Nothing happened, we just made other friends and grew up, and while her world can get as big and unwieldy as she wants, I’ve got to keep mine under strict control. While she can date whenever and whomever she pleases—even if it’s just the same person repeatedly, which in her case it is—I’ve seen how close I get to telling on myself when I’m in love.
Or whatever I was in.
“Hair vid,” I say because no one in this room, or maybe the entire IB track, would know Camilla Fox’s name.
“What’s a hair video?” one of the Jennifers asks, and both of them join Altruism behind me.
“It’s a video tutorial that teaches you how to do your hair,” I answer while we all stare down at Camilla, who’s talking about how she got two perfectly symmetrical braided buns while wearing rainbow overall shorts over a flowy-sleeved crop top.
Ugh. She’s so dope.
“That’s wild.” It’s a Jennifer again. “I didn’t know people needed to be taught how to do their own hair.”
“That’s because all of mainstream media has been a white-girl hair tutorial all of your life,” Allie says. “It’s invisible to you.”
“Wait, is that for real?” A symphony of bangles chime before a finger jabs in from behind me and accidentally pauses the video. “She legiterally has millions of subscribers! She’s famous!”
“Yeah.” I unpause it. “She’s kind of a big deal.”
“I’ve never even heard of her!”
This is apparently really mind-bending for the Jennifers, but I refuse. I’m not up for educating anyone on how many things exist that they don’t know about or support, even if we are basically friends. Camilla Fox time is me time.
I scroll down to “like” the video and leave a supportive comment, but I immediately regret it.
The comments section that’s always been the happy exception to the never-read-the-comments rule is bursting at the seams. It’s always a hub for conversation and generally gassing each other up (while of course giving all praise to Camilla, too), but the huge bricks of text and deep threading of replies has nothing to do with her hairdo or her outfit or the product she briefly reviewed.
I can feel the three girls breathing behind me, and I wish I’d listened to my father. I scroll faster, hoping they won’t see the name, but it’s everywhere, no matter how far down I go.
Rhoda Taylor.
Rhoda Taylor.
Rhoda Taylor.
“They’re doing minute-to-minute updates from the courthouse now,” Allie says, almost gently. However loudly we were all speaking before, it’s like this new subject is sensitive and she knows it.
I should close the video and change the subject. Clear my viewing history again, just in case. No, I should say something to keep from arousing suspicion. No one would believe I don’t know about the trial, or that I don’t have an opinion on whether or not the allegation is true.
And then, as though to prove it, the bangle-less Jennifer asks.
“Do you think it’s true? Do you think Rhoda Taylor was a siren?”
“I don’t think that’s okay to ask Tavia,” Altruism says. Because I’m the only Black girl in the classroom. In most of our IB classes.
“I wasn’t just asking you, Tavia, I was asking everyone.”
“I know.” But I didn’t and I don’t believe her, so I don’t know why I say it. But it makes for a good transition, so I take the opportunity to close my phone.
“Are you okay?” Allie asks when I stand up just as most people are coming into the room.
I nod and smile big. Too big, if sincerity mattered. By the looks of it, the Jennifers are satisfied that I’m fine and they can move on. Only Altruism keeps her eyes on me while I pass Mr. Monroe in the doorway, assuring him I’ll be right back.
In the bathroom, I turn on the water and unnecessarily wet my hands.
Nothing happened; I didn’t do anything wrong. I just saw other people discussing something everyone is discussing. Something my classmates are discussing, in every hall and at every lunch table, and the teachers are no better.
Before they only seemed to know the defendant’s name, but now Rhoda Taylor is branded in their brains. I’ve heard it a dozen times today—but this isn’t what we mean by “say her name.”
None of that changes the way my dad would look at me if he knew I’d been involved. That I’d gone online.
I stare at the thick stream of water I can’t feel running over my hands.
Gramma …
This is ridiculous. I’m, what? Looking for a siren soul in faucet water now?
I’m getting desperate.
IV
EFFIE
The dream’s getting weirder.
And crowded.
Instead of me and four other kids the way it was in real life, now Mom’s there, and Tav. So two people who couldn’t have been, and oh yeah, a trick my eyes played on me. The “water mirage” I call it, the few times I’ve mentioned it aloud. It’s this rippling hallucination that moves across my vision and just generally adds to the eeriness of the whole ordeal.
As if anything could make that day worse.
I’m in the park, but it’s darker than it was. (I mean, who plays “Red Rover” at twilight. Kids are creepy, but they have their limits.)
The usual chorus of voices chants as I crouch down, one of my knees almost touching the damp grass.
My friends are lined up across from me. They’re gripping each other’s hands and swinging their arms. I can’t make out their faces, and something tells me if I could, they’d freak me out. I just hear them, chanting on a loop.
Red Rover, Red Rover, send Effie on over.
Nine-year-old me rocks back on my heels and readies myself like I’m heading into battle.
Red Rover, Red Rover, send Effie on over.
Mom and Tav are standing clear of the action, but I just … sense them.
I’m the last one called. Again. Even though this time, Red Rover was my idea. My grandfather Paw Paw had always said not to read too much into being called last, that they knew they weren’t strong enough to take me until they were all together, but I still felt left out. So I always ran a little faster than the time before, and I always pushed my shoulder into them a little harder, even though Ashleigh said I almost broke her wrist once.
She’s always the weakest link. In the dream I can see her hands shaking, even before I take off.
And then it’s like everything slows down.
I’m running, flying toward my friends, and my twists are streaming behind me. (Even though I shouldn’t be able to see that.) I’m like one of the knights in the jousting tournaments, charging with no fear.
I zero in on Ashleigh, like always. She was already shaking, but when we lock eyes, she actually starts to vibrate.
That can’t be right.
“Don’t let her in!” she squeals because she can’t feel the way her whole body rattles. Because this is a dream and my mind keeps finding ways to make the memory worse.
The game goes on, and I veer toward Ashleigh and Tabor.
She’s bracing herself and I brace myself too—but when I finally make impact, I feel like I’m smashing into a wall, not flesh and bone.