Mama stopped tapping her foot. “I was going to talk to you after your appointment, but there’s been another unsigned note. No stamp. Hand delivered to our mailbox. Same exact wording, paper, type size, font.” It had been over two weeks since the last one.
“When did it come?” I straightened in my chair. “When were you going to tell —?”
“Only yesterday,” Mama assured me, lacing her fingers through mine. “You had to study for this morning’s Calc test. Your father and I didn’t want to distract you. Your schoolwork is far more important. These people don’t get to mess with your education.”
The words flitted through my memory:
“There is no place like home.”
Go back to where you came from.
I can’t say the knowledge wouldn’t have blown my concentration. A second note signaled an ongoing effort, a commitment. It made me wonder what might come next.
Mama went on, “Hughie texted A.J. and Chelsea, and then we called their parents. Once again, the Webers and Rodríguezes received identical messages on the same day.”
“Louise!” the receptionist called. “Dr. Lee will see you now.”
Later, under a vow of secrecy, Mama took us out for double chocolate fudge Coca-Cola cake at Cracker Barrel. It was our annual post-dentistry tradition, a way of taking a break from Daddy’s anti-sugar obsession. “Don’t worry about your father,” she joked as the waiter dropped off our plates. “He never has to know.”
“I’m more worried about those freaky notes.”
I’d turned the situation over in my mind as the hygienist poked at my gums, scraped at my teeth. It was the not knowing that gnawed at me. Should we expect more of the same or something worse? “What did the cops say?”
Mama waved her fork. “What I expected. They have to prioritize their caseload, and there’s not much to it. No property damage, no bodily harm. No specific threat. The backlog and wait time for running fingerprints is substantial. Then there’s got to already be a match in the system to get an identification.
“If something more serious happens, the police claim they’ll be all over it, but for now, they seemed inclined to dismiss the whole thing as a prank.”
I stirred my Diet Coke with my straw. “Did any of the neighbors see anything this time?”
Mama savored a bite. “No, but it could be one of the neighbors. No one on our cul-de-sac, but a few people — parents and students — on the surrounding streets have signed the PART petition, and nobody would think twice about seeing them out and about on our block.”
That was a distressing thought.
The Emerald Hills subdivision was by no means well established. Upward of 70 percent of the lots had sold, but a couple of blocks away, new houses were still being built.
Nobody had lived there very long. Nobody knew each other very well. My parents didn’t hang out at the community clubhouse. Last summer, we were out of town during the neighborhood garage sale, and Hughie and I made it to the pool only a couple of times.
“You’re sure we don’t want to go public?” I asked.
“No,” Mama said. “I’m not sure at all.”
No question, the harassment was news, especially now that there had been more than one incident. What’s more, coverage of the controversy had become my responsibility.
I felt guilty about keeping the secret from the rest of the Hive staff.
Hell, I wasn’t even supposed to tell Shelby. But it was by no means all about me.
Resolved, I picked up my fork, indulged in the chocolate.
Afterward, Mama and I drove to Lawrence and visited the Kansas Indian Arts and Crafts Cooperative, “owned and operated by local Native artists and craftspeople.”
(Cousin Fynn handles their web design, occasionally with my help.)
The Native law students had decided to shop there for gifts for their Heritage Month guest speakers. Before going back to school, Mama might’ve done some beadwork herself.
Across the store, she looked at handcrafted baskets, studied the tags that identified the weavers and their respective tribal affiliations. I was flipping through a book about all the white actors — like Rock Hudson, Burt Lancaster, and Audrey Hepburn — who’d played Indians in movies.
A shopper, her coloring close to Mama’s, paused at the shelves. “Learning anything?”
At her smug tone, I tensed. The young Native woman wore a burgundy suit, sensible heels. Clearly she didn’t see me for who I am.
Mama strode over, placed a protective hand on my shoulder, and glanced at the paperback in my hands. “Ah, whitewashing,” she said. “Quintessential Hollywood.”
As I said before, quite the diplomat, my mother. Always the educator.
But she couldn’t always be there to take up for me.
