A Chorus Rises Read online

  I pull my lips into my mouth to keep from joining the memory or my cousins in laughter, but it’s only barely working, and I have to go hard in the opposite direction, furrowing my forehead and looking Very Serious at Courtney instead.

  “I hate you.” And he stalks off toward the trail, yelling back, “Nobody follow me!”

  Clay and Lorraine must be used to this more adorably petulant side of Courtney, for which they possibly definitely are always responsible, because the two head off after the bobbing blond mushroom, who is kicking at desert flora as he goes. I stay on the truck bed because despite the breathtaking view, I have no desire to be bitten by a snake and die in the desert, or to be stung by a scorpion and die in the desert, or—you understand.

  I only pull out my phone because Courtney brought it up, but when I do, when I unlock it and am assaulted by big red bubbles in the corner of nearly every messaging or social media app I own, I realize how long I’ve been unplugged. In the space of eight hours or so, I’ve accumulated so many notifications I almost forget I haven’t uploaded any content all summer. It’s like the good old days, only more redundant because everything’s from the same four people.

  Priam has filled our private chat with a million pictures, like we’re still a normal couple who refuses to miss a moment of each other’s day. He got a latte at some point. Broke in his latest Adidas. He met a puppy at Macleay Park, and I’m assuming the owner served as videographer for the footage of him declaring the thing his best friend. He knows I’m not a dog person, but it’s head knowledge; it has never truly settled in his heart despite the fact that I never swoon like you’re supposed to. I’m sure if he posted this video anywhere, he’d get an immediate invitation to be the first Teen Bachelor, which sounds just awful enough to work.

  The puppy is the same pale brown as my beloved Fiat, which Priam wisely points out, and that accounts for why I swoon a little.

  Jamie has finally decided to ask what made me question Priam’s dating life. Which momentarily sends me back to all of his messages and pictures, in case I missed some snippet of an arm or shadow or evidence that he was with someone new today. There’s nothing, and I feel ridiculous for putting so much stock in the opinion of a super-argumentative Knight who couldn’t even tell my picture wasn’t Photoshopped.

  Gavin wants advice about Girlfriend, who apparently still exists and is Starting To Feel More Like A Fan Than A Girlfriend. Le gasp, Gavin. Much incredulous. Very plot twist. I can’t roll my eyes hard enough, but Gavin Shinn falls in love like rain on Portland. It’s not actually constant, but every time it starts up again, it sure feels like it.

  Mommy began the day informing me she had no updates regarding the baby, to no one’s surprise. Children need longer than three months to gestate, if health class is to be believed. She then proceeded to tell me every time she felt a flutter in her abdomen she’s sure is The Baby and she knows because She’s Very Attuned To Her Body And Always Has Been. Which apparently means I, too, must be attuned to it.

  There are four pictures, just from today, of her uncovered stomach, reflected in various mirrors around the house.

  If she weren’t so small, it really would just look like she had a big lunch, but it’s fine. She’s excited.

  That’s everybody, but there are still so many emails and voice mails and missed calls, and finally I realize it’s all Leona Fowl.

  “Hi, Naema,” her unmistakable rasp blares through my phone, a crackling distortion laced throughout like she really wants to talk to me but she also really had to go swimming, maybe? “This is L.”

  Everybody’s got a nickname.

  “Just wanted to let you know I’m ready if you are. I got your message about your family reunion ending tomorrow evening, and I cannot wait to catch up once you’re free.” And she says, “Naema.” Dramatic pause. “This is gonna be big.”

  And then I get still. It is big.

  Setting the record straight about Tavia Philips is a big deal. Defending myself for once, whether I should have to or not, is a big deal. Refusing to be the easy villain is a big deal. Getting to do all that without creating collateral damage is the biggest deal. For once it’s gonna be about me and Tavia. Two girls and what happened between us, without all the rest. I’m over having to protect folks just because. And while we’re at it, I’m sick of female rappers not getting to beef as is customary in the game because the conversation inevitably becomes about women tearing each other down. I’m sick of being chastised, of having to uphold the humanity of so many intersections that I’m not allowed to just dislike someone. And I would’ve been fine to go on doing that in our own little corner of the world, but apparently we make diss movies now.

