Copperhead Page 8

  “It’s not too late to grab him and beat the crap out of him, you know. Teach him his place.”

  Jessup doesn’t turn around. He feels Wyatt move up and then sees his friend lean on the railing, too. Yes, he thinks, I want to beat the crap out of Corson. Wants to put him on the ground and smash out those white teeth, find the car he’s driving, throw a brick through the windshield. He doesn’t say anything, but Wyatt answers anyway.

  “I know,” Wyatt says. “But don’t worry. He’ll get his when the time comes.” He nudges Jessup with his elbow. The corner of his mouth twitches. “Rahowa, bitches.”

  Jessup can’t stop himself from laughing, though he knows it wouldn’t be funny to anybody else. Rahowa. Racial holy war. The elders at the Blessed Church of the White America have been promising a racial holy war as long as Jessup can remember. Jessup hasn’t been to church in four years, but according to Wyatt, the racial holy war is still just around the corner, same as it always has been. Jessup can’t joke about it with his other friends—the Blessed Church of the White America doesn’t make people laugh—but that’s one of the things he likes about Wyatt. They share a language. Wyatt at McDonald’s—“After rahowa, they won’t keep putting pickles on my burger when I asked for no goddamned pickles”—or running wind sprints during two-a-days in the heat of August—“I’m calling rahowa on wind sprints,” he’d say, which made Jessup laugh even though what he really wanted to do was puke—or under his breath so only Jessup can hear him when Mrs. Howard, their AP European History teacher, has them split up to work with a partner—“Why the hell is European history being taught by somebody from Africa? Rahowa, bitches.”

  He doesn’t tell Wyatt that he likes Mrs. Howard, thinks she’s a good teacher. Keeps him intellectually engaged, treats the class like it’s full of individuals instead of a monolithic entity. Makes him think. And even though she’s black and he’s sure she has to know about his brother and stepdad, about the Blessed Church of the White America, she treats him the same as everybody else. He wants to say that to Wyatt sometimes, to tell him to knock off with the jokes, to give Mrs. Howard the respect that is due to somebody who does her job well. He doesn’t tell Wyatt to stop, however, because he doesn’t want to have that conversation. And also, Jessup knows, because he doesn’t want to have to reckon with it himself.

  It’s easier to laugh at the joke.

  Though Jessup has to wonder how much of Wyatt is joking when he jokes about a racial holy war. Wyatt likes the AP European History class, seems to like Mrs. Howard fine, but Jessup knows that there are plenty of people going to Blessed Church of the White America who take it seriously, who believe a racial holy war is just around the corner. That being said, it’s clear that Wyatt is joking right now, and part of what makes it funny is that they both know Brandon Rogers would never say it as a joke.

  BRANDON ROGERS

  Brandon is two years older than Jessup and Wyatt. He’s studying at Cortaca University. Majoring in government. Lives off campus because of safety concerns but has a weekly radio show—internet only, but more than a quarter million downloads a month—and has more than once said, “Let them come for me. I’m not afraid to be a martyr for the cause.”

  He’s twenty and there’s a lot of talk that he’s going to be the face of white nationalism. His nickname is “The Prince.” His father is the heir to an industrial fortune, has put money into a baker’s dozen of magazines and think tanks, but is most well known for bankrolling the Jewspiracy and TakeBack websites. The latter in particular has gone mainstream, treated like a bona fide news organization in some quarters. Brandon moved here for school from Florida, an Ivy League–educated spokesman just another way to bring white nationalism to the center; he’s been groomed from birth to be the future of the movement. The only question is how quickly the future is coming. Over the summer, the Washington Post did a feature on him. Five thousand words, front page. Talked about how Brandon doesn’t swear or smoke or drink, how he’s promised to wait like a good Christian until he’s married to have sex with his fiancée, how he wears a suit and tie to class every day because he wants to show his professors he’s serious about his studies. He’s handsome, hair neatly groomed, fingernails clipped short, television-ready, a safe guest for political shows looking for somebody who’s edgy but won’t get a show canceled. Has the language down for cable news talking heads: global interests, social justice warriors, elitist intellectuals, pride in my identity, don’t blue lives matter, shouldn’t all lives matter, not just black lives, isn’t it natural to want to be with people who are like you? At least once a week he manages to pop up on television somewhere.

