“Eli’s mom.” Kenny holds out his phone. On the screen is a series of texts.
“Oh my gosh.” I look at Kenny, almost bursting with excitement. “Oh my gosh, this is amazing. This could be it!”
Kenny shrugs and smiles. “It’s a pretty memorable house. See—here.”
He leans over and switches to another window on his phone. It’s a Google Street View image of a purple place in a row of town houses. And it looks exactly like Eli’s mom’s house in her picture. I squeak in excitement and throw my arms around Kenny.
“I’m so, so glad you aren’t a supervillain!” I cry. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
Kenny starts to say several things at once and manages to say nothing intelligible.
I let him go and toss his phone back to him. “Call your dad and tell him everything before we get in even more trouble.”
“Right, yeah.” He’s grinning from ear to ear as he steps away.
My mom edges toward me. My glee almost vanishes when I look at her sad, tired, worried face.
“Is the baby okay?” I blurt. “Aunt Lexie said you had problems with babies before and I didn’t mean to worry you so much and—”
“Yes, yes.” Mom wraps her arms around me. Softly, she says into my hair, “I don’t even know what to think right now, Nadia.”
Dad joins her, putting his arm around us both.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble into her shirt. “I just … didn’t know what to do. And Eli needed me.”
“I can’t get over how risky this was,” Mom murmurs. “You were in a lot of danger, Nadia. I don’t think you even know how much.”
“Helping him was the right thing to do.” I tilt my head up and glance from her to Dad. “Doing what’s right is more important than doing what’s safe.”
“I wish you had come to us,” Dad says. He doesn’t sound angry—just sad.
Tears gather in my eyes. In a tiny voice, I remind them, “I did.”
“You did.” Mom nods, and she starts crying again. “I’m so sorry, Nadia.”
She pulls me close, and Dad tightens his hold around us. I lean against her and inhale the smell of laundry soap. Her belly has a small, hard bump. My little sister is in on the hug, too.
Aunt Lexie walks past us to the cop, and I lean toward them so I won’t miss what happens next. Eli stands a bit away, but I wave him over and take his hand again.
“Please take down Ms. Goldenberry’s information,” Aunt Lexie tells the policeman, “and have her held for abuse of a minor.”
Candace starts to protest, but Lexie just comes back to us.
Mom blinks. “He’s really—?”
Aunt Lexie nods, once. “Further investigation will be necessary. But it seems likely.” She looks at me. “I’d like to get your testimony, Nadia. Why don’t we all go inside?”
We leave Candace with the cop, enter the building, and pile into the elevator—Kenny and Eli and me in one corner and the adults on the other side. It’s quiet. Eli and I lean our shoulders together, almost too tired to stand.
On an upper floor, Aunt Lexie leads the way through a lobby area to a carpeted room with tables, coffee machines, and snacks.
“Karen, Richard, Kenny, please make yourselves comfortable here. I won’t be gone too long.” Aunt Lexie turns to Eli and me. “Eli, I’d like to introduce you to our in-house social worker. She will help figure out our next steps. And Nadia, we’ll go to my office.”
I give my parents and Kenny a wave. Kenny salutes back. Then Eli and I follow Aunt Lexie down the hall, first to a lady Aunt Lexie calls Ms. Kyley, where we leave Eli, and then to Aunt Lexie’s own room. It has a wall of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a big desk covered in neatly arranged piles of papers. Aunt Lexie sinks into a bright green armchair and waves me to a small couch by the bookshelf. She takes out a notepad—one that’s not too different from mine.
“Okay, Girl Reporter,” Aunt Lexie says, a smile quirking the corners of her mouth, “what’s the scoop?”
* * *
After I finish, Aunt Lexie takes me to a conference room. “I need to talk to your parents and get the information on Eli’s mom’s house from Kenny,” she says, her hand on the doorknob. “You did the right thing, Nadia. But if you ever have a suspicion again, you talk to me—or call a human trafficking hotline and make a report. Promise?”
