Her Name Is Knight(Nena Knight #1)(66)

The worst nightmares are when I fall into hell and see not only my birth family, doomed to his torment, but the Knights and Margot there as well. My worst fear is that I am now cursed and will visit upon them what my first family suffered. That I have no way to save them, failing as I did the first time.

Elin cradles me, begging, “Please, Nena. Please, what has happened to you? Tell me how I can help.”

I can never say.

After Elin falls asleep in my bed, I rummage under my pillow for the two items that give me a semblance of serenity, Hugo and Olay. I inhale the scent of them, biting down on my tongue to keep from crying out from the agony of missing my parents. Eventually, I, too, fall back asleep.

The obsession over my fears makes me withdrawn at school, where I am not popular or accepted by the students at first. There are other Black kids, like Elin, but they are all English born. I guess I look too “African” for them because my hair is natural and braided, twisted, or sometimes out in its full afro glory. My accent is different from theirs. I do not know the nuances of their rich worlds or the slang of their language. Most of them are from old English money, with ancestors of royal lineage or parents in Parliament or the government.

They ridicule me, trying to antagonize me, and call me names.

“Look at the little gorilla,” a boy named Silas taunts as I sit beneath a tree in the courtyard attempting to eat my lunch of tomato soup and grilled brie sandwich. The courtyard is one of the few places I find refuge from these loud children who hate me for no reason.

Silas has been exceptionally horrible to me. He is the one who calls me names, the one who reminds me of a little Robach. I add his insults to my tally: whore, bitch, Souris, and—

“Gorilla,” Silas finishes amid a chorus of laughter from his compatriots, lemmings who pretend his asinine jokes are funny.

I squint up against the sunlight.

“That’s what you do, innit? Live in bushes like wild people, naked, and shag animals?” he asks, his voice getting louder. Students crowd around, sensing a good show is about to commence.

“Bloody hell, check out the likes of you. You’re so black. The only time we can see you is at this very time.”

My fingers tighten around my spoon; images of using it to scoop out his blue eyes flash to mind.

“Silas Balderdash the Third.” Elin’s voice rings out. The crowd of onlookers makes way. There she is with her two besties flanking her. She marches through them right up to where Silas looms above me. Elin and I make eye contact, and for a moment, she sees murderous intent in mine. She holds a hand flat, a signal to say, Be calm. “You should leave her alone.”

“Fuck off. What’s it to you?”

“There are two things you should know, you mongrel,” she says, getting up close and personal to the boy. “You will stop teasing my sister and calling her racist names. You understand that?”

Silas laughs. “And what’s the second thing?”

She rocks back, cutting his laugh short when her foot shoots up and smashes into his groin. The crowd’s gasp is collective, and Silas is bowled over, dropping to the ground. His body curls into a tight ball, the pain so paralyzing he cannot scream or breathe.

Elin bends over him. “Second thing is I will fuck you up worse than this if you”—she looks up at the rest of the spectators—“or any of you fuck with her again.”

They never again call me names at school.

Later that night, when Elin finds me clutching my throat in the throes of another nightmare reenactment where Monsieur’s giant paws are around my neck, she hugs me, opening a tiny fissure that I finally walk through.

I grip her, not wanting to let go, the need to relieve my burden so great it is like I am suffocating from beneath it until I finally say, “I need to tell you my story.”





49


AFTER


Nena and Georgia were putting away all the hair-care materials when Cort stuck his head in the room.

“Hey,” he said, then stopped when he saw his daughter’s perfect braids coiled upward into a high bun atop Georgia’s head. It didn’t look dissimilar to the low version Nena sported. “Wow, look at you, Peach. You look amazing.”

Georgia gave a tentative pat of her hair. “Thanks. I wanted Nena to do one like hers.”

He nodded, shooting Nena an appreciative smile, then gazing again at his daughter, free of the tears and turmoil from earlier. “God, I almost forgot. Nena, you have a guest.”

Nena stilled. “Me?” she said, sharper than she intended. No one knew she was here, except . . .

“Your sister?” Cort said, a little unsure if he’d delivered good news or bad. “She’s waiting out front.” But Nena had already pushed past him without another word.

Elin wouldn’t. Nena marched toward the front door, half expecting Elin to be waiting for her there, nose in the air as she gave the lived-in home a once-over with her highly expensive, highly critical eye. Elin wasn’t in the foyer or the living room. She wasn’t in the house but rather was leaning against the driver’s-side door of her white-as-snow Tesla. She looked as annoyed as Nena felt.

“What the fuck?” Elin said as her little sister neared her. “You don’t answer messages or my calls now?”

“What do you mean?” Nena frowned, feeling her pockets for her phone, which wasn’t there. Rucksack, she thought. “You rang me?”