A Chorus Rises Page 16

  I don’t like the way he looks at me now. He turns on the porch swing and puts his arm along the back, like he’s putting it around me. Like he’s about to say something very stupid, but he thinks he’s onto something.

  “Okay. But is your real issue with that toy that she can admire you and a siren…”

  Told ya.

  My legs unwind and shoot out, my feet slamming down on the porch and stopping our motion.

  I could say that I don’t have a problem with sirens, that disliking Tavia can’t make that true, that it shouldn’t even be a question, but again. I shouldn’t have to.

  “Gosh, Courtney, why would I have a problem with that?”

  “Don’t get mad—”

  “Why? Why not? Why shouldn’t I get mad? Isn’t that my character? I’m Nina. I’m the mean, bitchy, angry Black girl, and you know what’s super cute about that? It’s that under the circumstances—you know, of being treated like it’s my fault I was born Eloko, and it’s a discredit to my Blackness, and oh yeah, of having been turned to fucking stone, Courtney, and then having my attacker made America’s Sweetheart, and needing to work with somebody I know better than to trust to get the real story told—I am a pantheon of pleasantness! I am a gee-dee whimsical sprite, full of mirth and mischief!”

  “Okay—” he tries to diffuse the situation.

  Diffuse me.

  And I am not having it. Because I’m seeing it, thanks to the Knights of Naema. Not because I was Stoned, and what it was like wherever I was. That should’ve been what haunted me, but now I can see the statue I became. I’ve got a picture in my mind now, forever, of exactly what was done to me.

  I have to stand up because there is a very good chance I am about to blast off. It’s not even just that I’m right. There’s this surge inside me, like an entire village of people surrounds me—and every voice is in agreement. It’s a swell of conviction like I’ve never felt, and I almost can’t contain it. I step out from under the covering of the porch, and spin around to face my cousin. All I wanted was to admire the fiery sky in peace, but now it can blaze behind me for him to see.

  “Look,” he begins.

  “No, Courtney. You asked, so I’m gonna say my piece. Do you know how wildly, ruthlessly, homicidally pissed I would have to get to convey even a fraction of the anger I’m owed? And, speaking of a siren, do you know how many people thought I was a mean girl before that movie came out? Two. Tavia and Effie. And do you know why they thought that? Because we didn’t get along. Which is allowed!”

  I’m laughing again, arms thrown wide this time like otherwise I can’t release it all.

  “I am allowed not to get along with someone, Courtney!” I inform him, and the swell from the myriad voices concurring is still going strong. “Two people can not totally love each other, whether there are an equal number of us or not. Do you know what it means when they can’t? When it doesn’t matter who we like or want to be or want to be around? It means we’re not free. Everything can’t always be bigger than me.”

  “Ny,” Courtney whispers.

  “I dare you to say calm down.”

  “I’m not that stupid,” he says, and then his forehead creases and he gestures with his head for me to come back to the swing. “I was gonna tell you to get under the porch,” he says. “The rain’s coming any minute.”

  “I don’t care,” I answer, but a thunderous clap overhead drowns me out. And then it’s raining like it has never not rained, or like someone’s getting paid to make it look that way. It’s like this town got turned into a movie set, too, only they’re shooting for Seattle or San Francisco, where supposedly the rain comes down in inescapable sheets. The fact that the water’s warm is the final insult.

  Courtney’s face is scrunched up. “Tried to warn you,” he says.

  Awesome.

  It is very difficult to maintain a steely gaze and power pose when you’re standing under a fuggin’ waterfall, and after a moment, I relent and step back under the porch.

  “I’m gonna go inside,” I say, calmly because I can’t compete with this storm. Courtney stands up and looks like he wants to hug me. Thankfully I’m soaking wet.

  “Sorry for intruding on your alone time, by the way. I’ll make up the pullout for Little Bit.”

  “You don’t have to do that. She’ll be disappointed.”

  “Disappointed happens,” he answers. “She’s more resilient than you think.”

  “Hey. Be nice.”

