A Chorus Rises Page 25

  “We were hoping you could find out who these people are, because at least some of them are local.” I stop. “You know that, too.”

  “Listen,” he says through a deep breath, and now it’s his turn to do the whole Let’s All Of Us Hold Our Horses gesture. “It’s probably time I talk to your parents, both of you,” he looks between Tavia and me, “and let them know about this, and the folks I’ve identified. Just as a courtesy, not because I think there’s anything actionable going on.”

  “Should we wait? Would you?” I ask. “If it was your kid being discussed on the internet by a group of grown men? Are there not enough examples of these exact circumstances turning very bad?”

  “This is where white domestic terrorists are being radicalized,” Tavia says, and I think of the Knight artist, and how quickly his mind was changed. And how he now has a bronze shield in the corner of his avatar. “If it was anybody else gathering, and curating lists, and talking about vigilante justice, SWAT teams would’ve busted down their doors, and we all know it. The fact that you already knew isn’t heartening, not to me.”

  Everybody stops, and it feels like we’re all waiting for something, but I don’t know exactly what.

  “Dad,” Priam says, and it’s a complete sentence. “If Tavia or Naema see these guys on the street, they don’t have a right to know they’re there?”

  Officer Blake studies his son for a few moments, but it’s clear he’s doing more than that. If I’m being totally honest, I don’t understand what the dilemma is. Maybe Priam’s dad doesn’t know the network exists, but I think everyone who wants to know knows that police don’t protect and serve everybody. That they’re as likely to be hiding behind this forum and the Knight shields as their own. Officer Blake must know some of us survive by looking out for ourselves, and one another. And if the police force isn’t gonna do anything with the information anyway, why wouldn’t he give it to us?

  “You’re gonna tell our parents, right?” I ask. “Because clearly it’s serious enough for that.”

  “Yes, Naema. I’m gonna tell your parents.”

  “And you know they’re gonna tell us, for our own safety, ’cause it doesn’t matter that I’m still a minor, people like this have proven they’ll go after us anyway, yes? So can we skip the part where the kids are kept unnecessarily in the dark by the people who are supposed to help them? It doesn’t make us feel innocent, it just wastes time.”

  Officer Blake motions for me to roll his chair back so he can open the top drawer of his desk. “I am the adult here, I just wanna make that clear.”

  “We know, Dad.” Priam pats him on the back for good measure. “You’re totally in charge.”

  “You can always say I made you do it,” Tavia says, arms crossed over her chest, and Officer Blake immediately stops and looks over his shoulder at her. “Too soon?”

  “My partner still thinks that was his idea, you know. Not giving you a ticket.”

  “I didn’t deserve one, as I recall.”

  “Hi, was there something in the drawer you wanted to show us?” I ask, impatiently, just as Courtney mutters:

  “I feel real unspectacular right now.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Priam says, nudging him with his elbow. “Apparently I haven’t been Eloko-ing right.”

  I cannot, and I refuse.

  Thankfully, Officer Blake has retrieved the three thin files and set them on the desk in front of me. When I glance up at him, he looks over my head and nods like he’s still not sure about this. I’m not waiting for him to reconsider, so when he moves out of the way and the others gather around me, I flip one open.

  The first two don’t yield much but a photograph in each and a lot of boring paperwork. I make mental notes of the men, just in case I ever see them around town, and I commit their names to memory. From Officer Blake’s notes, one of them is the Knights of Naema user who posted the pictures of me while I was Stoned, and the other is the one who assured someone that there’s a presence in Portland, ready and willing to defend me against a horde of imaginary siren warriors. To absolutely no one’s surprise, he’s a complete poseur, with zero ties even to the several ugly collectives in and around Oregon. It doesn’t mean he’s harmless, just that for now it’s probably bluster.

  I don’t want to look at either any longer than I need to, but I also don’t want to see the picture of Stone Naema Officer Blake’s included. I slide it out of the paper clip and turn it over before sliding it back into place and handing off the file to whoever else wants a look.

