A Chorus Rises Page 21

  “I could see you were more than capable of shutting that chick down,” he says. “But it must’ve been disappointing, the way she twisted your story. I know I’d be upset.”

  “I am that,” I concede, through an exhale that’s not at all cleansing. The nausea and turbulent wind is still wreaking havoc on my insides, so I tell him: “I’m even more upset because I’m almost certain I did not shut her down.”

  “What does that mean?” Courtney asks, and his forehead folds.

  “I don’t know,” I say, and reach behind my neck to unclasp my necklace. I hand it to him, and he cocks a perfect brow. “But I need to ask the Ancestors.”

  “And you can’t do that with this on?”

  “I love how you have no questions about asking the Ancestors something, just about taking off my bell charm.”

  “It sounds pretty self-explanatory, Sheba. That and I was at the BBQ when you gave your little presentation.”

  “How’s a presentation gonna be little, Courtney?” I say as I close my eyes.

  “‘Little’ coulda been a synonym for, brief, in that context, sorry, I win that one.”

  “Quiet, please.”

  “Right.”

  I don’t know what I’m doing. I have no idea why I closed my eyes, except that in the inevitable movie version of my life, it seems like what Movie Naema will do. Usually the Ancestors speak to me; I’ve never spoken to them before, if that’s what I’m trying to do. It shouldn’t be hard, since I gave them space inside me. The wind of their undecipherable voices can gust through my core at will, swirling sometimes in what feels like a cyclone, like something’s literally climbing my esophagus, looking for a way out. The least they can do is answer when I want a word.

  I need them to help me understand what Leona Fowl is trying to do.

  Except when I think that, the unease gets stronger. So much stronger, so quickly, that I feel myself lurch toward Courtney. He catches me by my shoulders and, thankfully, I do not hurl on the bed between us.

  The tornado in my abdomen keeps pulling. Like it wants me closer. Like it wants me to give in. Again, only this time it’s unpleasant. Which, in my experience, from my Portland bubble perspective, is the least Eloko thing I could possibly do. Where I’m from, we don’t pursue discomfort. We are light and carefree. Or we fake it, anyway. Fine, maybe it’s true for some people. Maybe somebody got to be light and carefree for real. But it wasn’t me.

  So I give in. I lift my chin and breathe deep, and I make room for the gusting wind again, even though my guts feel like they’re in knots. Even though I think I’m gonna vomit all over my cousin and his little sister’s bed. And their voices get clear.

  “The Knights,” I say aloud, like I’m confirming that I heard them.

  “What about them?” Courtney asks, but even in his concerned expression, I can see his irritation.

  “She brought them up both times we spoke. At the restaurant and on the phone, when she tried to explain bringing up my Stoning.” I shake my head, and it’s like it’s clearing away the nausea. “She knew about the subforum. Where they posted those pictures of me while I was gray. And I had to make an account to get there, so she must’ve, too.”

  Courtney’s face doesn’t change.

  “You know, you seem to know a lot of stuff before I mention it.”

  “Whatchu mean?”

  “Like sirens having protection, for one thing.” But I know I can’t push him on that, being expelled and all, so I add, “Or like there being Stoned pictures of me on the Knights site, or like the fact that I made an account. None of this seems surprising to you.”

  “Okay, so don’t get mad,” he blurts.

  “Oh my gawd—”

  “I’m NyNative. And I know you’re Sheba503.”

  Son of a—

  “Wait!” I punch him in the arm. “You’re the dude who said my picture was Photoshopped?”

  “I mean, more importantly, the dude who said he saw Priam with somebody else,” his voice goes up exponentially with each word and he rises from the bed to stop my pummeling him. “I had to say something to keep anybody from believing you! The whole reason I joined was to keep an eye on it, and you. I didn’t think you’d suspect Priam of stepping out!”

  “Courtney! You said you saw him out with me, and I’m me, so I know it wasn’t me, so what else could that mean? Are you kidding me!”