“Heaven forbid an Indian actor get a job, right?” the other customer agreed.
I looked for some sign of recognition that she’d been in the wrong, some hint of apology.
And . . . nothing.
They had a friendly enough chat while I returned the book to its shelf and slipped away to peruse the jewelry case by the register.
The red Porsche convertible looked out of place in front of Nick’s modest ranch-style house in one of East Hannesburg’s older residential developments. As Joey parked his beat-up Jeep Wrangler alongside the curb, I said, “You must love covering Sports with Daniel.”
Joey turned off the ignition. “It’s a sweet ride. But on assignment, I’m the one who does the driving or we take separate cars. There’s not room for my equipment in there, and Daniel’s father would have a meltdown if my stuff scratched those leather seats.”
Nick had invited the Hive staff over on Thursday for movie night. In class that week, we’d half-heartedly considered Ms. Wilson’s recommendation, All the President’s Men, before choosing Alexis’s suggestion, Never Been Kissed. It’s a Drew Barrymore rom-com about a Chicago Sun reporter who goes undercover in a prom-obsessed high school.
We paused the film halfway through. Karishma and Joey went to the kitchen with Nick for more drinks and snacks. My phone vibrated, and I glanced at the pic of Hughie, Chelsea, and A.J. backstage with their arms around each other. A solidarity selfie.
“Um, Daniel,” Alexis began from the love seat, “my brother was home from Ames last weekend, and we ran into the Wrestling coach at Chili’s.”
She’d wiped out on her skateboard on the way over and was still icing her right shin.
“When I mentioned covering this winter’s high-school meets, your name came up and — maybe this is nothing — but he used the word if, as in ‘if Daniel goes out for the team.’ You’re our best wrestler. What gives?”
Daniel set his phone on an end table. “Last week, Coach said that if I don’t drop Journalism next semester, I can forget Wrestling.”
“Drop Journalism?” I inched forward on the sofa. “Why?”
“His son’s construction company is up for the building contract on the Immanuel Baptist expansion,” Daniel explained. “We’re talking serious money, millions, and as far as the pastor’s wife is concerned, the Hive is ‘undermining tradition.’ ”
I was stunned. The coach was willing to screw over his top wrestler and jeopardize his upcoming season. But it was a ton of money. Life-changing money that would all go to his son.
It was like an insidious game of dominoes. Peter Ney’s mom had leaned on the Wrestling coach to lean on Daniel to punish, maybe even silence, the Hive like she had last year.
I wondered what — if anything — Peter knew about it and not only because of his family ties. He’s on the Wrestling team.
I moved closer to Daniel and rested my knee on the ottoman. “What’re you going to do?”
Alexis stayed put. “Doesn’t your family go to Immanuel Baptist?”
“We used to,” Daniel said, like there was more to the story. But then he pushed Play as the others returned with soft drinks, potato chips, and onion dip.
In Never
Been Kissed, suggesting the prom theme (“Meant for Each Other: Famous Couples Throughout History”) helps propel Drew Barrymore’s character, Josie Geller, to popularity. The dance itself is a costume ball with partygoers decked out as, among other things, Shakespeare’s Rosalind and Orlando, the tortoise and the hare, various Barbie dolls, a double helix, Robin Hood and Maid Marian, Sandy and Danny from Grease, Joseph with a very pregnant Mary, and, for no apparent reason, Hollywood Indians.
On our way home, Joey tossed me a blanket (it was chilly, what with the October night air and the nonexistent Jeep floorboards) and I filled him in on the Daniel situation. I added, “Speaking of sports, rumor has it you exchanged a few words with my ex in the locker room.”
I was impressed. Joey had stood up to Cam Ryan’s bullying and didn’t seem to give a damn about the social ramifications. But still.
“I knew guys like him at West Overland,” Joey said, turning into my subdivision. “I grew up with them, hung out with them, played ball with them.”
Two streets farther, on the corner lot, a number 5 made of pink balloons had been centered in the yard. (Somebody had a birthday.) Joey added, “What I don’t understand about you and Ryan: What the hell did the two of you ever talk about? The guy’s a troglodyte.”
