Devils Within

by S. F. Henson

  I focus on my notebook writing 690 over and over and over to keep from yelling at her.

  We should be ignoring this monster, not feeding it. The main page is a list of anti-immigration articles. The Latina girl beside me shifts uncomfortably in her seat. The teacher clicks on the ABOUT US tab.

  “‘What is White Extinction?’” she reads. “‘The systematic dilution of White People by forced assimilation of anti-whites through immigration and encouraged intermingling of the races.’”

  I taste stomach acid again. Classmates glance around the room, their eyes resting on the girl beside me, before flitting to the other minorities in the room.

  This isn’t just wrong, it’s dangerous. The news lately has already been covered with deportation stories. People waking up to immigration officials beating down their doors, tourists getting detained at airports. Then there are all the shootings and other attacks on Muslims and black people. We don’t need more of this kind of talk.

  The teacher drones on about how racism is wrong and all people are the same and the benefits of immigration, but no one is listening. They’re too busy reading and whispering about the rest of the page, especially the comparison of the looming extinction of white tigers to that of white humans.

  My pencil snaps. I slam the two stumps on my desk.

  This is exactly what they want! Can’t everyone see that? All the teacher has to do is read the last paragraph: the one that states, “How Can You Help? By spreading our message through word of mouth, flyers, or posters. If you’re afraid to actively speak out, fake alarm and anger and give the flyers to the media. Anything that spreads the word helps!”

  They want us to talk about it, draw attention to their words, think about their message. They want people to turn on their neighbors. They want to get in our heads—exactly what they’re doing—and none of these zombies even realize it.

  Nothing on the website names The Fort or the Nazi Socialist Party. There’s no reference to skinheads or violence against the “anti-whites,” and not a single thing that can tie the white extinction mission back to the neo-nazis. The connections are still plain, if these people will only see.

  The bell rings and I storm out of the classroom. The hallway is packed, louder than it’s been since my first day. I get trapped behind two guys in heavy camouflage jackets—I think they’re juniors.

  “You know Uncle Jake lost his job at the lumberyard last fall to a Mexican,” one says.

  “They’re like roaches,” the other responds.

  “Yeah,” says the first guy. “Sneakin’ in and stealin’ what’s rightfully ours. We need to protect our borders. Keep ’em outta our country.”

  “They’re just gonna ruin America like they ruined Mexico.”

  The Latina girl from class pushes past us. She had to have heard everything those guys said. I want to run after her and see if she’s all right, but the hall is too clogged. People are standing in clumps, talking instead of moving to their next classes like normal.

  My head spins. I left all this behind.

  I left it behind.

  I left it behind!

  “Nate Clemons,” a voice says behind me.

  I take a deep breath and turn to face the principal. She’s flanked by two of Lewiston’s eight police officers—if you count the two part-timers who also run the post office. These guys are both shorter than me and both white. One is bald and has a slight potbelly. The other seems like he was in the military at one point. Thin but muscular, with close-clipped hair. Unlike the police in Farmer, they don’t look mean, but they still make my blood pump harder.

  “I’d like to see you in my office,” the principal says. “Now, please.”

  My heart thunders like a pack of scared deer. Wide-eyed stares and curious whispers follow us to the office. Oh my God, do they think I did this? Maybe Kelsey ratted me out after all.

  The principal gestures at the same chair I sat in on my first day. I sit slowly. The cops stand beside the desk, arms folded. They both frown down at me, like they’re trying to act tough.

  You’re way out of your element here, boys. I may hate cops, but I’m sure as shit not intimidated by them.

  The principal pushes a flyer across her desk. “Do you know anything about this?”

  I can do this. I’ve been interrogated before. I can keep my cool.

  “No,” I say, with zero inflection.

  She narrows her eyes. “You realize this is a hate crime.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you know that Lewiston High has a zero-tolerance policy.”

  “Yes.”

  Simple, one-word answers. The kind they can’t twist or misstate. That’s what my attorney trained me to give when we practiced my cross-examination last year.