  She got hers. I get mine.

  “Hey, Naema.”

  Oh. Okay, this one’s from Leona, too.

  “I’ve forwarded you some information. I’m over the moon excited about getting this chance to work together—”

  I actually look at my phone, and though it’s inanimate, I feel like it just shrugs because despite the fact that it’s not tomorrow evening, Leona’s still talking. And there’s suddenly a lot of We and Together, and mentions of Our Window Of Opportunity. It’s almost like she’s hoping that by verbally aligning us as a partnership I won’t remember that it’s my story, and she’s just one producer out of who knows how many. I mean, I don’t know any others. I just naturally bristle at someone who thinks I don’t see what they’re doing. It’s this quirk I have.

  I delete her message, but there are three more just like it. She’s equally in a rush, equally super chill and casual like she’s not bordering on troubling insistence.

  Delete delete delete.

  What I’m not expecting to find in my inbox are new travel itineraries, since I haven’t bought my return ticket home, and—that doesn’t really matter because they aren’t mine.

  Leona Fowl has forwarded me confirmation of her flights to and from my safe space in the Southwest. And she arrives first thing tomorrow morning.

  Despite knowing that tomorrow is the closing day of the Babcock family reunion, which means the professionally photographed riverboat excursion, which means all hands on deck, reunion jerseys and all. There’s no way I’m missing that, I don’t care how much initiative Ms. Fowl thinks she’s showing by popping down uninvited. I didn’t even like her that much over the phone.

  “How the hell does she even know where I am?” I ask Courtney as he, Clay, and Lorraine return to the car. “Like, where, specifically? Because I didn’t mention it.”

  The three exchange blinks, and Courtney opens his mouth.

  “I know Priam wouldn’t have told her, I was real clear.”

  A swirl starts and of course the Ancestors have something to say, but let me guess. Stranger Danger! Or maybe, why so suspicious of her trying to win you over when you want her commitment? Am I right? Or maybe this cool wind is just another form of Be Nice, Naema.

  I’m full up on that.

  “What do you wanna bet my pregnant-brained mom gave her your address?” I ask Courtney like this has been a dialogue.

  This time his forehead creases, his face transitioning through a few expressions before his lips part again.

  “A fast-talking, raspy-voiced chick shows up promising the most glamorous of runner-up TV movies, so sure, send her after your child, that sounds fine.” Before Courtney can interrupt, I say, “Oh, but she’s Eloko, so she must be trustworthy.”

  It’s totally quiet when I’m done, and none of my cousins look like they have anything to say, though all three of them continue staring at me.

  “What.”

  “Nothing,” Courtney says, shrugging his shoulders. “You just haven’t said anything about the snake under the door, which is really impressive, considering—”

  I don’t hear the rest of whatever he’s saying because I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, and also suddenly on my feet somehow, standing in the bed of the truck, before I realize he’s lying.

&nb
sp; “Sheba,” Clay says, and he’s laughing with the other two, but he knows me pretty well by now so he offers me his back so I can be carried from the truck bed to the passenger door without touching the desert floor. Which of course I shall never trust again. “Sheba, Sheba, Sheba.”

  * * *

  The double-decker riverboat is not air-conditioned, and I’ll be honest: the Naema who arrived a week and a half ago would have been personally offended by that. That the proprietors felt being on the water would be enough to quench the heat, or that sightseeing from afar the desert you just drove through to get to the boat would be distraction enough. The problem is that I have either acclimated to the weather down here, or I’m imagining there really is an occasional and uplifting coolness. It sweeps around the outer decks and through the open doors and windows, swirling into the lounge on the lower deck. It carries music, conversation, and laughter, and maybe it’s not coming off the water at all. Younger kids race along the same path, and it might just be their breeze I feel. Either way. It’s a beautiful day.