  I’m expecting the same nauseating but manageable experience with the last file.

  There’s a picture again, and a name, and neither of them is familiar. Guy #3 looks like another run-of-the-mill white guy. Beard. Moustache. Plaid button-down and a tie. If anything, he’s younger than the first two, and looks like an elementary-school teacher.

  Because he is.

  His occupation is listed, and the school. And I’ve seen it before.

  Before I look at the associated username, I already know who he is.

  It’s the radicalizer, the Southwest corrector. The Secret Sirens forum starter.

  NaemasNobleman.

  The Ancestors don’t need to speak. I already know. I see the little girl, hanging upside down, braids and bobbles dangling below her smiling face.

  I look at Courtney, and even though I don’t say a word, he understands.

  That’s how he knew. That’s how he knew she won the spelling bee, and that’s how he got the photos he posted of one of the students at his school.

  I’m not sick to my stomach now. I’m pissed. I want to rage-scream at the top of my lungs, tear his picture to shreds, show up in his Safe Spaces and prey on him—

  “Thanks, Officer Blake,” I say, slapping the file shut and standing. He’s walked out of the office and back into the kitchen like he’s trying to maintain some sort of plausible deniability. Now he comes back toward me wearing a still-conflicted expression, so I decide to really test my acting chops and try to put him at ease. “It makes me feel better putting faces to the usernames. So I know to go the other way if they ever get too close.”

  It’s funny because it’s a lie. I’m not going to wait for Plaid Shirt to get close to me, because he’s already too close to someone else, and she probably thinks she can trust him.

  He’s the most average-looking dude—but aren’t they always? He’s average height, master’s-level education, no scars, no tattoos, no record, no bad credit. Isn’t it funny how the narrative is always that no one would ever have guessed, when really, statistically, we all should’ve? He Doesn’t Look Like A Bad Guy only makes sense if you’re a complete Fox News zombie, parroting back whatever you’re told. He doesn’t look like the guys we’re told are bad. He doesn’t look like the people we’re supposed to mistrust.

  He looks exactly like a bad guy. And I’m gonna let him know he’s not anonymous anymore.

  XXVI

  LOVE Press Release—Immediate Publication

  Eloko Verified has always been about magic and love. Our genesis was in identifying and sharing an adoration for Eloko that feels uniquely Portlandian. We are therefore troubled by the recent spamming of profiles and posts with the #ElokoFirst hashtag, and are disallowing the use of this hashtag going forward.

  While it seems very straightforward to us, we are aware this will seem confusing and potentially off-brand. We want to assure our wonderful community that this could not be further from the truth. We feel a responsibility to communities who have not experienced the unfettered admiration that Eloko have, and have been intentional about listening to groups outside our own in deciding how best to move forward. The work of Professor Heather Vesper-Holmes at the University of Portland has been illuminating, and history is very clear on the damage and danger that can arise when any privileged demographic is intentionally framed as lacking it, or requiring protections already inherent to their experience.

  We are asking our fellow m
embers to stand with us against any radicalization that would mar the love we have for Eloko, and to broaden the scope of our community as we seek to learn more about others with magic of their own.

  Effective immediately, Eloko Verified will be Magic Verified. We hope our Eloko influencers will not only remain, but also welcome others as we grow together, in love.

  Chapter XXVII

  NAEMA

  School’s out for summer. Obviously. But apparently teachers still go there during the break? The things you learn when you’re hunting down a decorated Knight—excuse me, Nobleman—who takes pictures of little girls who threaten him by out-spelling all her white schoolmates.

  The network told us where to find him.

  As in the siren-shielding network I used to be part of. It was Tavia who snapped a picture of his picture from Officer Blake’s file and texted it with his name and occupation to everyone who still gets those texts—but when the reply came in, it came to my phone, too.