  The principal drops into the big leather chair on the other side of desk and folds her hands on the desktop. “Look, Nate.” She sighs. “You’ve been doing well so far. I’d hate for this to sidetrack you. If you did this, or know anything about it, just tell me. Come clean now and we can help you, but if you lie to us, I won’t be able to intervene.”

  She’s wrong. I already came clean, and all it did was make things worse.

  “We’ll find out if you’re lying,” the bald cop says. “We’re already looking for evidence, and we’ll find it.” He drops his fists to the desk and leans on them like a gorilla. “We know where you live.”

  The other one flips open a notebook. “Nathaniel Clemons. Resides with his uncle, Dell Clemons, at 724 Cedar Drive. Moved here from the West Kentucky Psychiatric Center at the beginning of August. History of mental disturbances.” He snaps the notebook shut. “This seems right up your alley, son.”

  He has no idea. If they knew more they’d have already arrested me.

  The first cop smiles. “You know we can trace paper back to specific printer? Like a fingerprint.”

  Somebody may be able to, but I doubt they have that technology in this shithole town.

  “I told you I won’t tolerate trouble,” the principal says. “This is your last chance.”

  “We don’t own a printer, there’s no print shop in Lewiston, and I can’t drive.” I tuck my history book under my arm and stand. “Can I go now? I’m going to miss lunch.”

  They exchange tired glances, then the principal shoos me away. “We’re still watching you,” she calls as I leave the office.

  I’m supposed to be intimidated, but I’m oddly comforted.

  The Fort will have a harder time reaching me if I’m being watched.

  701

  The flyers stopped.

  Like his heart. One minute, it pumped hate, and the next, nothing.

  Dell and I had decided not to take them down again. The risk of being seen and having to answer questions is too great, and the entire town knows anyway.

  But they stopped.

  It’s been over a week and other than a few crinkled pages some jackass put on the bulletin board at school, there’s been nothing.

  The cops are still searching, though. They’ve been hauling people to the principal’s office for questioning all week—all the known troublemakers and pranksters. Even Fletcher. He tried to make a joke of it, but I could tell it shook him up pretty bad. He’s been more serious since then, especially around Brandon.

  I have, too. Brandon hasn’t been his normal self lately. He looks at almost everyone with distrust.

  “You think it was the senior stunt?” Rainey asks at lunch.

  Brandon drops his burger and glares across the table. “You think this was some prank? This is some next-level shit, man. Way beyond letting cows loose in the halls and filling the radiators with chicken poop.”

  “Geez, man, calm down.” Rainey drags his fork through the puddle of ketchup on his tray. “I’m just sayin’. Remember when we were freshmen and the seniors broke the finger off your granddad’s statue?”

  “That was an accident.” Brandon says. “This is different.”

  They stare at each other. Ten
sion hangs over the group, heavy as the Alabama air.

  Ellis glances around, then scoots forward. “I’ve been thinking.” His voice is so low we all have to lean in to hear him. “What if it wasn’t a student? What if it was someone else?”

  I almost choke on my bite of sandwich. I gulp down half my bottle of water trying to force the chunk of bread and bologna down.

  “Like who?” Brandon asks.

  Ellis bends closer. “I overheard Ma talkin’ to Auntie Georgina, up in Tennessee, she said the same thing happened near them at Easter. Except someone covered the town in plastic Easter eggs with the website written on papers inside. Same site and everything.”

  I’m burning up. The room is stifling. Did someone crank the heat?

  “What happened after that?” Brandon asks.

  Ellis shrugs. “Nothin’. It was on the news, but that’s as far as it went.”

  Brandon sits back. He chews his bottom lip for a minute, then grabs his burger. “Yeah. Thanks, Ellis. That makes me feel better.” He takes a bite, swallows, and grins. “Pops had me worried it was about to turn all 1965 up in here, but it sounds like some ignorant assholes trying to get on TV.”