It was refreshing, dating a boy with a vocabulary. Big picture, Joey and I did have more in common. We’d both chosen Journalism over the typical paths to popularity. Both of our dads were veterans, and both of us were bicultural. I could joke around with him, embrace my bookish inner dork (and type-triple-A overachiever). “Mostly Cam and I talked about him.”
“Figures,” Joey said as we cruised beneath a streetlight. “Cam Ryan is the single most narcissistic, self-absorbed —”
“Sometimes,” I agreed. Narcissistic — that was the word Shelby always used to describe Cam. I didn’t want to dredge up the specifics of what had started the fight between the boys.
I’d been trying not to fixate on what my ex had been saying about me.
“But Cam’s also of the past,” I said. “My past. I don’t love him anymore. I’m not dating him anymore. If he can’t stop talking about me, I’ll be the one to decide whether to ignore him or shut him down.”
“You loved him?” Joey exclaimed, turning down the heat.
That would be the one thing I said that he grabbed onto. Was it about jealousy, or was Joey rightly horrified that someone I’d been in love with could bad-mouth me that way?
“No,” I said. “Maybe. I used to think I did.”
My house was in sight. Mama had left the porch light on. Between Joey and me, tonight had felt more like a friend thing than a romantic thing. Especially after talking about Cam.
At this rate, I wasn’t doing any better with kisses than Drew Barrymore’s character.
“Why would someone from Germany bother with Bierfest in Hannesburg, Kansas?” I asked the following weekend over the bouncy Bavarian oompah music.
“Why do American tourists go to McDonald’s in Munich?” the exchange student replied.
On Columbus Day — make that Indigenous People’s Day — leaves blew crimson and gold. The scent of smoked sausage filled the air. A hearty, white-haired lady handed me a flyer advertising the historical society’s walking tour.
Joey and I filmed a quick interview with the EHHS sophomore who was handing out free lemonade and brochures for Oma Dottie’s B&B. He typically handled their summer yard work, cleared winter snow and ice, and helped change out the holiday decorations.
Joey had already captured footage of the one-mile fun run, the parade, the horseshoe tournament, and the antique-tractor show.
We’d also talked to more than a few jovial locals who’d already had their fair share of microbrewed beer or hard cider. And it wasn’t even noon yet.
Joey fired a series of still shots of Rain, in a dirndl, and Dmitri, in a Harvesters jersey and jeans, coming off the carousel. Football aside, he had a solid Clark Kent quality that she seemed charmed by. Both were sporting all-access wristbands for the carnival rides.
“That’s my cousin!” I exclaimed, waving them over.
Joey keyed in their names for the captions. “H-E-A-D-B-I-R-D,” he repeated. “Like a compound word. Got it. That’s a new one on me.”
Dmitri took it in stride. “I’ve never met a Kairouz before, either.”
That reminded me: when Joey and I first met, I’d said almost the same thing.
We found Marie and Queenie playing ringtoss and Hughie in line for fried blueberry pie. The twins showed us photos of the 1970s split-level that their parents had put an offer on. Rain and Joey talked Canon versus Nikon, camera envy, and photo websites.
I texted a few pics of my own to Shelby, who, as usual, was working that day.
When Joey wasn’t looking, Rain flashed me a thumbs-up.
“You and Rain look enough alike to be sisters,” Joey said as we neared the top of the Ferris wheel.
I was flattered. My cousin is a total sweetheart and one of those girls who’s so exquisite it’s like you’re shocked to see her in real life. Whereas my best feature, hands down, is my brain. But there is a family resemblance, I suppose.
“Thank you,” I said. “Are you close to your cousins in Lebanon?”
Joey did a double take. “Forgot I told you about that. Nah, my family’s been here since my great-grandparents.” His shoulder bumped mine. “I’m a Kansas kid.”
From up high, I could see the water tower, and the elementary school on the hill. All the way to Blue Heaven Trailer Park, where the Headbirds lived, and to Garden of Roses Cemetery, where Rain’s mama was buried.
