Excerpt from How to Dodge a Cannonball by Dennard Dayle, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Because we're free."

"Like me!" said Anders, participating.

"Yes, like you, Anders."

The teacher had answered him without ignoring him. Anders was dominating this round of the game.

"We can be mayors," Anders continued.

"No, we can't."

"Oh. Well, we can vote!"

"Just you."

"Oh. Then Liberty Valley's a dumb name."

"Now then," said the teacher. It was her go-to strategy when he'd made a point, but she planned to keep going. "Liberty Valley was founded in—"

"Mama calls it NiggerTown, which makes Auntie laugh. I think that's nice, having your own town. Is there a WhiteTown? I hope they have a river."

"It's WhiteTown everywhere, Anders."

"Oh." Anders chewed on the words, and the whiff of venom that had entered the teacher's voice. The sport had left the game. "That's untoward, we should make a NiggerTown."

A younger boy—one of the shoeless ones—in front made a sound between laughter and choking. Other students looked through Anders or made a show of staring at the teacher. For her part, the teacher started and stopped multiple responses, never making it past the first two or three syllables. Finally, Robin gave Anders the first look he could identify as a death stare.

Then Anders caught the edge of a familiar shape in his peripheral vision and let himself fall. He landed hard on his knees but knew worse approached.

Anders, like most surviving children, owned strong instincts. Those instincts told him to move after seeing his mother's shadow. He heard metal ricochet off wood as he dove left, shielding his head with his forearms for the landing roll. By the sound, she'd only thrown a medium lid. That bode well: the medium cookware lacked the arrow-like speed of the small and the brutal heft of the large.

"Boy!" she shouted before launching a medium saucepan. "What in hell are you doing here again?"

"Learning," volunteered Anders. He primed himself for a second roll, watching her hands. Whether she pitched with her main or off hand would shape his next move.

"At the nigger school?"

"It's the only school here."

"Are you a nigger?"

"Maybe?" The question intrigued him. "It's a nigger town."

A small bowl bounced off Anders's forehead, shifting the world to a shaky blur. She'd caught on and brought a mixed set. By the time he rallied and found his feet, she'd be in switch distance.

Drawn by either the noise or a stray projectile, the teacher's black (mulatto? octoroon? there were too many shades) head poked out the schoolhouse window. She peered at Anders, then his mother, and then back at Anders. The bewildered squint returned and faded. She made a small, polite wave, adjusted a small white latch, and let the window fall shut. He was on his own.

Excerpted from How to Dodge a Cannonball by Dennard Dayle. Copyright © 2025 by Dennard Dayle. Excerpted by permission of Henry Holt and Company. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.