A Chorus Rises

by Bethany C. Morrow

  Jamie again.

  “Lemme guess, you downloaded the Knights of Naema app so you don’t miss a single oath of obsession.”

  I take a relaxed breath and ignore my salty cousin.

  “Oh, Pretty Bird,” he carries on. “The whole point of leaving your little Portland bubble was to get away from the celebrity. Commune with us little people.”

  “You’re gonna tell me the purpose of my trip now,” I say through a sigh.

  “I mean, Aunt Simone did.”

  And I can’t help snapping my head to the side, but I refuse to interrogate him, which is clearly what he’s trying to bait me into doing. I’m pretty sure my irises have been replaced by cartoon plumes of smoke but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna confess how pissed off I am.

  “What, like I don’t know my mom tells y’all everything, too? That’s just how family works, cuzzo.”

  “Clearly I’m gonna have to come right out and say it: living and staying in Portland doesn’t make me any less family, and it doesn’t make you any kind of authority on how one works. We good?”

  “Sheba’s big mad,” Courtney says, and I have no idea what tf that’s supposed to mean, so I roll my eyes. “Oop, your vibrator’s going off again.”

  “I’m sorry you don’t have friends who’d check on you if you’d just broken up with your boyfriend, Courtney.”

  Which I really wish I hadn’t said, because (a) I didn’t say it for sympathy, nor do I appreciate any, and (b) I don’t perform sadness, not even for my followers, so even if I were posting on LOVE, I wouldn’t have mentioned it. It was intended as a Shame On You that sort of backfired. I may or may not be off my game.

  I blame the heat.

  “You and Priam called it quits, for real?” And the worst part is how much softer Courtney’s voice has become. Like any minute, he’s gonna reach over and massage my shoulder. At which point, I would literally tuck and roll out of his hideous vehicle and take my chances with traffic and skin grafting.

  “Fine, Courtney,” I say, and swipe up on my phone to turn on Do Not Disturb. “Totally silent. Happy?”

  “The surge of serotonin I just got, you don’t even know.”

  He pulls into a lot and parks, but when he turns off the car and opens the door, I hiss.

  “Oh my gawd,” Courtney says and then falls forward laughing as he catches himself on his knees. “What is wrong with you!”

  “The heeeeat! I’m melting!”

  “Get out the car,” he yells while I laugh, and a white woman passing on the sidewalk looks at us confusedly, because she’s not accustomed to the sound of human laughter.

  “Close the door and lemme stay in the car!”

  “It’s gonna get hot in there, too, c’mon! The store has a/c, Naema, dang!”

  I groan, and then double-time unlatch my seat belt, throw the door open, and rush to get inside the shop.

  “You know opening day of the reunion’s a picnic, right? You ’bout to suffer.”

  “I’m staying home,” I say as he reaches around to open the door for me and we’re hit with a wall of cool air. “Or here. I’ll just live in this store. Tell Little Bit I love her.”

  “Will you please get out the way.” But instead of walking around me, Courtney pushes my back and guides me to the counter. “Babcock family reunion,” he tells the blue-polo-wearing clerk, then flashes a handsome smile.

  “Babcock?” I ask when the clerk disappears to get whatever we’re here to collect. “This is Mommy’s side of the family, that’s Johnson, I thought.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t think it was Bradshaw, since clearly the world revolves around you in particular.”

  “How do you survive with that much jealousy inside? It’s so sad.”

  “Our grandparents’ last name is Johnson, but this is the Babcock reunion. So everybody descended from Grandma’s parents. We do it big down here or we don’t do it at all.”

  I nod and mouth understanding.

  “But I’m not the authority on how family works, though.”

  I elbow him as the clerk returns with the first of several boxes. As soon as Courtney cracks one open and inspects the baseball jerseys with the family name across the back, I wanna pull out my phone and post it.

  “I’m gonna look adorable in that hoe.”

  Courtney snorts and looks at me, shaking his head. “Alright, Pretty Bird. C’mon. We got other stops.”