“Oh, sure,” I reply. “What’s a hotline?”
“It’s a phone number for experts. You have no idea how dangerous…” She shakes her head and sighs. “Never mind. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me.”
“It’s okay.” I give Aunt Lexie a hug. Her fresh-paper smell wraps around me like a shield, and I start to relax when I remember—“How was the movie?”
Aunt Lexie actually blushes. “Nice.”
“Did you set a date for your wedding?” I grin. “Is he going to shoot it himself, even though he’s the groom?”
“Hey, don’t push it.” She pokes me in the shoulder. “I refuse to be controlled by a matchmaker. And if, someday, in the very far future, there happened to be a wedding—anyone who teases me will be wearing the ugliest bridesmaid dress money can buy. I’m thinking … hot pink?”
I stick out my tongue. She sticks hers out right back.
“Get some rest, wild child. And”—she pushes the door open—“for the record, I think you’re going to put Lois Lane to shame.”
I snort. I have a long way to go before I’m even close.
Aunt Lexie shuts the door behind her. I wander over to a side table against the wall with snacks set out in baskets and canned sodas cooling in bowls of ice. I take a packet of pretzels and another of crackers, plus a candy bar and a can of Coke. The breakfast of champions.
There’s a long, fancy table down the center of the room with a ton of chairs and a huge TV at the far end. The wall near me is glass, facing the hallway, but the far wall is a floor-to-ceiling window of the Washington skyline. I step around the table to get a better look.
Eli’s sitting on the floor, legs crossed. He glances at me and swallows a mouthful of food. “Hi.”
At this point, I’m so used to him just appearing out of nowhere I don’t even feel that surprised. I plop down next to him, taking note of the scattered chip bags and chocolate bar wrappers. He’s helped himself to the snack table, too.
“How’re you doing?” I ask, tearing my pretzels open.
“Fine.” He shrugs. “Ms. Kyley is going to have someone take me to the hospital, so I can get checked out. But I think I’m all right.”
A new bandage peeks from under the hole in his jeans around his knee. I hold out my pretzels. He accepts a few and munches quietly.
“Aunt Lexie said they’ll put you in a home for a little while,” I say to Eli. “Just until they can check on stuff with your mom.”
He nods. “Ms. Kyley told me. It’s fine,” he adds, glancing at me. “You promised to help me find my mom, and you have. It’s just going to take longer than either of us thought.”
“Yeah,” I agree, disappointment stinging my throat.
“But there’s something good.” Eli brightens. He actually almost smiles. “Ms. Kyley said the home provides tutors who can help me start catching up on school.”
I try very hard not to make a face. “You have to do summer school?”
“I get to do summer school.” Now he is actually grinning. “Got to start somewhere.”
I shrug, returning his smile. “I guess.”
We both look out at the city. Far to the left, there’s the Washington Monument. Far to the right, the Capitol building. Tourists and traffic bustle through the streets, but all of it feels distant right now. Like we’re watching from our very own secret lair. A hideout where we can spy on the city and swoop down to the rescue.
“Thanks, by the way.”
I turn to Eli, my mouth full of pretzels. “Hmm?”
“For helping.”
“Oh. Yeah, no prob.”
The sun shines
through the window, warm on my skin and fizzling in the air around me. Part of me wants to flop down and go to sleep right here. I rub my palm on the bristly carpet. Dark and light blue interwoven together. Flecks of dust spring up around my hand and twirl in the light. I try to take in all the details. I need to record them later.
We sit shoulder to shoulder, and I wonder what will happen to Eli. Where he’ll live and what friends he’ll make and what kind of teacher he’ll be when he grows up. I wonder when we’ll just sit together in the sun, like this, again.
There’s so much to say and nothing to say at the same time. And in a few minutes, the door will open, and we’ll be pulled back into the real world.