  When Brandon relaxes, everyone else does, too. Everyone except me. The guys start talking about the upcoming basketball game against County. I shove the rest of my sandwich and chips in my paper sack and ball it up.

  “Nate, you okay?” Brandon asks.

  “Just not hungry.” I start to stand, but he catches my arm.

  “Hold up, I’ll walk with you.” He shoves the last bit of burger in his mouth.

  I throw away my lunch and wait for him by the door.

  “You’re not bothered by this anymore?” I ask, accusation in my voice.

  He starts for his locker “Of course I am. But what good is it doing?” When I don’t follow, he stops and turns back to me. “You heard Rainey. He thinks this was a prank. It doesn’t do any good for them to see me sweat. I’m in a lose-lose here, Nate. If I get too angry, then I’m seen as the ‘angry black man,’ but if I laugh it off I’m not acknowledging how screwed up this is. You saw how everything shifted when I said I believed Ellis.”

  “Do you believe Ellis?”

  He tilts his head back and studies the ceiling tiles. “I believe that happened in his auntie’s town, and I hope that’s what will happen here.” He levels his head and meets my eyes. “But I’m terrified. All the time. I wish I could explain what it’s like. Lewiston has always been a safe area, thanks to my grandfather and everyone else who fought racist shit like this back in the sixties. The folks here know me, but outside this town …”

  He shakes his head. All the light is gone from his face and it’s like the sun supernovaed and all that’s left is a black hole.

  “I was accused of stealing once because I wore a hoodie in a gas station. Henry got pulled over last semester because the university cop thought he’d stolen his Lexus. I never carry anything that might resemble a gun or even walk with my hands in my pockets or wear baggy clothes or run outside the gym. I have this whole list of rules just to live my life. Stuff white people don’t even have to think about twice. It’s exhausting.”

  I’m such an asshole. The list of rules he rattled off to his mom that night after dinner … they weren’t a strange family thing; they were because that’s how he has to live to stay safe. He’s right. They’re things I’ve never thought about, and it’s never occurred to me that other people—especially Brandon—did. With all the horrors I’ve committed in my life, I’ve never worried someone would believe I’m a criminal based on nothing more than the color of my skin.

  Would I have gotten away with half the things I’ve done if I’d been black? Is that why I was never caught? Did people automatically assume I was okay because I’m white?

  Oh my God. Does being white make it easier to hurt people?

  My chest constricts. Even the beast is still. Every part of me is disappointed—in myself, my race, this Godforsaken world where every day is a struggle for some people. Where they can’t go to school without the fear of being deported, or to the grocery store without being profiled.

  “Then something like this happens,” Brandon says, interrupting my thoughts, “and the fear that’s always hiding under my skin is exposed. It surfaces every time another black body winds up on the news. Every time a name becomes a hashtag, a movement. But this is different. This is here. I thought Lewiston was different. None of the racist shit I’ve experienced has been anything like what Granddad faced. But it’s still here, all these years later. There are still people who hate me because of how I look. Whether they’re local or outsiders like Ellis thinks, they exist. And being confronted with that out of nowhere in my town terrifies me. But I realized in that lunchroom that I can’t show my fear, because then they win.”

  I wish I could melt into the floor. Slither between the tiles, away from Brandon’s words. Away from his rules, his fear.

  It breaks my heart. Brandon’s not Inside-Out Boy after all. He puts on a separate skin every day, too. A mask to hide his real feelings.

  And it’s because of people like me.

  I may not have shared his hate in my heart, but I haven’t done anything to stop it, either. I’ve been a coward this whole time. Protecting myself instead of the people who need protecting.

  I have to come clean. For real this time.

  Brandon has to be the first to know. He deserves to hear it straight from me—that I’m the cause of his fear. I’m the reason he has to live according to so many rules, the reason racism still exists, the reason he’s face-to-face with it right now.