  He pays the fee, and not only do I have to go back out in the heat, but I must do so while carrying one of the boxes. I chuck it quickly in the bed of the truck portion of Courtney’s ridiculous hybrid before leaping back into what has in very short measure become a sweltering coffin.

  “Gimme the keys,” I cry, as Courtney sneers at me, transporting my box from the bed into the back seat.

  “Really, Naema?”

  “Well, what do you even have a pickup for! Turn on the car.”

  “Shoulda left the windows down,” he says as he climbs in and starts the car and a/c at last.

  “What would that have accomplished, Courtney? I thought you were smart.”

  “If you wasn’t my cousin, Naema, I’m for real.”

  See, what I have failed to mention is that in a devastating plot twist, the debilitating heat of this southwestern burg is not content to just roast you. Instead it includes an alarming amount of wind. It’s as windy as Portland in December, if in December Portland is beset with the devil’s morning breath. Which, if you can believe it, is responsible for the fact that when Courtney and I arrive at the next destination, and while I wander around with heatstroke as he tends to the errand, I accidentally leave my finger on Home too long and open my phone, thereby opening a text that has just arrived.

  “Crap.”

  Talk to Priam, Gavin instructs me with the authority of someone who mistakenly thinks me obedient.

  And of course, once open, Gavin can see that I’ve seen it.

  At which point, he calls me.

  “Crap!” I didn’t realize my own level of Really Don’t Wanna Be Bothered until one of my best friends is calling and I seriously do not want to answer it. Like Upside-Down Portland will seep through the speaker and infect my vacation, if a family reunion can be considered one.

  The calls ends, and then he’s texting me again.

  I lock my phone just as Courtney finishes with the extremely enthused riverboat tours manager and comes over to me, gums smacking.

  “They’ve had us booked for a solid year, and when they found out Great-Gram Lorraine, the matriarch herself, is about to be ninety-one years old?”

  He’s pretty self-satisfied. I can tell because he’s doing what I’d be willing to bet is supposed to be a hustler stroll, but looks like the beginning of some hip wedding procession choreography just awkward enough to go viral.

  “What? What about it?”

  He stops like it’s a dance break, and stares at me like I’m supposed to already be impressed with whatever he’s done.

  “What, Courtney? I’m hot.”

  “Your boy got a whole photographer thrown in, at their expense.” He lets his tongue hang out while he chuckles.

  “Which is basically a cute way of saying they’ll be using us for free publicity.”

  His eyebrows come crashing down, and his eyelids fall to half-mast.

  “Petty, Pretty Bird. Very petty.”

  I fall in step with him as we head back to his hideous beast of a wannabe Transformer. Gawd, I miss my Fiat. When we get back in, heading back to the house at last, I look at my phone once.

  “That’s getting real old, fyi,” Courtney says, glancing at it while trying to pretend he’s disinterested in my phone.

  “Mind your business,” I snap.

  “Didn’t you mute your notifications?”

  “Why you worried?”

  “Because it’s corny. If you don’t wanna talk to folks, turn off your phone.” He further emphasizes his words by slapping one palm with the back of the other hand as
he says them.

  “Heavens! Sincerest apologies, Courtney, but I—like many others—use my phone for a variety of tasks and cannot turn it off just because my boyfriend and our friends have begun bothering you.”

  “Don’t you mean ex-boyfriend?”

  “See, this is why I don’t tell you anything.”

  “Because I remember? Seat belt.”

  “I know how to ride in a car, Courtney, even one as unfortunate-looking as yours. You boss Carmen around, not me.”

  “But you put that seat belt on, didn’t you?”

  “I cannot stand you,” I say, and turn off Do Not Disturb to spite him.

  “Sit then.”

  “Who’s corny?”

  He flicks the music on, which drowns out the next several messages to bubble up on my lock screen.

  So you’ll read Gavin’s texts but not mine?? Jamie asks.

  Look, I know we’ve been butting heads lately, but if you wanna talk anything over, you know I’m here, Gavin says. And I won’t share it with Priam.

  And then there’s one from Priam himself. Finally.