  Clay and Lorraine were supposed to be leading a two-step tutorial, but to absolutely no one’s surprise, they quickly derailed into a competitive b-boy dance-off. That, too, becomes a tutorial when Little Bit, Didi, and the others try to mimic them.

  Patrice is hovering around the pies, making sure there’ll be some pecan left whenever Great-Uncle Gerald decides he’ll have some. Which means she’s policing slice sizes, offering to serve people, and then giving them what she wants to give them regardless of what they asked for. The adults give her side-eye and make sure she gives them what they came for, but any kids just have to live with being bamboozled and double back whenever she finally sits down.

  Wilbur’s got his tripod out on the upper deck right now, capturing the wake of our boat, and the hilly terrain on either side of the river. He got plenty of footage of the professional photographer getting footage of Great-Gram Lorraine surrounded by several of her kids and grandkids, thank heavens. I know I for one can’t wait to watch that random dude’s back again and again and for years to come. I’m sure the layers will reveal their true depth with each watch.

  But I’m a huge hypocrite because I’ve been taking video all day, too. Yes, of the water, and the hills, and the older second cousins cutting one another off because nobody can agree on how something from thirty years ago really went down. I’ve gotten the dancing, and the younger kids, and Courtney at the dominos table, which is officially gambling-free. That wasn’t the cruise’s decision, as I assumed. Apparently, there have been scuffles in the past.

  In my defense, I’ve been sending the videos to my mom and the squad back home. Plus, I mean. I want to remember it, too. I’ve never experienced anything like this week; not that I can remember anyway. Even once the Ancestors have my familial knowledge up to date on precisely who everyone is, and who they resemble, or who they take after in mannerisms despite the century between them, there’s still just this … energy. Being around family, especially this much family at once, is indescribable. And, judging by the way they all look at one another, and the fact that they’re all here, that’s not just an Eloko thing. It makes me wish we could have a reunion in Portland, too. There’s so much I’d love to show the Babcocks, so many parts of my life they’ve never seen. And it’d be nice to laugh at their confusion over the ways of the Pacific Northwest, so they can be humbled a little. It’s all fun and games until you’re the fish out of water.

  Leona Fowl’s been sending me Check-In texts periodically, like she doesn’t want me to forget she’s in town. I haven’t seen her yet, and I’ve restricted myself to sending emoticon replies so as to keep her from thoroughly intruding before her designated time. Nobody picked her up at the airport, and she took a cab to her hotel, which was also intentional on my part. She’s either got a serious lack of discernment even by the standards of a non-Eloko, or she’s super passive-aggressive, because despite my refusal to leap at her arrival, she still lets me know once she’s had lunch on the premises, going so far as to assure me she’ll stay there in case I need her. Despite me responding to her emailed itinerary with a reminder that I’d be busy till the early evening at the earliest, and no I couldn’t make any adjustments. Upon my fourth insistence, she totally understood. And also just in case, here’s her room number and the name of the hotel again, and where the in-house restaurant is located both from the vantage point of the elevators and from the front entrance.

  ’Kay.

  “Are you over the Babcocks yet?” Courtney sidles up to me at the rail, but he turns his back to it like the view isn’t spectacular, resting his elbows on the bar and watching the activity on the boat instead. “Ready to get back to the Eloko coven, and away from here?”

  “First of all, we’re not witches.”

  “Says you.”

  “Yes, Short-ney, says me.”

  “See,” he wags his finger in the air and scowls like something stinks, “this is why I don’t tell you anything.”

  “Well, you didn’t, remember?”

  He scoffs, and turns to face the river.

  “And no,” I say. “I am not over the Babcocks. Yet.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel him smiling next to me.

  “I’m gonna need you to be less of a cinnamon roll when we meet this producer for dinner tonight—”

  “First of all, I have no idea what that means.”

  “—I need her to think we’re both fierce.”

  “And secondly, I’m tryna get put on, Sheba, just a heads-up.”

  “Okay.”

  “Imma be in the movie before this dinner is over.”