  “Stop hitting me!”

  “What does NyNative even mean?”

  “Oh, I just figured you’d think I was some New Yorker.”

  “That is the weirdest—”

  “So you wouldn’t suspect it was me!”

  “You’re the actual worst.”

  “Okay, but it’s a good thing, right, because c’mon. Why’d you try to out yourself to them?”

  “I don’t know!” My playful exasperation doesn’t really convey the truth, so I just confess it. “I guess to prove they couldn’t be so bad. When I was already pretty worried that at least a few of them might be.”

  He’s quiet for a moment, and then he tells me.

  “She’s on there, too. Pretty sure.”

  “Leona?”

  He nods, but I’ve already grabbed my laptop and am pulling up the site.

  “I checked when we got back from the restaurant,” Courtney says as he watches over my shoulder. “There was new activity by someone with a pretty new account who hadn’t made any previous posts or comments, and they have an auto-generated name.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Like, they just accepted the suggested name the site generates for you, before you type in your own. It’s just a pair of random words.”

  “So that’s where you got NyNative,” I say as I peruse the site.

  “No, Naema—”

  “Oh! The n y means Ny, you’re saying you’re native to me, because we’re related!”

  “I told you it— Please shut up.” He reaches around me and types a name into the search form.

  Cursive_Signature.

  “You can see everything she’s posted, and the fact that she has zero comment or post history before tonight. And she doesn’t make one post without using the Justice for Naema hashtag…”

  And I see what he’s talking about. On a number of posts, Cursive_Signature has recently been sharing Buzz They’ve Overheard. Finally, on a post about keeping Portland safe for me, the comment catches the forum’s attention and spurs an excitable conversation.

  “Oh my gawd,” I mutter.

  “Yeah, it’s … not great,” Courtney says.

  “What swarming?” I almost shout, as I read. “There are no sirens swarming to Portland, what the hell is wrong with people?”

  And then I pause. I mean. I don’t think there are. To be fair, since being expelled from the network, I don’t see how I’d know. Except I feel like it’d still be pretty hard to miss—an influx of Black folks anywhere in the Pacific Northwest? I’m extremely sure I would’ve noticed.

  “The scary part is Leona’s not even the one who posted that comment,” Courtney says, like I can’t see the user handle. “The Knights jumped to that all on their own. She voices one terrible thought, and inspires a dozen even worse. These people are wild, Sheba.”

  “I know,” I say, because there are more comments to read … and if I’d eaten any of the rich hors d’oeuvres Leona ordered at the restaurant, I wouldn’t be able to keep them down. “They’re acting like all this sensational fearmongering is really out of concern for me.”

  And then I see it.

  If it makes you feel any better, Naema’s not in PDX right now. She’s staying with family down south, someone says.

  Southwest, NaemasNobleman corrects them.

  W. TA. F.

  There’s an upvote on the correction, and I know it’s her. I know that Cursive_Signature is Leona Fowl, and that she’s confirming information about my whereabouts to a bunch of anonymous internet admirers.

  The strong wind returns to settle in my
chest, and the queasiness is gone. I’m enraged, and the Ancestors are raging inside me in agreement. If I open my mouth right now, I’ll release a chorus of screams, theirs and mine.

  Because that’s the member she decided to connect with. Of course it is. The dude who convinced another member that I want to be found.

  There are a half dozen trains of thought taking place in this one conversation, and before I explode, I try to catch up on the others.

  People need to know she’s not just some run-of-the-mill girl.

  They hate her because she’s Eloko.

  She needs to be protected from the rest of them.

  It’s almost worse that nobody comes right out and says what they’re very obviously saying. Nobody uses a slur, or references race. They don’t have to. And most of them probably think themselves more intelligent or aware than the kind of trash who would. But at least I would’ve known what those people were on sight. At least I wouldn’t have taken comfort in the adoration of people who came right out and said I was the exception that let them feel good about themselves.