But for now, we sit, disguised in our secret identities as normal kids.
I know the truth, though.
We’re a superhero and his ace reporter.
* * *
The Alexandria Tribune
Winner of the Junior
Journalists Contest Award
Local Girl Wins Journalism Award for Article “Stop Human Trafficking Right Where You Are” by Nadia Quick
* * *
EDITOR’S NOTE: The following article received first place in the Junior Journalists Contest, and is reprinted below with permission from Junior Journalists Inc.
My name is Nadia Quick, and I believed that a supervillain lived on my street. In a way, I was right.
Not every villain wears a mask or a cape. Sometimes they look like ordinary neighbors. On Stratford Lane in Alexandria, Va., that ordinary-looking woman was Candace Goldenberry, a pharmacist, socialite, and alleged human trafficker.
Human trafficking is the term used for modern-day slavery. According to the organization Love149, human trafficking always involves one or more of the following factors: force, fraud, or coercion. Force might mean that the trafficked person has to perform acts in order to survive (for instance, to get food or shelter). Fraud could be a debt held over the head of the victim—normally one that is impossible to pay off. Coercion might look like threats if a person does not obey.
It is estimated that there are over five million children trafficked around the world. In Virginia alone, from 2012 to 2016 there were about seven hundred cases reported that involved almost 1500 individual people. The most common type of labor trafficking in Virginia is domestic servitude. But statistics can’t possibly capture the entire picture, because no one really knows how much human trafficking is going on. The whole point of it is to be a secret. The best way to learn more is to listen to the stories of the people who escape.
Goldenberry is in an ongoing investigation involving a minor, whose name cannot be disclosed here. I will be calling him Clark Kent for the purposes of confidentiality.
Kent (14) was given to Goldenberry by his father, who owed the alleged trafficker a substantial amount of money for pharmaceutical drugs she had illegally sold to him. Kent worked for Goldenberry for over two years as a domestic servant, maintaining her house and catering for parties. He escaped with help from two friends and has begun the long road to recovery and reintegration, which is a fancy way of saying he’s learning how to be a kid again.
“First, I was placed in a safe home,” Kent told me. “It wasn’t bad—I was kind of nervous, but the house was clean and the adults were nice. We—me and the other kids—had a pretty strict schedule, but I liked that. While my social worker got in touch with my mom, I attended a summer school to catch up on the classes I’d missed.”
By the end of the summer, Kent reached the seventh-grade learning level. He now lives with his mother and attends school near her home.
“It isn’t exactly the way I dreamed,” he says with a smile. “I still see counselors a lot. But I am happy.”
Social workers and others caution that it will be a long journey for Kent, as it is for others like him. Everyone’s transition out of human trafficking looks different, and all of it is very complicated. Kent is lucky because he has support from lawyers, social workers, neighbors, and two super-amazing friends.
“Cases like [Kent]’s are not unusual,” lawyer Alexandria Miller commented, “but every situation is unique.
“There is hope,” she adds. “The more people who can recognize trafficking, the better chance we have to help survivors. And people—especially kids—are astounding. In the most difficult circumstances, they survive. Give them a safe place, with plenty of love and friends and support, and they thrive. [Kent] is already well on his way there.”
Trafficking can look very different depending on the type and the people involved, but according to Polaris (a leading research organization for human trafficking) there are a few universal signs, broadly grouped into: abnormal behavior, poor physical health, and lack of control. More specifically, the individual in question:
Is not free to come or go at will
Is under eighteen and providing adult services
Is unpaid, paid very little, or paid only through tips
Works excessively long and/or unusual hours
Encounters high-security measures in work and/or living locations (e.g., boarded-up windows, privacy fences, security cameras, etc.)