  Brandon is at the church every Sunday, too, helps lead the youth group, Uncle Earl occasionally trotting him out to speak to the whole congregation, backroom talks with the elders, but Jessup has only met him once. Uncle Earl brought him to the trailer near the end of Jessup’s sophomore year, driving Brandon up in Earl’s Ford F-150. Brandon was wearing a slim black suit, blood-red tie. Told Jessup’s mom that David John and Ricky were heroes, that their actions protected the future for children like Jessup’s beautiful, pure sister.

  “Your son and your husband, Mrs. Michaels, are the kind of men we need. Men we can count on. When the racial holy war starts, it’s going to be men like Ricky and David John who keep us safe. When the time comes, we’ll need them.”

  Jessup was on the couch, headphones in his ears, but no music. Social studies textbook open on his lap. Hadn’t said anything, but the words just popped out. “When will that be?”

  The way Brandon looked at him let Jessup know that even though he’d kept his head down, he hadn’t been invisible. Brandon saw him. Looked at him harder than Jessup had ever been looked at.

  Never told Wyatt about that moment. Even though Wyatt makes fun of Brandon plenty, he also often sounds like he admires Brandon; Jessup doesn’t know how to explain the hardness in Brandon’s stare.

  Instead, he goes along with it when Wyatt makes fun of Brandon, and he goes along with it when Wyatt talks deferentially about the man. Jessup goes along with a lot of things. You have to with a friend like Wyatt. Poking, needling, teasing. That’s Wyatt’s way, Jessup thinks. Besides, Wyatt doesn’t really ever mean any harm. At least not toward Jessup. He’s a joker.

  Jessup thinks Wyatt is joking now about Corson getting what’s his when the time comes. Hard to tell with Wyatt sometimes. He’s got a mean streak. Sometimes, when he talks about racial holy war, Jessup thinks Wyatt is hoping for it, waiting. But he’s known Wyatt his whole life, best friends. Wyatt likes to say Jessup is his real brother, even though he has two younger brothers. They spend a lot of time together, and otherwise, Wyatt’s life revolves around football, Blessed Church of the White America, and his girlfriend. Speaking of whom . . .

  KAYLEE

  Don’t you drink too much,” Kaylee says, slipping between Jessup and Wyatt, ducking under Wyatt’s arm so that it’s around her shoulder. She presses her body against him, kisses him with an open mouth. Jessup sees the flash of tongue. She tilts her head, shoots Jessup some teeth. “Nice game, Jessup. Hear you got the game ball.”

  “Why not?” Wyatt says. “There’s plenty of beer, and you’re driving.”

  “Because, honey, I don’t like it when you get drunk.” She reaches out and pats Jessup on the cheek. “You keep an eye on him for me, Jessup. Okay? It’s cold out here. I’m going back inside.”

  The pat on his cheek is gentle, sweet. Kaylee Owen is a gentle and sweet girl. Her parents have a farm in Brooktown, near the compound, and they sell organic produce and meat at the Cortaca Farmers’ Market. They’re gentle and sweet, too. Mrs. Owen brought lasagna over the night Ricky and David John were sentenced. Mr. Owen gave them twenty pounds of steak for the freezer. Jessup likes Kaylee. He’d admit to being a bit sweet on her when he was younger, but she and Wyatt have been dating since eighth grade. They’re planning to get married after grad
uation. She’s going to move with him to Storrs and work the first year while he’s at UConn. “My grades are on the bubble, so what’s the point of applying? Maybe if I check the box that says I’m black or if I pretend to be liberal, but screw that.” She’s planning to go to community college the year after. She wants to be a nurse.

  She kisses Wyatt again and then slides open the glass door and walks over to where a couple of her girlfriends are sitting on the couch. Jessup and Wyatt drift inside, out of the cold. They talk for a bit with a couple of guys on the team, Jessup endures some teasing over his GPA—Cortaca’s a good high school, and plenty of kids on the football team make the honor roll, but Jessup isn’t a professor’s kid; he rolls into school wearing his camo hunting jacket, a litmus test of sorts, but has a real shot at an Ivy League school anyway—and then they move to the table.