  When it vibrated, I looked at my phone and then—involuntarily!—shot a glance at Tavia, even though I sincerely hope I recovered before she noticed.

  Anyway.

  It hadn’t taken long to find someone who lives near the school, and knows teachers had already started showing back up. Someone even did a preliminary drive-by and verified his car and room.

  When we arrive, Plaid Shirt is apparently still putting his classroom together, and knowing he teaches fourth grade makes me want to burn things. I consider it. His car is parked on a side street closer to his classroom door than the faculty parking lot would’ve been, and there’s no reason I couldn’t at least bust out a few windows, but I won’t. Not because I have a ton of respect for his personal possessions. Just because I think talking to him will make him a lot more anxious, and I don’t feel like giving him cause for a police report that would really highlight the way I might be Eloko, but there’s still a Right Phenotype and he’s rocking it. Better not to test the past year’s damage.

  Which is also why I’ve assembled the Eloko, with whom I’m posted up across the street from Plaid Shirt’s car, parked under an Oregon white oak, basking in the shade.

  “Your channel is so dope, Tavia,” Jamie’s saying, inching closer every time Tavia casually steps slightly away. “I loved that episode about the history of siren calls.”

  “Thanks,” Tavia says, almost standing on Courtney’s feet in her attempt to maintain some degree of personal space. For his part, my cousin doesn’t scooch at all, like if he’s patient she’ll just end up in his arms. Turd.

  “Have you learned any more since—”

  “Nope.” If that was supposed to end the conversation, it doesn’t.

  “But you still see your grandma in the water? You should ask her to teach you a new one, that’s so cool.”

  “That’s weird, sirens and Eloko both have an Ancestor thing,” Priam says, and then, as though he didn’t mean to say it out loud, “I mean, kind of.”

  “Yeah, but we just get their smarts, we can’t actually talk to them,” Gavin says from his seat on the roof of my car. He’s here, but he’s totally moping because when I called and told him and Jamie that I’m in town and that they needed to meet me at a random elementary school, I declined his offer to bring New Girlfriend.

  “Well, actually,” Priam starts, and I give him a Not Now glance. I’ll have plenty of time to espouse the We Must Return To Our Roots And Forgo The Trappings Of Celebrity Culture If We Want To Hear The Ancestors doctrine after today’s festivities. “How many of Tavia’s videos have you watched, Jamie?”

  Flawless segue.

  Jamie’s shoulders leap up to her ears, and she looks at each of us. We’re definitely a clique from a high school movie, Gavin on the top of my car, Priam and I leaning against the hood, and Jamie, Tavia, and Courtney taking up the side. Which isn’t difficult, Fiats being diminutive and all. My point is that when Plaid Shirt finally comes out, he’ll think he’s walked onto a film set.

  “I’ve seen all of them, I think, right?” she asks Tavia, like she should know. “But that’s okay now, I thought!”

  “You didn’t just watch them today, Jamie,” Gavin says, dropping his chin like he’s chastising her. Which he’s only doing in case I’m going to, which would supposedly be worse. Ever the nice guy. The nice, love-crazy guy with terrible but thankfully short-lived taste.

  “Are you sure you wanna do this?” Priam asks me quietly while the bickering continues.

  “You don’t have to,” I say.

  “That’s not what I said. I’m saying do you and Tavia really wanna meet this guy face to face? What if instead of ending this, it makes it worse for you two?”

  “There’s no end to this.” I watch his brow buckle, and then shrug. “I mean, probably. We’re both visible, and neither of us is gonna stop being visible, and new dudebros are being radicalized online every day…”

  “So what’s the difference? Why take the risk of antagonizing him?”

  “The difference is these people are doing it in my name,” I say. “That doesn’t work for me. What, am I gonna be less brave than Tavia Philips? How dare you.”

  “This isn’t funny, Ny.” He pulls me closer.

  “I’m not laughing. I’m just not gonna hide on the off chance that they disappear.”