Is fearful, anxious, depressed, submissive, tense, or nervous/paranoid
Exhibits unusually fearful or anxious behavior when confronted with law enforcement or immigration officials
Shows signs of poor hygiene, malnourishment, and/or fatigue
Has few or no personal possessions
Is not allowed or able to speak for themselves (a third party may insist on being present)
Shares scripted, confusing, or inconsistent stories
Protects the person who may be hurting them or minimizes abuse
The crime of human trafficking is far from invisible, but most people don’t know or refuse to notice the signs. Kids like Kent are all around us. Maybe in your own neighborhood. What will you choose to see?
If you suspect someone is being human trafficked, call or text the National Human Trafficking Hotline: 1 (888) 373-7888 / SMS: 233733 (Text HELP or INFO)
Nadia Quick, 13, hopes to one day be a journalist, and already has a lead on developing news: An international photographer and a crime-fighting lawyer have joined forces and may be moving toward a till-death-do-us-part union. Nadia loves canoeing with friends, Superman comics, and her baby sister, Lucy. She looks forward to being the next Lois Lane.
* * *
AUTHOR’S NOTE
LONDON, November 2014—I am at the Trust Conference, surrounded by people from all over the world who have one big reason to be here: We all want to stop human trafficking. It’s an odd mix of lawyers, volunteers, researchers, fancy donors, and international non-government workers. In the lobby during a break, I stand in a corner and clutch my cup of tea and just watch. These are some of the most passionate, lionhearted people in the world. Dozens of languages swirl around me. It is as overwhelming as it is wonderful.
I have never stared down terrorists to save child soldiers. I have never crawled through mica mines searching for a friend. I have never counseled girls who were rescued, only to be rejected by their hometowns. I am fresh out of university, a writer without a book, and all I have to offer is my anger and my desire to act.
I stand in the corner and ask myself, How does a writer for young people enter this conversation?
And the answer seems obvious—a writer writes.
* * *
VIRGINIA, February 2018—I am attending one of the advocacy classes at the Virginia Beach Justice Initiative, an organization in my area that specializes in identifying and helping trafficking victims. Years of study mean I’m hardly shocked when I learn that this area is one of the biggest hubs for human trafficking in the USA. We are a port city with a high military population—two things that often indicate human trafficking will be close by.
But then my teachers tell me about an investigation of a local business. A business I know, because it’s across the parking lot from my doctor’s office. A business
where women came and went, and instead of making a report, the employees next door made jokes. Because it couldn’t possibly be human trafficking. Not here. Not in front of them.
Except it was.
I tell this story to students and friends, and the response is almost always the same: “Here?” Then they think about it and tell me what they’ve seen—shabbily dressed girls with well-dressed men at movie theaters, or waitresses who are removed after you ask where they’re from, or hotel staff with barcodes tattooed on their necks. And I say, “Yes, here.”
Trafficking happens in every part of America—city, rural, suburban, north, south, east, and west. It can take place around big events—like an election, Super Bowl, or World Cup—and it can take place in the ordinary workings of a neighborhood. Trafficked people can be found in hotels, restaurants, houses, and many other locations you might never think to look.
And that’s the hardest part: seeing.
* * *
VIRGINIA, Summer 2020—This has been the most difficult story I have ever had to write. The hardest conversation I’ve ever tried to enter. Because, honestly, everyone—even me—chooses not to see sometimes.
This book touches on only one type of trafficking, but there are many different forms it can take. Every survivor’s story is unique and worthy of being heard. Though Eli is fictional, his situation was heavily influenced by testimonies I heard and read. And though Nadia is made up, she is very much based on my own personality. I’d rather invent whimsical tales than see the truth sometimes, and in doing that, I fail to use my power for good. Stories can make the world better, but only if you know the truth first.
Make the difficult choice. When something seems odd, don’t talk yourself out of it right away. Speak to an adult you trust. Find out if they notice the same things. And even if you aren’t completely sure, you can always text, call, or email the National Human Trafficking Hotline to let a professional know you’re concerned.
The Invisible Boy Page 17