  “Got to love rich girls,” Wyatt says. “High school party and she’s got snacks out.” He scoops a chip into the salsa and crams it in his mouth. “Think her mom went grocery shopping for her? She’s got a freaking vegetable platter here.”

  “They’re called crudités when it’s fancy,” Jessup says.

  “Oh, you’re going to fit in just fine at Yale, asshole.”

  But Jessup isn’t really paying attention. He’s noticing that the Kilton Valley boys have spread out a bit. Two of them are out on the deck—he can see them through the glass doors—holding cups of beer and chatting with the pack of guys from the Cortaca team. All smiles. One of the Kilton Valley boys, a big side of beef who gave Jessup a couple of hard blocks during the game, is telling some sort of funny story. He moves his hands while he talks. He’s got a small afro and a shit-eating grin. He finishes his story and is rewarded with a burst of laughter that Jessup can hear from outside.

  “That boy’s eyeing you,” Wyatt says. He lifts his chin, and Jessup glances over to the kitchen, sees Corson on the other side of the counter.

  Corson is standing with two girls. One of them is leaning into him, arm around his waist, obviously his girlfriend. She’s a small thing, pale, but with dark slashes of makeup penciled in around her eyes and a T-shirt that rides up and shows a pierced belly button as she gets on her tiptoes and moves her arm around his neck to pull him down for a kiss.

  Corson is holding a beer, and after he’s done kissing his girlfriend, he chugs it down.

  “She’s got jungle fever,” Wyatt says under his breath. “Just like you.”

  MINUS TWO

  Jessup tells Wyatt to go fuck himself. Wyatt laughs, like Jessup isn’t serious.

  Is Jessup serious? He doesn’t know if he is or isn’t.

  Whenever Deanne is around, Wyatt makes himself scarce, but he hasn’t said much to Jessup about Deanne. And he has toned down his language since Jessup and Deanne started dating, but Jessup can’t tell how much of that is simply to avoid an argument. Kaylee has been less shy. One minute she’s bubbly and friendly, the next minute she’s calling him a race traitor. “It’s one thing if you’re just messing around with that girl, Jessup, if you want a taste of it, but don’t be ridiculous. You need to commit. One hundred percent, Jessup. Nothing less. Have some goddamned pride. Stick to your own. I know plenty of pure white girls who—”

  But Jessup is good at changing the subject. He’s good at pretending everything is okay. A survival skill.

  Wyatt drifts away and Jessup’s phone buzzes. Deanne.

  can’t come

  why not

  dad says no

  why no?

  snow. roads are bad. doesn’t want me driving

  what? no snow in mississippi? jk

  I want to see you. I miss you

  me too

  tomorrow night? after work?

  Jessup puts his phone away just as Alyssa Robinson corners him. They are working on a presentation for English that they are supposed to give the week after next. He likes Alyssa. She was in his kindergarten class and then in other classes off and on through now. He’s pretty sure she doesn’t like him—she lives near the university, comes from the kind of family that doesn’t mix with Jessup’s kind, that calls the housing complex on east hill “East Village” instead of “the Jungle”—but if she has a problem with him, she’s kept it hidden. She’s the sort of kid who grows up to privilege in Cortaca. Math and Spanish tutors even though she’s got straight A grades, plays lacrosse and goes to lacrosse camps during the summer, does volunteer work at the SPCA and the food pantry, has known she was going to Williams College, her parents’ alma mater, since she was in kindergarten. Everything easy for her, but she works hard anyway because she doesn’t know how else to be. He agrees to meet her Wednesday morning in the library before school so they can game-plan. That satisfies her. She knows that Jessup will do his share of the work.

  For the next hour, Jessup moves around the room, bullshitting with guys on the team. He moves easily through the room, always aware of the way Corson, beer in hand, seems to keep himself at maximum distance. At one point, Jessup chats for a few minutes with one of the players from Kilton Valley, the kid with the small afro, football talk, the kid saying, as long as you beat us, hope you make a run of things. Played a good game. He doesn’t sit, doesn’t stay in one place long. A little before eleven, he texts Deanne:

  still not coming?

  no. sorry. you know how my dad is

  he making you run wind sprints?

  very funny

  a little. I miss you

  me too. see you at work?

