pull mark time, pull halt, high mark, backward march, his favorite freeze-spin and especially the crab step, which was unique to the percussion section of Godwin’s finely tuned precision marching band.

“I’ll be all right,” Weed said, staring out the window, his heart thrilled.

Already crowds were gathering. It was predicted this might be the biggest turnout in the history of the parade. The weather was perfect, in the seventies, a light breeze, not a cloud. People were spreading out blankets, setting up lawn chairs, parking strollers and wheelchairs, and those who lived along the parade route had decided it was a good day for a yard sale. Cops were everywhere in reflective vests and Weed had never seen so many traffic cones.