A Chorus Rises Page 20

  Maybe next year. I’m already mentally working out my freshman-year schedule at UP, looking for gaps and holidays that’ll let me swing down for a visit, and it’s not not because the end of the reunion suddenly has me wondering if the Ancestors will follow me home. Whether I get to keep this, or whether part of being Eloko requires more than living with heirlooms and hand-me-downs. Maybe it’s like jumping a car, and the charge I couldn’t make on my own will at least keep.

  I can’t even speak about it yet, to Courtney or my friends. How do you describe something so personal and also so … historic. The swell of centuries before you, voices that speak pictures and memories, a sense that pieces of me have already existed, making me somehow more myself. Naema Bradshaw has always been confident, no one would dispute that, but that’s what I want to call this energy the Ancestors bring. Portland might turn on me, a movie might strip me of everything but negativity, but I am who I’m supposed to be.

  I am magic. Without question.

  Anyway.

  It’s time to shake off the feels for now. Courtney and I ride back to the house ahead of Aunt Carla Ann and Uncle Deric, who’ll be charioting folks and food and equipment around town all night, and I undo the Babcock Reunion transformation.

  I take a leisurely shower to get back in the spirit of Naema Time; I take down my ponytail and plug in my curling wand; I swap out my Babcock baseball jersey for a floral romper and sandals, and I am not shy with the baby oil.

  Poor Courtney thinks we’re headed out the door until I giggle and pull out my makeup case before climbing onto the bathroom counter.

  “She made a reservation!” he exclaims.

  “To have dinner. With me. Which means the dinner begins when I arrive,” and I apply my primer.

  “Do you even want this movie?”

  “It’s about setting the tone, cuzzo.” I lean closer to the mirror, and perfectly anticipating Courtney’s next exclamation, simultaneously smile at my reflection and say, “Pretty Bird,” before winking at him.

  “Imma go eat a pre-dinner. Cannot believe you.”

  “Drama,” I say through a breath, and then call after him, “I’m basically ready,” before spending an unhurried thirty minutes beating my face. It’s wonderful to get back to some semblance of normalcy, and the heat having burned off—for the most part—means it doesn’t feel like a complete exercise in futility to put on the works.

  When Courtney returns with a mostly eaten sourdough roll, I’m applying my setting spray. “See? All done.”

  “You look exactly the same,” he deadpans.

  “Aw. Liar,” I reply through a swoon.

  “That was not a compliment.”

  Despite his lack of appreciation for the art of cosmetics, when I walk through the unnecessarily fancy restaurant where Leona Fowl has made our reservation, and face her for the first time, I am That Bish and everybody knows it. I mean, I take some personal, non-makeup-related credit for that, but people are shallow; they like clear, simple cues interpreted at a glance, and a full face, a power strut, and bouncy hair says Flawless. Fight society, not me. I didn’t make the rules, I just win at the game.

  One hand is Absentmindedly Fiddling With My Bell Charm when Leona greets me by standing and shaking the other. Yes, I realize she’s Eloko, but there’s no harm in reminding her that I am, too.

  “Naema, at last,” she says, and she’s That Bish, too. I should’ve guessed. She’s wearing her Serious Career Girl brunette hair in California-appropriate beach waves, and the highlights are respectable and almost pass for natural. Her lips have been plumped—again, respectably—and they’re sporting an almost imperceptibly coral gloss, beautifully accentuated by her flawless cheek contouring and the bombest of cheekbone highlight. Her peach-beige skin is smooth and taut, and I can just see her jog-hiking the canyons. Probably with a surprisingly big dog at her side.

  I see Leona came to win as well. I like a challenge.

  Our melodies mingle for a moment and the diners and waitstaff in the vicinity light up a little as they look around, smiling but unsure.

  “And you must be Courtney,” she says to demonstrate her attentiveness, and she shakes his hand.

  “Shall we?” I invite her to sit at the table she reserved, and anyone else might not notice the slight tick in her eyebrow.

