Eli might not be able to fly or disappear into thin air, but I bet his under-the-radar invisibility means he knows everything that goes on in this neighborhood. He’s a reporter’s dream source.
“This is perfect,” I whisper, so excited I can barely breathe. “My aunt loves that kind of thing. Now I just need to get them both together…”
Eli scrubs a particularly tough black spot. “Could you get him to go with you to the Newseum?”
My eyes widen. “You. Are. A. Genius.”
Smiling at the ground, Eli shrugs. Then, like a switch being turned, he suddenly freezes. Head cocked. Listening.
I frown. “What…?”
Nothing sounds unusual. But then I notice the birds have stopped singing. And a car brakes with a soft groan somewhere not too far away. Wonder Dog hops up to bark, but Eli grabs her and closes her mouth with his hands.
“You need to leave,” he whispers to me. “Now!”
All I manage to say is, “Huh?”
“Get her leash. You need to go. Don’t make any noise.”
There’s something in his voice that makes my questions stick to my tongue. So I hook on Wonder’s leash. Eli doesn’t let go of her snout. He’s not holding it tight, but she wiggles, wanting to go investigate the noises as a car door slams.
“Keep her quiet,” he says to me. He gets to his feet and hurries across the patio. “Come on.”
I pick up Wonder—she’s almost too big for me, but it’s easier to move like this—hold her mouth shut, and follow him. Wonder makes little woof noises, ears perked up.
Eli opens the gate and looks outside, then practically pushes me through. “Don’t go straight to the street,” he says. “Go through Mrs. B’s yard or something.”
“Okay. Are—”
But before I can ask anything, he closes the gate—quickly but silently—and vanishes. I blink, then let Wonder jump down as I edge into Mrs. B’s yard. I glance back at Eli’s house, trying to figure out what had him so spooked, but the only thing I see is Candace walking to the front door.
Chapter 15
MUSEUM TRIP EXPOSES MODERN MYTHS
Mom and Dad try to talk to me again, but I just hide in my room. There are three big things I need to think about. I write them down in my notepad, for record-keeping purposes:
The livestream. It’s not that I’m upset about the baby. It’s not even really that Mom did a livestream with me. The bit that feels lodged in my throat is the moment I turned to Mom, excited, and looked right in the eye of the camera. That moment tastes like betrayal.
The baby. I’ve pretty much decided the baby’s name should be Lucy. Lucy Lane in the comics has a lot of different versions, and some aren’t great, but when she’s done right she is Lois Lane’s best friend. And sometimes she has her own superpowers, and flies around as Superwoman. Perfect for my little sister.
Eli. This is the biggest puzzle to think about. Why was he so spooked? Even the first time Kenny came by, Eli didn’t freak out that much.
By Tuesday morning, I’ve made a plan for the day with my parents using as few words as possible. But words of any sort mean, technically, I’m talking to them again. I guess.
I am very ready to get out—and, with any luck, finally force Aunt Lexie to actually spend time with James.
I push away thoughts of the three big things while I get dressed. Today I’m in a long red T-shirt and newspaper leggings. What’s white, black, and red all over? Nadia. On the job.
Right around noon, Aunt Lexie pulls into the driveway and waves. I’m all ready and watching through the window. Over my shoulder, I call to Mom, “She’s here!”
“Have fun!” Mom calls back. “I’ll see you for dinner.”
I run to the car without answering. Mom, Dad, Aunt Lexie, and I will meet in Arlington around five. That way, Aunt Lexie doesn’t have to take me all the way back here. This sounds suspiciously like a setup for a family meeting about babies and blogs, but I’m not going to worry about that until after. Until then, I will have a perfect day.
“Hi, Girl Reporter,” Aunt Lexie says as I slide into the passenger seat and buckle up. “How are you doing?”
“Fine.” I pull my backpack on my lap and wrap my arms around it, unable to help jiggling my legs.
Aunt Lexie puts the car in reverse and backs out of the driveway. “Good. Your mom’s kind of worried about you.”