  “It’ll be in my contract. Courtney has to be in every scene, hidden somewhere in the scenery.”

  “Dope.”

  “I gotchu.” We knock knuckles, and nod, like it’s a done deal.

  But he’s still glancing at me, and he waves Clay off when he calls for him, so I know something’s up.

  “What, Courtney?” I ask, enunciating and rolling my eyes.

  “You good, though?”

  I start to snap at him, but he’s serious. “Me? Yeah, Courtney, I’m fine. Why?”

  He shakes his head.

  “You’re a mother hen, I swear.”

  “So Kyrie tells me.”

  “I’m used to people wanting to be around me all the time, like, they feed off my presence, which—don’t roll your eyes, it’s not a Sheba thing, it just comes with the Eloko territory! Anyway. I was just gonna say, nobody ever actually checks on me.”

  “What, not even Priam?”

  “No, I guess Priam does. Did.”

  “Did. You still pretending you’re not together?”

  It’s my turn to turn my back on the river. “I don’t know. He might not be pretending.” I don’t know why, but I’m surprised by how seriously Courtney seems to be taking this. He’s not facing the family or the river anymore; he’s giving me his undivided attention.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell him, because I’m done being transparent for the moment. “Just something someone told me.”

  “Hm.” He looks over my face, like I’ve given him a lot to think about. “Well. Make sure they know what they’re talking about before you take their word for anything.”

  “Huh. That’s quite a vote of confidence for a dude you met for one day.”

  Courtney looks sheepish, and then turns so I can only see his profile. Something’s weird, but he looks done being transparent, too, for now.

  “Let’s go eat,” I say, nudging him.

  “If we can decipher Patrice’s riddles three,” he deadpans, and I laugh, snaking my arm through his and pulling him from the rail.

  * * *

  There are speeches before the day is done, and folks have gotten into the wine coolers by then, so. I’m ready to reconsider my stance on the Babcock family by the time Wilbur gets the microphone away from his Aunt Tina. She’s the youngest of Clar
ence and Lorraine’s children, born in 1955, but I have to remind myself she’s still in her mid-sixties. Sure she’s wearing a pair of jeggings, and what I’m now realizing is an Aunt Toni number of bangles paired with an ambitious collection of chunky statement necklaces that no one said couldn’t be layered, but that’s not even the best part. She started out thanking everyone for showing up to this reunion—which I had to remind myself she did not organize despite her weird insinuation—and then graduated to thanking the family for supporting her and her second shot at love. In case anyone wasn’t following, she went ahead and shouted out her Second Husband, First In Her Heart—her words!—and their Late In Life Blessing Of A Daughter. The cherry on top is either that the husband in question is inexplicably not in attendance, or that they’ve been married for like, twenty years. As in, none of this happened yesterday, and this is in fact not her wedding reception, or first anniversary.

  Family reunions are undefeated.

  This is the best thing ever, and if I livestreamed it, I promise you it would do numbers. Great-Aunt Tina and her Youthful If That Means Over The Top pedicure/toe ring situation would land the family a reality show all on her own.

  Folks are snickering, talking among themselves, and randomly calling out for her to wrap it up, so I’m thinking none of it is exactly shocking behavior. Maybe the family reunion isn’t really over until someone makes a drunken and meandering speech on a riverboat at sunset.

  Priceless.

  And then it’s over. The cruise is ended, the boat is docked, and folks are getting the elderly Babcocks situated and ready to return home. Carpools are taking off, and the goodbyes don’t seem to rise to the occasion until I remember most of them live within a couple hours of here. Apparently this is just goodbye until somebody has a birthday. I try to imagine a birthday party not being an extravagant big-ticket gift I’ve known about for six months, and my friends decorating my bedroom suite, and locker, and car. A million messages across social media, but only a handful from people who actually know me. And, no, this is not the part where the final ghost of Christmas Past gets through to Ebenezer Scrooge, and I realize my whole life is vanity. A million messages and home renovation as a birthday gift are nice, thank you. And so is a Babcock birthday party, I’m guessing.