  “Of course,” she says, in an impressively gracious tone. “I took the liberty of ordering a few hors d’oeuvres; please feel free to help yourselves.”

  Which is when I notice the small plate in front of her, already blemished with an orange-yellow sauce that probably belongs to the soft-boiled egg and truffle butter dish.

  How dare.

  “I hope we didn’t keep you waiting,” I offer, knowing we did, and that I meant to. “You must’ve been hungry.”

  Courtney glances at me as he helps himself to the clams, as if to ask who’s winning. I blink slowly, and begin to study the menu so that he knows I am.

  “Oh, you’re fine,” Leona assures me. “I’m never disappointed with my own company,” and her laugh is light and convincing as she takes a sip of wine.

  Fine, maybe we’re even.

  “I was surprised to hear you were coming down,” I tell her. “I was expecting another phone call. It almost feels like we’re rushing.”

  “Oh, I’m nothing if not proactive,” she says, and if she’s perturbed at the suggestion, she does a decent job hiding it. “And everyone on the team thought it was important for us to meet face to face, especially after what you told me. I wanted to be sure you understand how important this is.”

  She’s gonna tell me how important my story is. I bristle at the audacity, which Courtney seems to notice from across the table. To my surprise, he’s able to sober me with a discreet glance and the lowering of his chin.

  “I’m relatively aware of how important it is to tell the world what really happened to me,” and I give my own delicate laugh. But I tuck my chin toward my chest and recoil when she dabs the corner of her mouth with the cloth napkin, turning to me like she’s about to impart some serious wisdom.

  Who is this woman.

  “I mean this in the most respectful way possible, Naema,” she begins, and it does not thrill me. “But if what you told me is true, it’s about a lot more than what happened to you.”

  … What.

  My poker face slips, and when I look at Courtney, the incredulousness is visible. I can feel it dripping down my face. I am very rarely this bothered by any one individual, but Leona Fowl is stunning in her pursuit of the title.

  “I came down because this is something we need to move on, and it’s got nothing to do with ratings or riding the popularity of Tavia and Effie’s movie—”

  I snort in Imma Let You Finish, But It Absolutely Has Something To Do With Those Things.

  “—it’s about public safety.”

  “’Scuse me?” I blurt out.

  I want to kick myself for being so flappable, it’s just that everything she says is more ridiculous than the thing before. Worse, she’s got an almost sociopathic lack of shame. If she knows this is bs, I can’t tell.

  “It’s about the safety of Eloko, period. I’m just sorry you had to be the one to find out how sirens really feel about us.” Leona’s wearing this earnest expression, and has reached across the table to squeeze my hand, which she is able to do because I’m too stunned to resist.

  I just keep looking at Courtney, like he’ll make it make sense, except his eyebrows are as furrowed as mine, and he’s stopped eating mid-chew.

  “How did you get from Tavia Stoned Me,” I ask, quietly, “to sirens hate Eloko? Exactly?”

  “Can you honestly say they don’t?”

  “No, see, that’s not how this works. You posited something completely without basis, and when I ask you to defend it, you can’t say it’s up to me to prove a negative. I’m a teenager, Ms. Fowl, I’m not stupid.”

  “I have no doubt about your intelligence,” she says.

 
“Because I’m Eloko.”

  Her lips rest together.

  “I’m just confused at your absolute conviction, given that I told you what Tavia did when we spoke last, and you didn’t seem to think it was a public safety issue then.”

  “I’ve had time to process it,” she responds.

  “Hey, didn’t you make a movie with Tavia?” Courtney interjects for the first time. “I mean. She didn’t turn you to stone? I assume.”

  “I had a very cordial working relationship with Ms. Philips over the course of the production.” Leona shakes her head while she speaks. “But I think you’re both old enough to know that people aren’t always at liberty to act on their prejudices.”

  “Stop,” I blurt again, but she doesn’t.

  “That’s just real life.”

  “This is…” I shake my own head, eyes squeezed shut like the absurdity is physically crowding me. “Such a bad look. So bad. You’re aware that sirens are exclusively Black women.”