I make a face. Aunt Lexie smiles.
“Between you and me,” she whispers, “I thought the livestream was a pretty bad idea, too. If she’d told me about it beforehand, I would have sent you a warning.”
“Did you know she was pregnant?” I ask, remembering Aunt Lexie’s comment on the bike trail.
Aunt Lexie hesitates, but nods. “She told me. But I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone else. Your mom has had … some trouble with pregnancies in the past. She wanted to make sure everything was okay before she let anyone but your dad and me know.” Aunt Lexie glances at me. “I knew you could handle it, but there’s not a whole lot you can do when your big sister swears you to secrecy.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” I say, shooting Aunt Lexie a smile. “I think it might be fun to be a big sister.”
“Well, it always seemed a lot more fun than being the little one.” Aunt Lexie winks, then passes me her phone. “You pick the music. Something to get us in a reporter mood.”
We’re pulling around the far side of the street now, and a brand-new birdhouse in Mrs. B’s yard comes into view. She’s standing in front of it, a hand over her mouth, staring. I can’t help the wide grin that stretches across my face. Eli did it.
As we drive past, I raise my hand to wave. Mrs. B waves back, teary-eyed, and turns again to the house. I relax in my seat, letting a warm glow spread from my chest to my fingertips. Perfect day off to a perfect start.
The drive goes smoothly, pretty traffic-free. Out the window, I watch as the Mount Vernon Trail weaves in and out of view along the Potomac. Then we crawl through a million traffic lights in Alexandria. Then some more trail-Potomac views, then the airport, then more trail-Potomac. We turn onto one of the big bridges and cross into the city.
Even though Mom and Dad get lost every time they try to drive around here, Aunt Lexie navigates the busy streets and wild drivers like a pro. Before long, we’re parked, I have my notepad out, and we’re walking up to the Newseum itself.
And, just as I planned it, out front stands James Wilson. He’s reading the long row of newspapers from around the world displayed against the wall, all of them featuring today’s headlines. He looks serious, hands in his pockets and a satchel over his shoulder.
Aunt Lexie pokes my arm. “Um. Nadia? What…?”
“Hi, James!” I call, waving.
He glances up and smiles at us. “Hey there. Glad I’m not late.”
“Hello,” Aunt Lexie says warily.
“I told Mrs. B that I was coming here with you today,” I explain to my aunt. “And she said James was in the city doing a shoot this morning and so I suggested he could come with us because she said he’s been wanting to check out the museum’s Pulitzer Prize photography exhibit and so I told her to tell him what time we’d be here.”
Aunt Lexie blinks. “Oh.”
“I hope that’s all right,” James says, looking less certain now. “I thought…”
“Oh, it’s fine!” Aunt Lexie smiles, and if she still looks a little awkward, at least she also isn’t just gaping at us both anymore. “Totally. Let’s go in.”
We have to pass through security, buy tickets, pick up a visitors’ map, and then I’m finally in the museum of my dreams.
“Okay, where do we start?” Aunt Lexie asks, opening her map.
I can’t stop looking around. This hall is huge. Inspirational music plays in the background, and news quotes flash across a big screen while a rolling feed of headlines scrolls along the walls. Everything is crisp and clean and modern. I could totally see Lois Lane striding around, taking charge.
A quote forms on the screen. “There are three kinds of people who run toward disaster, not away: cops, firemen and reporters.” —Rod Dreher, newspaper columnist.
I flip open my notepad and write it down. That perfectly sums up the sort of Lois Lane reporting I want to do. Maybe I can use it in my Junior Journalists Contest entry, if I ever come up with a real story.
While I’m still copying the quote, the screen changes again. This time, it’s a group of teenage protesters. The focus of the picture is a boy holding a sign with a half smile frozen on his face. He has dark hair and brown eyes and he looks just like Eli—he’s even wearing a hoodie.
Except … this boy has clean clothes and straight shoulders and a confident, goofy tilt to his head.
I’ve never seen Eli look like that.