  I don’t think I can feel any more angry, but that’s only because I’ve once again underestimated Leona Fowl. It appears she isn’t satisfied being mere inspiration after all. Despite how quickly the thread became unwieldy with almost frothing indignation and rampantly escalating paranoia, her final comment is an unveiled call to action:

  It’s time to take this out of the shadows, if we really want to protect our girl, Cursive_Signature writes. Naema isn’t safe until people know what happened to her. We *need* to make sure this film gets made! #Justice4Naema needs to go viral! Are we Knights or not?

  That’s when I notice the shield by her name. One day of membership, and she’s already climbing the ranks, being bestowed what I can only assume are reputation or clout points, probably for sharing information about me in private messages.

  “Look at the time stamp.” I don’t know where to anchor my outrage. I’m gobsmacked. “If this is really Leona Fowl—and it is—she posted this before we’d even made it home from the restaurant.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s her,” Courtney says, like he’s less sure than he wants to be.

  “No, Courtney. I’m telling you. This is her. I don’t think I’d know for sure about anybody but another Eloko. I think that’s how the Ancestor connect works. But trust me. Cursive_Signature is Leona Fowl.”

  “I trust you,” he says. “But I don’t think she’s taking no for an answer, Sheba.”

  My hand is covering my mouth, and I read the comment again and again.

  Our girl.

  I think tf not. I do not belong to anyone, and I certainly don’t get put to their purpose. Leona Fowl underestimated me, too.

  “She thought. I really wanna see this chick make a Justice For Naema movie without a Naema.”

  I keep seeing Leona in the restaurant, perfectly put together, and far more ruthless than she appeared. I have so few regrets, but wishing I’d splashed that white wine in her pretty face is one I feel viscerally.

  “I can’t even dunk on Tavia Philips because of her.” I have to ball my fists and seethe for a minute, Courtney jumping at the unexpected growl that escapes me. And then I’m back. “Fine. Whatever. Screw this movie. I’ll have to settle for getting a book deal,” I say as though these things fall out of the sky. But there is nothing on earth anyone can dangle in front of me and think I’m ensnared. This flashy producer type is about to find out that if Naema Bradshaw wants something, I will make it happen. Please. I have an in-home life coach and business mentor who also happens to be my dad.

  Every Empire Begins With A Brainstorm—Darren Bradshaw.

  Don’t Nobody Need You, Leona—Me.

  We’ve got this. I really just hope Leona Fowl has promised her production team she’d close the deal. I don’t know exactly how these things work, but I really like the idea of her being lambasted in a boardroom, and then having to do a walk of shame from her desk to the elevators holding a cardboard box full of knickknacks and a desk plant. And it’s raining when she gets outside the building. Because regardless of what they say about Southern California, it’ll do me this one solid and wash the waves out of her hair.

  I sober. Because she’s not just trying to plant grassroots movie support. She told someone where I am, where my family lives, even if just in general regional terms. Like she has no idea about the danger of doxing, and how many Black women and girls are targeted online for the absolute slightest provocation, and she sure as hell doesn’t care.

  And then it’s like we really are connected.

  There’s a cross-posted link from a new subforum in Leona’s #Justice4Naema post.

  #SecretSirens.

  “What fresh hell is this,” I mutter. But it really isn’t complicated. In fact it’s exactly what it sounds like.

  Someone’s taken Cursive_Signature’s call to action seriously, and it’s NaemasNobleman.

  I click through to the brand-new subforum, and Courtney and I are faced with pictures of Black women, with their full names, ages, and descriptions of the behavior they’ve exhibited.

  This is a place to identify suspected sirens.

  “Oh my gawd.” The words slide out on a long, low breath, and I hear them before I realize I’ve spoken. Because, according to the Knight who began the collection, these are all Portland locals. And they’re not even all women.

  “There are kids on here, Courtney,” I say, as though he’s not staring from behind my shoulder. But he’s gotten so quiet I can’t even hear him breathing. “Courtney…”

  “I see it.”