  “I am, but—”

  “And you’re saying Black women are out to get you.”

  “Naema, that is not what I’m saying. We aren’t talking about all Black women, we’re talking about the ones who are sirens.”

  “You want to tell the world that sirens are out to get Eloko, many of whom look like you,” I say, gesturing over the hors d’oeuvres at her. “Because me and a girl I go to high school with got into it?” When she tries to speak, I talk over her. “And you don’t think the world is gonna hear Black women. Period. Because I can tell you that as soon as I left Portland, where everyone expects to see Eloko, and checks our jewelry before anything else, folks treated me differently!”

  I feel my cousin watching me, and I sincerely hope he doesn’t come around the table and try to hug me or anything, because I do not put it past him and this is not the time. It’s bad enough that the Ancestors are warming the inside of my chest. They’re underlining what I’m saying to Leona, emphatically reverberating my words back to me.

  “The first thing people think when they see me is not Eloko, surprisingly enough. And the safety measures they set up specifically against sirens? They’re wide enough to grab anyone who could possibly be one. Which means whom, Ms. Fowl?”

  “Naema, I hear—”

  “Which means Black women,” I answer for her. “Any of us. All of us.”

  The table falls quiet as I stare into her eyes, neither of us willing to lose the battle.

  “So no, we won’t be telling that story.” And I pick up the menu again, though I have no intention of staying long enough to order.

  Unfortunately, when Leona starts talking again, it’s like she heard nothing I said.

  “I understand it’s a lot to process,” she says, calmly, like I’m a sleep-deprived toddler she’s trying to negotiate with.

  “It would be a lot to process if it were true,” I snap, my side-eye lethal. “It’s not. It’s a super irresponsible fantasy you’re trying to weave so you can sell a movie. And you think you can sell it without backlash if I’m the face of it.”

  “And if you heard it from the Knights of Naema?” she asks, in only slightly muted exasperation.

  “What a strange and strangely childish change in approach,” I say, almost before she’s finished. At last, a crack shows in her façade, and I want her to know I see it. “And a very ineffective one, I must say. But you’re desperate, or you wouldn’t have asked. What, were you hoping I believed them because they’re fans of mine? That I’d believe anything they say, and then just hope against hope that they somehow jump to your same outlandish, self-centering conclusion?” I make a mocking pout. “Ms. Fowl. Ma’am.”

  The pink almost drains from her face, and her jaw clenches.

  “Somebody needs to take a pause and really listen to their Ancestors, because this ain’t it.”

  Her expression is pinched, and I genuinely can’t tell if she has any idea what I’m talking about, but I wanna say no.

  “I showed you the Knights because everyone else seemed to want to rehabilitate my image by centering what I suffered. Or let’s be real, that I suffered. They were merely an example you were meant to follow.”

  I deposit my napkin on the empty plate before me, and stand; Courtney immediately follows.

  “It’s definitely not the only way we can tell your story,” Leona says, getting to her feet before I can step away. “But if you’re scared, and no one’s saying you shouldn’t be—”

  “Oh my gawd.”

  “We’ll make sure the world knows that you are Eloko.”

  Wow.

  “Is that what people think?” I ask. “That we’ll trade it all—everybody else—if we can just get ourselves to the other side. Like I don’t have a mother, or cousins, or like even if I didn’t, any of this would be okay.”

  Leona doesn’t answer me, she just exhales a long breath. I can’t tell if she’s fed up with me or herself, until she speaks again and her raspy voice is tight.

  “You’re the one who said you’re Eloko first.”

  “I did. And the world set me straight, but that’s okay. I don’t need to be. Don’t let me keep you from the pleasure of your own company,” I say as I leave the table.

  Leona Fowl gets nothing else from me. Not even a Good Night.

  Chapter XXI

  Knights of Naema Post

  KEEP PORTLAND SAFE

  Cursive_Signature [no shield] [metadata: posts (1)] [upvotes: 235]

  I heard a new movie is in the works, to tell Naema’s side of the story. And from what I hear, you guys are right. Tavia definitely went after her.