“Should we start with the Pulitzer exhibit, since you came for that?” Aunt Lexie asks James.
“No, that’s fine.” James points toward an escalator with a START HERE sign. “I think we’re supposed to go from the top down.”
Pulling myself out of my thoughts, I suggest, “Let’s do the opposite. Down and then up!”
Aunt Lexie shrugs. “Suits me.”
We take an elevator to the first floor and start at the Berlin Wall—a chunk of wall and a whole guard tower that’s been brought over and rebuilt here. Then it’s on to a 9/11 room, then an exhibit about civil rights, and another about the history of journalism. I scribble anything that sounds interesting into my notepad. Writing works as a good excuse to lag behind James and Aunt Lexie, so they’re forced to talk to each other.
Sometimes I catch bits of their conversation.
Aunt Lexie: “What kind of photography do you like best?”
James: “Portrait photography, actually. Especially candid—unposed.”
Aunt Lexie, joking: “I thought all wedding photography was posed.”
James: “Ha! Not all of it. But actually, I prefer to do portraits in communities, especially abroad—I like the challenge of capturing different people in different cultures, recording their lifestyles, that sort of thing.”
Aunt Lexie, interested: “Oh!”
Then, later.
Aunt Lexie: “What was one of your favorite trips?”
James, not hesitating: “I went with Doctors Without Borders on a medical trip to the Dadaab refugee camps in Kenya. It was intense, but everyone involved—patients and staff—was absolutely amazing.”
Aunt Lexie, very interested: “That sounds fascinating. When were you there?”
James: “Back a few years ago. There’s actually a film out now—”
Aunt Lexie: “Yes! Lives on Hold. I’ve been wanting to see it.”
James: “Right—me too. It’s set during the time I was there.”
But even while I revel in this gold mine of journalism and matchmaking, I’m thinking about Eli. Maybe it’s his terrible haircut that makes him seem so different from that boy. Or maybe it’s the faint, tiny lines between his eyebrows when he isn’t smiling. Or maybe it’s the deep, dark patches of skin under his eyes, even darker than my dad’s (and my dad’s have gotten a lot darker since he started work at the Pentagon).
Maybe it’s that the boy on the screen looked assured. Safe. And yesterday, Eli …
Something about the scoop doesn’t feel fun anymore. Something’s changed.
The something sits heavy in my stomach, a weight that grows every time I hold still long enough to notice.
At last we get to the top floor, where a long balcony scattered with tourists promises a great look at the city. James grabs the glass door and holds it for us while Aunt Lexie and I step out.
“Nice!” James says, walking to the balcony rail and lifting his big fancy camera from his satchel. From here we can see straight down the street to the Capitol building. In the early-summer glow of the crazy blue sky, the Capitol seems impossibly white. It almost hurts to look at it directly.
Aunt Lexie shades her eyes. “That’s what I call a view.”
James lowers his camera and glances across the balcony. “You know—I might head back to the Pulitzer Prize photography exhibit. I’ll probably take a while to get through it, and I don’t want to hold you two up.”
“Sounds good.” Aunt Lexie smiles at him. “See you in a few minutes.”
James grins and goes inside. I lift my eyebrows at my aunt.
“Oh, shush.” She swats my shoulder and heads toward the long line of information plaques along the edge of the balcony.
I follow her, tapping on my camera app to take some pictures of the street. Without James and his professional camera, it feels less silly to use my phone.
After a few minutes, Aunt Lexie makes a soft humming noise. “Hmm.”
“What?” I look down at the plaque that Aunt Lexie is reading. It’s a timeline of Pennsylvania Avenue.
“This street has seen a lot of history.” Aunt Lexie points to the bold, big title, then trails her finger down to the spot right in front of her.
Above a small black-and-white picture, the caption reads: Slave Pens on the Avenue. The Saint Charles Hotel at Third Street and Pennsylvania Avenue had below-ground pens where slaves were held while their owners stayed at the hotel.