  Then I’ll tell the principal and the police. Regardless of what might have happened where Ellis’s aunt lives, this isn’t going away on its own. There’s another shoe waiting to drop, and the cops need to know what they’re dealing with.

  If I was scared of telling Brandon before, I’m petrified now. With his family’s history, there’s no way he won’t hate me.

  “I need to tell you something.” My voice is barely loud enough for even me to hear.

  “What?” His brow furrows. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “I—”

  Feet slap the tile behind us. Maddie races by, her face white as the tigers on the white extinction website.

  “Maddie,” Brandon yells.

  She skids to stop and turns to us.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She shakes her head. “I … I need the police.”

  Brandon’s at her side in a flash. “Are you hurt? What happened? What is—”

  “I can’t. Especially not to you.” Maddie bursts into tears.

  He wraps his arms around her. “You can tell me anything.”

  She clings to him, burying her face in his shirt so I can’t hear what she says next.

  “What word?” Brandon asks. He looks back at me.

  I whip around and sprint the direction Maddie came from. A crowd has started to form in front of the exit closest to the lunchroom. I push through until I’m outside, then I vomit on my shoes.

  Crude black spray paint covers the sand-colored sidewalk. A giant swastika surrounded by every racial slur in the book, and the words “Repent now. Repent or BURN.”

  Police have taken over the school. We’re stuck in the gym again. This time it isn’t a plea from the principal to come clean. It’s a threat. The officers—all eight of them—each set up shop in a separate classroom so they can hold multiple interviews at the same time.

  They started with Maddie, once they got her calmed down. Then Brandon, because she wouldn’t leave his side. I caught a glimpse of them walking down the hall afterward, their arms around each other. I’m dying to know what she said, what she saw. Was it Kelsey? Did she do this? Has she mentioned me? I texted Brandon but he hasn’t responded yet.

  I don’t know what that means, if he’s busy taking care of Maddie, or if he knows something. I’m sweating all over. And dizzy. Every time I blink, the graffiti is
tattooed on the backs of my eyelids.

  Graffiti I’ve seen before.

  Graffiti I’ve sprayed before.

  I never stuck around long enough to see the aftermath. It seemed harmless at the time. Painting a word was better than hitting a person. There was no real damage. Words could be washed off or painted over.

  I was wrong.

  Words are powerful.

  One look around the gym tells me that. The counselor has set up shop in the far corner, trying to get a group to open up about how they feel. People cling to one another—in tears, in shock, in anger. Each group surveys those around them with mistrust and fear.

  Words did that.

  Words that are Molotov cocktails primed to explode and scorch the town with fear and hate.

  All my friends have already been called in for their interviews, so I’m sitting alone at the top of the bleachers.

  Three Asian guys huddle together down toward the bottom. They keep glancing nervously over the rail, into the tunnel made up of gym wall on one side and bleachers on the other. I scoot to the end of my row to see what they’re looking at. A group of guys clusters below me. I can only see the tops of their heads and a couple of hunting camo jackets. I crawl down a couple rows to hear what they’re saying.

  “You think the Wilson boys did it?” one asks. “Their granddaddy was part of those KKK lynchin’s back in the sixties.”

  I suck in a breath at the word lynching.

  How long have those assholes been talking like that. What else have they said?

  I never took part in a lynching, but I had to take care of a victim of one once. Trying to keep his swollen, purple face covered while I dragged his body into the woods was impossible. Looking at what The Fort had done to him made me burn with disgust, but having to be the one disposing of him made me cold with shame.

  One of the camo jackets shakes his head. “I don’t think the KKK uses swastikas.”

  “Well, who painted it then?” the first boy asks.

  A thick-necked guy in Carhartt overalls pushes back his ball cap. “Does it matter? I don’t want nothin’ to do with that shit.”

  “Zeke’s got a point,” Camo Jacket says. I recognize his voice. He’s one of the guys I got stuck behind in the hall the other day. “It don’t matter who did it. Long as we’re on the right side of things, we’re good.”