  “Heh.” His head snaps back in an amused nod. “My mom’s gonna kill you for tracking water through the house.” And he slaps my shoulder before we head inside.

  * * *

  I take a shower because even though folks dance in the rain, I’m pretty sure it’s filthy and shouldn’t be left on your hair. But washing mine, relaxed or not, means I have to actually do something to it before I can go to bed. Of everything that’s happened lately, I’m beginning to regret standing where the rain could get me. I’m willing to concede that it would’ve been easier to get back under the porch.

  Aunt Carla Ann gives me a soft hood that connects to her blow-dryer, and after brushing and braiding my hair, I put it on. In Little Bit’s vanity, I look like a nutcracker, but it frees up my hands and my attention to focus on more important things. Which means I can grab my laptop and lose myself on Knights of Naema for a half hour, careful not to slip back into the subforum. Tonight’s visit is all about bad poetry, upvoting the non-gross pictures they’ve shared of me, and taking part in the polls, since you know. I know myself slightly better than the Knights do.

  Despite my maybe misgivings last time, it’s immediate relief. Even better this time. Purple isn’t my favorite color—I honestly have no idea why it’s the site’s theme—but it’s growing on me. But the best thing is that someone’s a legit artist, and they’ve shared their portfolio, which—to no one’s surprise, given where he’s posting it—is entirely made up of portraits of me. There’s charcoal, and chalk, and acrylic pieces, and even a time-lapse video of him creating one from start to finish.

  I watch that on a loop for a while. I marvel and it’s really not just because I’m a Pretty Bird. It’s the way I begin as faint pencil strokes, and slowly am revealed, like I’ve been on the canvas all along, and he’s letting me out. My favorite thing is how he hasn’t even chosen a picture to replicate for this one; it’s an original. Sort of, anyway.

  I don’t look mean in his portrait, or nice. I don’t look angry, or … whatever the opposite of that would actually be. It can’t be happy. It can’t be anything you can be at the same time, and I can attest to the possibility of being both those things at once. Just since coming down here.

  In the portrait, I look like me. Like the Naema I remember being a year ago, before junior prom. Like the Naema I thought was coming back until everything I had to tell Priam, until realizing my movie plan is still gonna work, but it’s not gonna be nearly as enjoyable as I’d hoped. But it’s going to happen, and when I go home, Upside-Down Portland is gonna get set right side up again. I’m not losing myself over Tavia Philips, or anyone else.

  Thank you so much, I tell the artist as Sheba503. It’s very appreciated.

  I’m smiling. It isn’t super explicit, but I feel like it’s phrased in a way that suggests who I am. Especially given the avatar I chose for my profile.

  Or not.

  Thanks, man, the original poster replies.

  Okayyy.

  Not a man, and I throw in a wink emoji. And even though it’s not exactly what I was planning to do with my first comment, I suddenly really want him to know it’s me. I want the Knights to know it’s me. So I finish with, and I’ve never been a muse before.

  I try to contain the escalating giddiness, anticipating his next reply. Maybe it’s because I haven’t posted on LOVE in what feels like forever. Courtney might say I’m missing my fan base, but what never gets mentioned is that it’s also a community I’m used to having. I wouldn’t mind feeling that again.
By the time the artist comments again, I’m fully biting my bottom lip.

  Okay … so that makes you THE Naema, I’m guessing?

  I speed-type. THE one, yes, and I toss in one more wink emoji, because two can’t possibly count as abuse. I had no idea you Knights existed, but I’ve been *lightly* stalking about, and am officially a fan.

  There’s a longer pause this time, and before the guy returns, another post materializes at the top of the page. A poll.

  Does Anyone Believe That Sheba503 Is THE Naema?

  Uh, what.

  Fine.

  I cast my vote, and roll my eyes. And the opinions start flooding in.

  Verification suggestions.

  Mentions of my profile photo, which someone has finally figured out isn’t one they’ve ever seen, or can find.

  Where does the real Naema live?