“Wow,” I whisper. The old photo beside the text shows dark brick and ironwork, with a black doorway to the left. It’s all under street level.
“Awful to think this was so close to our Capitol, huh?” Aunt Lexie says. “Literally only a few blocks away.”
“Yeah.” The grimy, dark photo seems to suck the warmth out of the bright summer day. I rub a sudden chill off my arms. “I’m glad slavery is over.”
Aunt Lexie looks at me, surprised.
“I mean—I guess it probably still happens in some parts of the world…” I trail off as Aunt Lexie watches me with an expression I can’t quite read.
I shrug, but that heavy something in my stomach suddenly grows ten times bigger. My scoop senses are going off, and I know, without Aunt Lexie saying anything, that I don’t have the full story.
“Nadia,” Aunt Lexie says softly. “I thought…” She pauses and drums her fingers on the sign, exhaling. “Do you know what I do at my job?”
I blink. “Traffic. What’s that got to do with this?”
“I work in a law firm—right over there, actually.” Aunt Lexie points toward the old Smithsonian Museum across the grassy mall. “We are committed to helping people who have been trafficked. That’s the term we use for slavery now—human trafficking.”
I can’t help staring at her, my face heating. All this time, I thought she worked on street traffic. Like cars and trucks. But this is completely different.
“Human trafficking means that people are threatened, coerced, or sold for someone else’s gain.” Aunt Lexie meets my eyes, serious. “It happens all around the world, every day. Even here. It’s just—hard to see.”
“Hard to see?” I echo, my thoughts foggy and my voice faint.
Aunt Lexie nods. “In some ways, it’s almost invisible.”
Chapter 16
KRYPTONITE AND OTHER WAYS TO KILL A SUPERHERO
Invisible.
Eli.
I want to sink through the ground. My thoughts twist and tangle, and I don’t know what to say or think or feel. It doesn’t seem possible. It shouldn’t be possible. And especially not here, not in the US.
Not Eli.
“But—how—why would anyone have a slave?” I stutter.
“Some people sell others online.” Aunt Lexie stiffens, her gaze going distant, like she’s thinking about things she won’t say. Then she focuses on me again. “People can be … really terrible. Especially to kids. And there are other ways. Sometimes it looks like historical slavery, where a person serves someone else in their house—we call them domestic servants. Some victims work on farms, or in restaurants, or hotels. Some are young, some are old—some foreign, some American. It doesn’t look any one way.”
A cold, sharp sting it
ches in my throat. “How do you know when you see it?”
“There are a few common signs.” Aunt Lexie guides me away from the timeline plaques, to make room for other visitors. “Victims are isolated—especially from outsiders—so they don’t have contact with anyone who might help.”
Eli never leaves his yard.
“They are not well taken care of, generally—it’s cheaper to replace a person than it is to pay doctor bills.”
Eli always looks shabby.
“If the victims are foreigners, their passports and visas will be taken from them. Children don’t go to school.”
Eli doesn’t go to school. He said he was homeschooled, but he always talked about classes like they happened in the past—like he doesn’t do any of that now.
“Victims work without pay, or with so little they can’t support themselves. Sometimes traffickers will hold a debt over their heads, or coerce them through threats and promises. Some traffickers control victims with drugs—illegal drugs, often, but sometimes drugs they need to stay alive, like insulin.” Aunt Lexie shakes her head. “It’s all complicated, and difficult.”
A muffled haze settles around me. My chest hurts, a long, low hurt that doesn’t start or end but just goes and goes. It isn’t right, I think, isn’t right, isn’t right. My hands shake and clench, wanting something to grab, but my heart keeps skidding further and further into a world I don’t understand.
Eli was supposed to be a superhero. Not this.
My eyes find the Capitol, white and blazing under the summer sky. It’s so beautiful, and what Aunt Lexie describes is so ugly. The contradiction snags in my chest, a hook lodged deep.
Eli is always working. Every time I see him, he’s working.
His clothes are torn and old.
The Invisible Boy Page 11