  “I totally get that you’re the Naema Bradshaw,” Gavin chimes in because he’s never not eavesdropping. “But I still say we should be entrapping this guy. Am I the only one who thinks it might be helpful for other people to see this?”

  “So Officer Blake knows I came straight here?”

  Jamie cringes.

  “Exactly. I’m good. It’s like you said, Gavin. I’m the Naema Bradshaw. We don’t need everybody to see this, we just need this guy to see us.”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “It’s time to use your Eloko swagger for something other than hooking up with randos. After all: when they go low, we step on their necks.”

  “That’s not how that saying goes.”

  And across the street, Plaid Shirt returns to his car for another box of whatever.

  “It is now,” I say, and wave until I get the man’s attention.

  At first he just squints at us, half waves in case he should know who we are, and why a group of really attractive teenagers is hanging out on a super-clean Fiat.

  “Hey,” I call, all jovial and misleadingly. And he figures out who I am.

  “N-Naema?” he asks, and then his whole face lights up, and he starts across the street. “You’re Naema, right?”

  “That’s me,” I say, finger hooked around the necklace I put on for this occasion while I reach with my other hand so he has to come closer still.

  “This is wild, do you live around here?” the moron asks, barely taking notice of the four other people with me while he first shakes my hand, and then holds it between his.

  “I mean, yeah, I live in Portland.” It’s amazing how easily I still slide into my trademark charm and infectious smile, even while delicately retracting my hand.

  “But near here? I teach here,” he says, pointing back at the school. “I’m a teacher at this school.”

  Should I be impressed?

  “That’s so cool,” I say, and then thrust my phone at him. “Can you take a picture for us?”

  “Oh,” he says, but it’s less a word and more an exclamation of obedience. “Yeah, of course, whatever you say.”

  “Make sure you get all of us,” I chirp, and the five of us snap into model mode, changing poses slightly a few times while Plaid Shirt captures them with my phone. “That’s perfect.”

  I reach for the device and he makes another monosyllabic burp like the bumbling sack of pathetic that he is.

  “You’re good at that,” I say, scrolling through the pics. “At taking photos of people, I mean.”

  “I’m like an amateur photographer—”

  “I’d believe that. You have that amateur vibe.” And then, while he’s smi
ling strangely, like he’s trying to make sense of what I’ve said, I add: “Nobleman. But you’re not very smart, aren’t teachers supposed to be smart?” I ask Tavia.

  Which is when he sees her. I have to say, I love the way she waves like the motion is moving through one finger at a time.

  “Yeah, how exactly would you have explained being that excited to see me, by the way?”

  “You did seem real eager,” Courtney quips from his very relaxed lean. I notice one of his arms dangles over Tavia’s shoulder now.

  “Right?” I ask. “So we’ve established you’re a Knight,” I list it off on my fingers, “and you’re an amateur photographer, and you post pictures of little girls online because they’re too smart and that’s not fair.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, and Plaid Shirt finally finds his bearings and starts to cross the street toward his car.

  “The police do,” I call, and he glances over his shoulder. “And that producer lady who I’m guessing got in touch with you. Plus some other people.” When he looks at me with concern, I shrug. “I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised if it gets out. ‘Schoolteacher Doxing Little Girls In His Own School’ sounds like something that might capture a news cycle or two.”

  “Especially if it gets amplified on some really popular social media accounts,” Tavia offers, strolling up behind me in the middle of the street.

  “That’s going to happen, by the way,” I say. “These aren’t hypotheticals.”

  “Why?” he asks, pushing his head forward in my direction like maybe the others won’t hear him.

  “Why am I going to make sure the media, the school, and various other interested parties know that you’re trying to earn clout by terrorizing people?” I ask. “Is there some reason you thought I wouldn’t?”

  “You’re—” he starts because he’s really incredulous. Which I refuse to take as a personal indictment. None of these losers asked if I wanted to be their Token, and the fantasy they’ve concocted has very little to do with me.