  There’s a ten-year-old girl, with pictures that look like they’ve been taken during recess either by someone with a really powerful lens, or else by an unsuspecting person on the same premises.

  “He’s listed a possible address.” I hear Courtney say it, but I don’t understand.

  The girl is playing on uneven bars in her school yard, and her half dozen braids and the brightly colored bobbles used to fasten them are hanging in the air as she dangles upside down.

  She’s another family’s Little Bit. It’s as bad as seeing my baby cousin being stalked. Who knows how bad this can get.

  The little girl in the pictures is suspected of being a siren because—

  “She won the school-wide spelling bee,” Courtney reads. “That’s all he wrote. She won the spelling bee.”

  I’m still looking at the little girl playing, completely oblivious to the photographer, or at least to the threat they pose. I don’t remember who won my elementary school spelling bee, but I remember it happened during the school day. And I don’t think it was publicized.

  “There have to be hundreds of schools in Portland,” I say, but I’m talking to myself. “Who would even know she won, unless they work at the school. A parent?”

  I want to know who’s watching this little girl. I need to. My heart is doing a weird flutter-pulse inside my chest, and it’s such a rabid pace that it vibrates at the back of my throat and I almost have to cough.

  That’s when I wonder.

  “What does it mean if these are the people on your side?” I ask the question even though I’m sort of hoping the Ancestors won’t answer. “The only people who don’t think I deserved to get Stoned … and they’re monsters.”

  “Don’t,” Courtney demands. “Ain’t even that simple. People can overlap in one thing, and still not be the same. Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”

  It’s not like his words don’t matter. But his voice is the only one I hear, and I want to know what the Ancestors would’ve said that night at prom. Because now they feel so supportive, so pleased with who I am—but I couldn’t hear them in Portland. What if the person they like is the one who came out of the gray? What if Tavia’s attack really did make me a better person?

  I need to know.

  “I wore a collar to prom,” I confess, so they’ll hear. “It’s common knowledge. Or should be. Even the Knights h
ave a picture of it, but no one’s really criticized it specifically.”

  Courtney’s brow cinches, and I’m telling the Ancestors, but I prepare myself for his response, too.

  “I did antagonize her.”

  He doesn’t say anything at first, which leaves a lot of space for the voices—but suddenly there are none. There’s no swirl of warmth or comfort. Which shouldn’t surprise me. I’m recounting the worst thing I think I’ve ever done, and I didn’t even realize it at the time. Lying on Effie to provoke Tavia wasn’t exactly a stellar move, but it could be considered your run-of-the-mill antagonization.

  The collar …

  That was something different. Courtney and the Ancestors are silent because that was borderline evil.

  The only thing worse than their voices falling quiet is what they might say when they speak again.

  “That’s messed up, Sheba,” Courtney says, deliberately. “And that doesn’t make what she did okay. It’s two awful things, and they don’t justify or cancel each other out.”

  I can still see the photos in my peripheral vision, but I can’t look at them or at him. It’s another first for me, this ugly shame. It’s like I’ve never felt regret before. There’s no more need for regret in the vapid ease of Life In The Eloko Hotbed Of Portland than there is for discomfort. Despite intentionally giving in to it a moment ago, I still might not be built for it—but I’d rather chance it than be the kind of person the Ancestors won’t speak to.

  “I don’t get along with Tavia,” I say, careful to breathe. “Just her, as a person. But wearing that collar was a threat because she’s a siren. I didn’t get how messed up that was because there is no threat like that, for me, as an Eloko. Whether I’m a Black girl or not.”

  And nobody cared that I did it because they don’t care about the people who know what it means.

  The thought that is somehow both the Ancestors’ and mine at the same time sounds like a defense, like a shifting of blame, but I immediately know better. It’s blunt and honest, the way I say I am, pointing out the way my act of terror depended on the fact that no one cares about that kind of victim. And amazingly, it sounds like my voice, but it feels like theirs. A swell inside that’s the same as Knowing. As being known.