  Okay. goodnight, babe

  If he’d known Deanne wasn’t going to make it, he would have just gone home with his family after they left Kirby’s, spent the night at home, celebrating David John’s release. Eleven o’clock isn’t too bad, though. He’ll get to bed at a reasonable hour. Knows he’ll spend the night dreaming of the way Deanne feels against his body. Good dreams. Easy to sleep with that in his head. He goes out to the deck, where Wyatt is hanging out with Kaylee, tells them he’s taking off. Wants to get up early to go hunting.

  He’s back inside, about to leave, edging his way into the entrance hall when he hears Corson calling his name.

  SAY IT

  But calling him would mean that Corson just wants to talk. Corson wants more than that. He wants an audience.

  That’s not what Jessup wants. He lifts his hands, palms out, a gesture of supplication, a gift. Whatever you want, Corson, I don’t want to argue. “Heading home, man.”

  “You called me boy.”

  The room is suddenly quiet. There’s music on, but it’s low, something with an acoustic guitar, some sweet flower girl talking about love and what it feels like to be in high school.

  “I don’t think so.”

  There’s something akin to electricity in the room. Derek Lemper, wearing a shirt now, lumbers up from the couch. Trevell is leaning against the kitchen counter, next to Jayden and their girlfriends. Jayden has his big knee brace on. Jessup glances through the sliding doors to the deck. The lights are on outside, a throng of people, twenty, thirty kids out there, and Jessup can see Wyatt with his coat on, standing with Kaylee, the two of them kissing, oblivious to what’s going on inside.

  “You called me boy,” Corson says again. His voice is thick from beer. “But that’s not what you wanted to say, was it?”

  Everybody in the room is looking at Jessup and Corson now, back and forth, waiting, watching. Derek has a dumb look on his dumb face, smart enough to know something’s wrong, that a fight is in the air, too dumb to understand anything more.

  “You kicked out my fucking taillight,” Jessup says, but even he knows it comes out wrong. There’s something else he needs to say, but that’s not it.

  “Am I black?” Corson’s voice is tight. He’s loud.

  Jessup blinks. “What?”

  “I said. Am. I. Black.” The Kilton Valley players have pulled into shape around Corson, the guys from Cortaca High starting
to shift a little. It makes Jessup think of electrons and protons.

  Corson’s girlfriend steps in front of him. She looks like a glass of milk next to him. “Come on, honey. You’re drunk.”

  Corson is gentle but firm, moving her aside. “I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to Mr. White Power here.”

  “I’m not—”

  Cuts Jessup off. “Saw you talking to your dad at halftime. Fresh out of jail, huh? But your brother’s still doing time.”

  His girlfriend tries again. “Corson.”

  “Everybody already knows,” Corson says. “His dad and his brother killed two black kids. Brother’s out around town with Nazi tattoos, gets in a fight, beats them to death with a wrench.”

  “Corson!”

  “Everybody already knows,” Corson says again. “Their whole family goes to that white power church out in the country. No secret there.”

  Jessup looks around the room. It’s true. Everybody knows. He’s hoping he’ll see someone, anyone to save him. A life raft, a float, a rope, a log, anything he can grab onto to stop himself from drowning. But it’s just faces looking back. He locks eyes with Trevell. The receiver breaks it off.

  People have been talking. Not just now. His entire life.

  TELEPHONE

  He can see it, Trevell’s girlfriend friends with Aaron’s girlfriend, Victoria. Those girls friends with the girls from Kilton Valley. Go to summer camp together. Parents dropping five grand so their darlings can sleep in cabins and do overnight trips in tents, sit around campfires, canoe, hit the archery range, an expensive way to have your kids feel poor for a month. Nothing in common except parents who can afford it, which means they have everything in common. No tribe except money, skin or no skin, talking about David John and Ricky and that night in the alley and the way that blood begets blood and Jessup, no matter what he does on the field, no matter what he does in school, will always have been born into the wrong family, will always be on the wrong side of that divide.