  Can we talk soon?

  I sigh, and I want to say it isn’t like a swoon. But it is. Or like an ache. It’s only been a day and it already aches. I’m about to unlock my phone and reply to Priam when all three messages assemble into a group notification, which hides the previews and just shows how many there are, because my mom is a VIP contact, and she just texted me.

  911.

  “Crap.” I flick the music off, and call her phone, so freaked out that I absentmindedly put it on Speaker. Which is probably why Courtney doesn’t object to my interrupting his flow.

  “Ny?”

  As soon as I hear her voice, I straighten in my seat, and hold the phone closer to my mouth. No idea.

  “Mommy! What happened? Where are you?”

  “I’m at home—”

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “He’s somewhere around here.” It sounds like she’s looking around.

  “What happened?”

  “Ny, is everything okay?”

  “What?! You texted 911, Mommy! Do you know what 911 means?”

  “Yes, Naema, it means call me back.”

  Courtney snorts.

  “No! No, it doesn’t! 911 doesn’t mean call me back, Mommy, and it really doesn’t mean that when a pregnant lady dials it!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, darling, that’s all I meant.” She sighs, like she just lowered herself gingerly into her favorite oversized love seat and hoisted her Seriously Not That Pregnant Yet legs onto the matching ottoman. “Are you busy? Are you by yourself? I hope you’re not down there being antisocial.”

  “Hey, Auntie,” Courtney calls in his best Killmonger.

  “Is that my baby boy?”

  I can’t roll my eyes hard enough as the smile carves into his stupid face, and also at the completely ridiculous way folks act about nieces and nephews. What is the big deal, honestly. They’re not your kids.

  “Keep it in your pants,” I mutter.

  “Don’t be jealous, Ny,” she coos, making it worse. The bug-eyed, open-mouthed, silent guffaw Courtney’s giving me has me caught between laughing and throat-chopping him, but suddenly it disappears, and he’s speaking with a straight face.

  “It’s normal, Auntie Simone. I went through it when Carmen came along, and my mom and I read this great book on transitioning from being an only child together. I’ll ask her for the title, if you want.”

  “Courtney!” she says, incredulously, and at least she’s not so far gone in hormone soup that she can’t see through him. “That is so considerate!”

  “Mommy! Are you crying?!”

  “Hush, Ny,” she says through a laugh, and I can literally hear her wiping her eyes. “He’s always been such a precious heart. Oh, don’t let me forget to give you a few messages before we hang up. People keep trying to get ahold of you today, a professor and a producer.”

  “Producer?” I ignore the academic because I’m 100 percent certain it’s just Heather Vesper-Holmes again.

  “You fancy now,” Precious Heart mutters, perfect eyebrow cocked.

  “I can’t remember her name—”

  “Was it Leona Fowl?” I blurt. I meant to follow up with her, but maybe she just needed a minute to coddle her ego before realizing every point I made in my first email was dead-on. “The film producer?”

  “Well, it wasn’t a film producer, I know that. It’s somebody from one of the primetime investigative shows, and it’s national! I can’t remember their name. I took down the number, I can text it to you, but Ny, it’s so exciting, they want to finally hear all about how you were one of the victims, and how hard it’s been for you, and how much hurt you’ve gone through, too!”

  I don’t move. And not just because I’ve perfectly positioned and angled all of the vents to the right of Courtney’s steering wheel to wash over me in a nonstop stream of too-cold air. I notice after a moment that my eyes are roaming; it probably looks like I’m tracking one of the birds flying in loop de loops because apparently they, too, can get heatstroke. But I’m thinking.

  “Ny?” Mommy’s voice breaks the arctic air between me and the speaker.

  “I’m thinking.”

  “About what?” she asks like she’s surprised that I would need to do that.

  Or like she doesn’t have a single alarm bell ringing in her head. Like the description she just gave isn’t mildly infuriating. The idea that my story has appeal as long as I got hurt, that maybe folks will fawn over me again if only I’m willing to lay bare my trauma, and really lean into the devastation of being Stoned, of losing my melody for six hours, of not knowing if I was ever coming back.