  LePeintre [bronze/9]: Are you in the industry?

  Anon: Is Naema involved in the movie?

  WyteKnight [silver/32]: Why not just make it a documentary, so it’ll really be her?

  LePeintre: How did the siren go after her?

  Lancelot [silver/41]: She made that snake turn Naema to stone?!

  WyteKnight: Who didn’t already know this? Sometimes assuming is just using common sense.

  Hood&Helm [no shield]: Anybody else worried about who’s gonna protect Naema when the siren finds out people know?

  Greaves [silver/42]: There needs to be a presence in PDX, so the siren knows not to mess with her again!

  NaemasNobleman [gold/47]: Don’t worry, buddy, there is.

  LePeinture: Is #Justice4Naema actually happening?

  SilverSchalem [gold/46]: Yes.

  NaemasNobleman: Some of us are real Knights. [upvotes: 249]

  Hood&Helm: Where do we find out how?

  SilverSchalem: This isn’t a conversation for the forum. If you want to earn your shield, PM. [upvotes: 301]

  Anonymous: And are you doing anything about the sirens swarming to Portland because of that first movie??

  NaemasNobleman: PM.

  Chapter XXII

  NAEMA

  Courtney is surprisingly quiet on the ride home, but I’m too shook by Leona Fowl to bug him about it. Or maybe more so by my inability to ignore the cyclone stirring inside me. I’ve pushed back before, but the Ancestor wind has been churning deep in my gut ever since leaving the restaurant, and no matter how many times I replay my epic Leona takedown, they don’t agree. It feels like the Ancestors are warning me, like suddenly they’re telling me something definitive about what someone will do, in a clairvoyant way they haven’t before.

  Maybe it’s because she’s Eloko, too.

  Maybe the Eloko are more a collective than we’ve known, or behaved.

  Maybe it’s possible to be connected to one another by the Ancestors.

  I’m not saying I believe it, but if that’s true, I wonder if it means there’s some Ancestor-attuned Eloko somewhere else who knows all the things I’ve done. I’m no villain, obviously, but. I can think of one or two things I’ve done that I wouldn’t want passed around in the Ancestors’ eternal memory.

  Courtney raps his knuckles on Little Bit’s bedroom door and interrupts the stock-taking I’m not sure
I really wanna do in the first place. I’m in tune with the Ancestors now, after all. There’s no keeping secrets from them, or with the potential Eloko collective, however few it may be these days.

  Despite our talk about privacy, Courtney still opens the door a bit and peers in. His little sister has one leg hooked around the sheet, the cover aggressively kicked toward the foot of the bed whether I wanted some or not, and I hadn’t even noticed that she’s snoring into the side of my face.

  “Can I talk to you about something?” Courtney asks, his bright hair the only part of him I can see with the rest of his body still hidden behind the door.

  I nod and wave him in, putting my finger over my lips before pointing to his sister.

  “Oh, you ain’t gotta be quiet on her account. Nothing wakes her but the sound of the school bus leaving her behind so I’m forced to drive her. Knucklehead.”

  “What’s up?” I ask him, sitting up. But it’s like once he has my attention, he clams up like he did in the car. I almost snark at him about it, except he’s looking at me like he’s gonna try to hug me, so I think something’s actually wrong. “Courtney.”

  “I just wanted to check on you.”

  “Again.”

  “What do you mean, again?”

  “Wasn’t it you who came and checked on me before? On the back porch?” I mean it affectionately, but he nods and looks like maybe I’m talking about privacy again, and starts to turn back toward the door. “Courtney, it’s cool. I told you. I’m not especially used to being checked on. I appreciate it.”

  He takes a breath and nods again.

  I mean it when I say I appreciate the way he looks out for me. I haven’t told him half the things going on inside me, the way I don’t tell anybody everything, but it’s like he’s this unique breed of person who doesn’t treat me like uncharacteristic unloading is the toll I have to pay to gain access to consideration. He just offers it.