Immediately below us, festivalgoers hoisted beer steins, waved tiny German flags, and swooped and swirled on a ride called the Twister.
At two o’clock, Joey had to leave to visit his dad in Kansas City, so I walked him to his Jeep in the field roped off for overflow festival parking. I hated to see him go, but I had my own plans. That night Hughie and I would be staying over at my cousins’ house, and we’d meet up with my parents at our newly selected home church in old town come morning.
I heartily approved of our decision. Cozy congregation. Built-in extended-family time. Besides, outside of Lawrence, First Baptist was one of the few local houses of worship with a rainbow on the welcome banner and a program to help resettle refugees.
As Joey stowed his equipment, I asked, “Do you believe in God?”
He blinked. “That’s a big question for a guy digesting three sausage-stuffed pretzels.”
“Yeah, well, the nice man at the booth warned you that the third one might be overkill.”
“I believe . . .” Joey leaned sideways against the Jeep, rested his hands on my waist. “I believe in kissing you.”
My phone pinged, and I shut it off. “I believe in kissing you first.”
I savored the salt on his lips. I savored the spices. As oompah music played on, I savored Joey himself for another half hour. It was a mutual affirmation of faith.
Hallelujah.
The last time I’d seen Mrs. Ney had been at the Immanuel Baptist potluck the previous spring on the church lawn. Though her son Peter and I had chatted at length, she and I had spoken only long enough to shake hands.
At the time, I hadn’t thought about how white the crowd was.
Now I knew better. If you’re talking a thirty-five-hundred-person congregation in Douglas County, Mama and Hughie shouldn’t have been the only two obviously brown people there.
After a week of ignoring my Hive interview requests, Mrs. Ney had insisted on choosing the location. That’s why her church was our backdrop.
“Product placement,” Joey had mocked on the way over.
We’d arrived early so he could film the main chapel from a distance. Joey muttered, “I’m sure as hell getting that cross and bell tower in the establishment shot.”
Microphone in hand, I stood toe-to-toe with PART’s spokesperson. She didn’t show any sign of remembering me, but in fairnes
s, it’s a big church. Visitors come and go.
No matter what I tried, Mrs. Ney stuck to her favorite catchphrases, “reverse racism” and “political correctness.”
I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if she’d sent the nasty, anonymous notes herself. It took all of my self-discipline not to ask.
“What about the student actors?” I pressed instead. “High-school theater is supposed to be about arts education. With that in mind, what’s wrong with Chelsea playing Dorothy? Doesn’t she deserve the same educational opportunities as everybody else?”
“I certainly have no problem with Chelsea Weber,” Mrs. Ney said, dressed in a navy skirt-suit, the jacket buttoned to her collar. “Not that I know her personally, but I am a Christian woman. Jesus has filled my heart with love.”
I’m a Christian girl. A Christian young woman, and heaven help me, I almost threw up my bacon-egg breakfast tacos all over her navy kitten heels.
Mrs. Ney held her hands, clutched together, at her waist. “But casting a Black Dorothy Gale is an academic travesty. It makes no sense. The character is supposed to be from Kansas.”
So many levels of wrong — how to pick?
I went with the quickest, most obvious choice. “Chelsea is from Kansas.”
Mrs. Ney ignored that. “And they’ve got a Mexican Scarecrow, and what’s that other kid, the Tin Man? Are they here legally? We’ve got to be vigilant. It’s a national-security issue.”
To keep my brain from exploding, I turned to face the camera. “That’s all we have time for today. Thank you, Rochelle Ney of Parents Against Revisionist Theater.
“This is Louise M. Wolfe with Joseph A. Kairouz, reporting for the Hive, and viewers should know that freshman Hughie Wolfe, in the role of the Tin Man, is my brother.”
The next day, someone slid an unmarked envelope inside my locker. I opened it.
“There is no place like home.”
Go back to where you came from.
I glared up and down the hall, scanning faces.
Hearts Unbroken Page 10