  Of counting thoughts because I didn’t have any other way of keeping time. Counting, and crying despite not having eyes, screaming despite not having a voice, and then pulling myself together and starting the count again because I couldn’t tell how many times I’d said the same number.

  If we’re gonna valorize my pain, if I get to regain my right to be beautiful and brutally honest by bleeding, do we also get to talk about their part in it? Are we gonna discuss Upside-Down Portland? The betrayals, the lack of empathy, the fickleness of the fame they assigned to my kind that made coming out of the stone just another stage of it? Because I doubt it.

  In a way, the Knights of Naema are the only good thing to come out of any of this. Courtney’s misgivings aside, at least none of them needs to see me bleed. None of them is asking me to get teary-eyed and weak before they’ll give me back my place.

  “Ny? Courtney, is your cousin still there?”

  “I mean, technically?” I can feel Courtney watching me when he should be watching the road. “Is it normal for her to stop talking and keep moving her eyes around like she’s possessed?”

  Mommy laughs. “She’s thinking. She’s just like her father, they’re strategists. I can never keep up!”

  I don’t want some forty-minute chop shop episode of All Of Your Children Will Eventually Be Kidnapped. I want Leona Fowl. I want a direct response to that Tavia Philips propaganda. I think I can hook her if I just tell her the real up front. Except I’m not sure how to do that without telling the world that there’s such a thing as networks, which. Takes me right back to Powell’s, and the donna. She’d say that a few sirens might have decided to come out in the open, but a lot of them haven’t. Most. Telling everyone that there are totally ordinary people in the Black community doing the work of keeping those identities secret because they don’t trust society doesn’t seem like a good idea for anybody. And that includes the elderly Black woman who oversees it.

  But there’s still the true story of my Stoning.

  That Tavia Philips gave the command.

  “Ny, I’ll text you the number, okay?”

  “No need,” I say. “I’ve got a line on someone else. I don’t want an interview. I want a movie.” My mom squeals on the other side of the phone. I expect either a similar
or an intentionally opposite response from Courtney, but when I glance at him, he’s studying me.

  “Okay, I’m gonna get your father to make me some food, I’m famished.”

  “You’re not.” I’m still locking eyes with my cousin.

  “Love you, love you, love you, Ny,” she blathers on, adding kissy noises. “I wanna hear everything soon!”

  “Bye, Mommy,” I say, and push the phone toward stern-faced Courtney until he says goodbye, and then I hang up. “So, what’s up with you,” I ask, in a singsong voice, so he knows I already know.

  “That’s what I was gonna ask you. That was like watching a supervillain hatch a plan.”

  “’Kay.”

  “Look. It was all over your face, so.”

  “It’s honestly fine. I mean Mommy said strategist but you made the leap straight to supervillain, I mean.”

  “All I’m saying is your energy got real dark, cuzzo.”

  “Are we making ‘cuzzo’ a thing? Is this your version of a dad talk?” I know I’m winning because he starts shaking his head, but there’s no nod afterward. “Listen, I’m really very sorry that I took a moment of serious thought before deciding if I wanted to talk to a producer about doing a segment on me, Courtney—”

  “Okay.”

  “In the future, I’ll not look so solemn and supervillain-y when considering business opportunities? I’m not sure what else I can do. Cuzzo.”

  “Right.”

  When we both fall quiet, and without his extremely loud and extremely regional rap, the sound of the air conditioner is almost hilarious. I’ve turned his car into a wind tunnel, yet I regret nothing, especially when we stop at the last light before his neighborhood. The heat is wafting off the pavement and creating a mirage so tall the other cars are driving through it.

  Like the Walking Water from Tavia’s movie. The way they turned Renaissance faire lore into part of Effie’s story.

  The same way they gutted mine by creating Nina.

  At least the story I’m going to tell will be true.

  At least they’ll know, at last, who the real villain is.

  Chapter XIII

  Knights of Naema Post

  STATEMENT OF PURPOSE