  Right, like I’m gonna give them my address. They’re harmless, but when I realized one of them is in or near Portland, I was glad the city’s a lot bigger than many people realize. And that Beckett’s an Eloko beacon, so they can’t assume I even live in the school district just because I attend.

  Which doesn’t even matter, because according to another member, that information wouldn’t be proof enough.

  Obviously, we know where she lives, and I sincerely hope this person means In General. We can get your portrait to the real Naema, if you want.

  Which. Makes it sound like he meant Specifically.

  My core is swept through with a cool wind. The voices have never seemed to have a temperature before, but this one absolutely gives me the chills. And I get that they’re the Ancestors, but that also means they’re probably even more paranoid about the internet age than living old folks, which is saying something. I’m a whole Interwebs Personality. I mean, I’m not the hugest, but I’ve done a meet-up or two with a few of my LOVE followers. Granted, they were also my peers, and not grown men, but. I don’t technically know that the Knights are, either. And I’m not gonna jump to conclusions, like people haven’t claimed to have all sorts of information for clout.

  I don’t know. That feels like a breach, doesn’t it? I don’t think IRL contact is cool … the artist says because he’s a normal human being with boundaries. As I suspected.

  I totally get why it seems that way, but there’s actually a way influencers drop clues nowadays. It’s their form of invitation. Naema did it all the time on LOVE, and she meets with people when they figure it out.

  Is a lie. I mean, not the meet-ups I was just mentioning; the whole Congratulations On Decoding My Posts, Come Into My House.

  C’mon.

  I didn’t know that, the artist answers. Like he believes. I wasn’t on LOVE.

  Okay, but there’s nothing stopping him from verifying that claim, since LOVE still exists and all.

  Np, dude. PM me and I’ll explain.

  What.

  How did dude go from reasonable person with an understanding of physical boundaries to gullible potential stalker in the space of like, three comments? It’s like watching someone get radicalized in real time. In that, that’s exactly what it is.

  The cool wind is still there, and yeah. That wasn’t exactly a winning display. But I’ve been on the internet long enough to know that the only way to fight it is by playing by the same rules. This radicalizer—the dramatically named NaemasNobleman who I actually saw on my first visit—is a nobody. Proving I’m the real deal immediately gives me more influence. I can shut this whole She Wants You To Find Her thing down, so I read the other verification suggestions.

  Post a new picture.

  Easy enough. Given what was just said, I don’t want to show too much of my cousin’s bedroom, so I make the frame tight. I also don’t want the flash and the close proximity to make this verification picture any less flattering than it has to be, so I depend on the light from the laptop. It’s grainy, but it’s kinda artistic, and very obviously me.

  “Hello, All The Knights But One,” I mutter as I post. Hopefully they don’t think the quality and weird angle is—

  And of course someone does.

  Photoshopped. That was quick.

  NyNative is the commenter’s name, and he’s got more to say.

  Where are you even supposed to be in that photo? Where’s that huge bedroom from your LOVE posts?

  “Calm down, son,” I say, and then comment, I’m actually out of town atm. Not in my own room, sincerest apologies!

  Haha, Naema always says that.

  “Yeah,” I say through a smile, upvoting the support. Which is not coming from NyNative, whatever that name’s supposed to mean. You’re right, I do. Okay, that wink emoji was definitely my last.

  Welp, we’ve got ourselves a phony, NyNative comments.

  “Uh … excuse?”

  The REAL Naema is in PDX right now. Saw her and the boyfriend on Burnside last night.

  “No. You didn’t.” My eyes are almost crossing. Why is this so frustrating? Who is this dude? And how is he on my fansite, and doesn’t even know what I look like. Because I’m extremely sure he didn’t see me on—

  Unless he saw Priam with someone else, and just assumed it was me.

  Who would Priam have been with?

  Okay, what I’m not gonna do is spiral out into paranoia because some rando thinks he saw me and my boyfriend— ex-boyfriend—in Portland last night. Because seeing Priam with someone doesn’t even mean anything, because Priam can have friends. Who from a distance might be mistaken for a significant other.

