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 . . .