  Thanks, NyNative.

  This was fun.

  Chapter XVIII

  Knights of Naema Post

  TO ARMS

  Lancelot [silver/41] [metadata: posts (30)] [upvotes: 215]

  Last year, somebody wrote an article about an Eloko behaving badly, which was obviously about our girl. Maybe I’m the only one who noticed, but that was the beginning of a campaign against Naema. For the past year, someone—everyone—has been trying to demote her, trying to bring into question her identity as an Eloko, and they’ve used the basest tactic available: race. Ironic, coming from the self-proclaimed progressive Portland crowd.

  We’re the only ones who seem to take Naema at her word. That’s she’s #ElokoFirst. That she decides, not someone else.

  If we’re going to call ourselves Knights, at some point we have to actually do the work.

  We have to defend her.

  The media, the movie, the LOVE platform—they’ve done a good job putting her down and shutting her up. Yes, she’s the Eloko goddess, but she’s also just a girl. She shouldn’t have to face them all down on her own.

  We need to launch a campaign of our own.

  #Justice4Naema needs to mean something.

  Well, Knights? Who’s with me?

  Chapter XIX

  NAEMA

  The biggest adjustment has been the quiet. At first that’s all I thought it was. It happened as soon as I left Portland, and I didn’t exactly mean it literally then, but. Now it’s impossible to ignore.

  Eloko life is something very particular in Portland. It’s loud. And yes, it’s attentive and adoring, but it can also be cloying and cluttered. The cost of being the center of attention is that everyone has a take, and once they think you’ve done something wrong, trust me. That is much less fun.

  I didn’t even notice it before. When the noise is constant, it feels natural. How would I know there was an alternative? How would any of us? And now that I have a clearer head, that’s exactly what I want to know. What exactly Professor Vesper-Holmes thinks she knows.

  So I go have a look.

  The first thing to acknowledge, she writes on the blog that appears on her personal website, is the local disinterest in this work.

  Pout face. Portland isn’t clamoring for your Eloko Ain’t Even All That study?

  Actually, that’s sort of news to me; that isn’t how it felt. Unless they were only okay with demoting Eloko as long as I was the only one.

  I’m
constantly asked why I’m studying Eloko, and archiving what we know of them, what mythos we have on record, and what their magic actually entails. I’d be lying if I said that question didn’t confuse me.

  It may seem to go without saying, but in scholarship, nothing does: the role and reception of Eloko in Portland is a local phenomenon. This is the second thing to acknowledge, and it understandably impacts and informs the first. It may be because the population is so much higher here—a fact which might be appreciated partly for the way it seems to reflect well on the city itself—but whatever the reason, Eloko are at the top of the social stratosphere. Whatever else they are, Portland Eloko are adored because they are Eloko.

  Elsewhere, Eloko are beloved, certainly. But so are mermaids, and sprites, and the memory of oracles. Indeed, the unwaning obsession and glorification—which feels like a strong word, but that’s just me—Eloko enjoy in this city is not universal. (She isn’t wrong about that.)

  It’s because of this unyielding fixation that I first began to wonder—why? What dictates the adoration? How have Eloko earned it? How have we decided that this privilege is deserved, especially when there are others with magic whom we do not adore?

  I’m asking these questions because I think there’s something very wrong with refusing to. Perhaps for someone else, questions only arise about the less privileged, or when someone is at a distinct disadvantage. Personally, I think privilege should attract the most scrutiny, not the least. The only reason for the sometimes vehement disapproval of my work I face is a fear of what we’ll find—or in this case, perhaps it’s a fear of what we won’t.

  I breathe deep and just stare at my laptop screen.

  I’m waiting for … something. Rage, I guess.

  A week ago, I’d probably have been royally pissed. A year ago, there’s no probably about it. I would’ve declared Professor Vesper-Holmes unfit to carry out even ethnographic research on Eloko on the grounds that she’s not one of us. But that was before I met Leona Fowl, who is.