SAFIYA

JANUARY 6, 2022

Fact: There are no good white supremacists.

Truth: There are no good white supremacists.

Alternative fact: There are very fine people on both sides.

“So you think Hardy doesn’t want to hear your theory about how the white supremacists’ call was coming from inside the house?” Asma asked as we headed up the school steps. She was wearing a knee-length winter-white wool coat with a skinny braided black leather belt and deep-red riding boots. Every head turned to look at her, like always. And like always, she was unbothered and uninterested. It had been about seventy-two hours and Ghost Skin had gone radio silent. Maybe the hack was a one-and-done deal, but the story was getting buried. Plus, Hardy was getting exactly what he wanted: a fresh news cycle. But I still wanted to find the truth. Needed to.

“I can’t even get an appointment to see Hardy to explain my theory. According to his assistant, he has been very busy with important meetings that all happen to coincide with every free period I have,” I complained.

“Do you really think DuSable has been infiltrated, though? Doesn’t that mean something organized? I mean, kids in this school can barely organize decorations for a dance.” Asma was a good friend who always had my back. But that did not mean she didn’t question me or push back.

“Well… when I Googled, it seemed like the phrase ‘ghost skin’ was mostly used for neo-Nazis or KKK who infiltrated law enforcement or military. Like sleepers. But the hackers’ using the name Ghost Skin doesn’t necessarily mean they’re part of a larger, organized threat. More like they were announcing themselves: We’re here even if you can’t see us.”

“To completely change the subject, let’s talk about people we—I mean, you—definitely notice.” Asma nudged me and not so subtly tilted her head in the direction of the table by the big fireplace in the lobby where students were selling tickets for the Winter Ball. One of the students was Richard.

“Shut up.” I raised my eyebrows at Asma. “We’re barely friends. Besides, I think he’s still into Dakota.” I tilted my head toward the cute junior. She was at the table selling tickets, too.

“Yeah, right. Dakota. The Dakota who is one-hundred-percent not his girlfriend. The Dakota staring at him right now, desperately trying to get his attention while he can’t take his eyes off you? You. Safiya Mirza. The girl he’s been chatting up every day this week, despite not being in any classes together this semester?”

“We were lab partners. Basically shared a table. That’s all,” I said while turning my gaze to Richard and then quickly back to Asma when my eyes locked with his. “The entire extent of our relationship was—”

“About finding the chemistry in chemistry?”

I rolled my eyes. “Grow up. You’re such a dork!”

“Ha! You love it. Catch up with you laaaaater,” Asma sang as she peeled off, leaving me openmouthed and flat-footed within earshot of Richard.

He stepped toward me. “Wanna go?” Richard wasn’t whispering, but his low voice made it sound like a secret question.

“Huh?”

“To Winter Ball? Gonna buy a ticket?”

“Oh, uh, no. Hard pass.” I had not been to any of the school’s formal dances. It wasn’t because I didn’t have a boyfriend. Which I didn’t. Technically, every ticket was a single, and students usually went in groups. The admin did not “promote” dates at school functions. Mostly, I wasn’t into dancing and didn’t have the extra cash to splurge on a fancy dress. Kids at DuSable went all out for the formals. Slinky, sparkly dresses. Heels that pinch. Tuxes. Limos. For sure Asma would let me borrow something from her closet, but…

“Too bad.” Richard made a fake pouty face. “It won’t be as fun without you.”

Record scratch. This seemed like flirting? My face flushed. He reached out and touched my elbow. It was barely a touch, more like his hand grazing my puffy coat. But I felt the warmth of his fingers through all my winter layers. I unzipped my jacket so I wouldn’t overheat. I glanced past his broad shoulders and saw Dakota glaring at us, her arms crossed, jaw dropped. I guess it looked like flirting to her, too.

“Uh… you and I have never been at a single social event together. In, like, ever.”

“What about when we volunteered at the Cradles to Crayons drive?”

I laughed. “You mean when we sorted toys at a giant warehouse with half the school? It was fun, but maybe not exactly a high-society event.”

“It is for my mom and her friends. And I did bring you a water bottle.”

“Oh! You’re right. So chivalrous of you. How could I have forgotten that?” I grinned.

“Fine. Okay. But I stand by my claim: It won’t be as fun without you. You’re the only one I know who can make journalism sound hot,” he said as he flashed me a toothy smile, the same one he rocked in his homecoming king photo. I’m no expert, but this probably, definitely counted as flirting. Maybe even more? Did I like the more? The Magic 8 Ball spinning in my brain was screaming ALL SIGNS POINT TO YES. Ugh. Who even am I? How am I this giddy over a boy? I tried to come up with some witty bon mot or scathingly sarcastic remark, but all I got was cotton mouthed.

Then the five-minute warning bell rang, so I shrugged with a small smirk. I didn’t need to say Saved by the bell. It was now a flirty fact that floated between us. But the helium-filled moment I was having didn’t last long. As I turned the corner to head to my locker, I caught a glimpse of Hardy, who narrowed his eyes at me before he stepped into the boys’ bathroom for his morning drug sweep.

“So, we’re still totally clueless?” Usman was nothing if not direct. As he’d once told me, he saw zero reason to be coy around anything or anyone except, occasionally, boys he was crushing on. He readjusted his yellow kufi that he wore atop his almost-buzzed head. He’d dyed his hair three different colors so far this year, but currently it was in its natural state of chestnut brown. When I walked into the journalism room, I saw that he and Rachel had already written some bullet points on the whiteboard.

• Hacked either night before break ended or before 8:00 a.m. on first day back

• Ghost Skin = one or more people?

• “Free speech” diatribe

• Possible member of a white supremacist org? Or posers?

• Angry at social justice/multicultural curriculum

• Students? Adult? In school community?

• Nietzsche quote: Herald of lightning

The hack was on Monday, and it was now Thursday; it was already old news to everyone besides us—the few, the nerdy, the journalistically inclined. Winter Ball was coming up, and there was nothing like a dance to distract everyone from the anonymous neighborhood white supremacist running around our halls. Hardy agreed to let the Spectator site go back up, but only because he was censoring all our articles. The only things he and Ms. Cary didn’t red-flag were sports and Asma’s interview with major alumni donors about Winter Balls of the past, a story Hardy had suggested.

Hardy had vetoed every article on the hack, even the general piece I’d quickly written about ghost skins, which didn’t even mention the hack but talked about the Chicago police officer who’d been arrested after he’d tortured over 120 Black men in police custody and was also found to be a legit KKK member. My story got returned with the words NOT RELEVANT scrawled across the front page in red Sharpie, like his words were bleeding into mine.

I guess I couldn’t complain too much. I was the only one on the newspaper that Ms. Cary had given the new password to, after swearing me to secrecy. She also gave me a warning that as far as Hardy was concerned, I had a major strike against me. Two more strikes and I was out as editor, which is how I think that sportsball metaphor works. Part of me was surprised he’d okayed my having the password again, but another part of me thought he was hoping I’d mess up so he could ban me from the newspaper permanently.

I slumped into a seat next to Usman in the semicircle of chairs set in front of the whiteboard. “So, have we figured out if the Nietzsche quote connects to something else?”

“Besides our Ghost Skin maybe being a nihilist, I’m not sure,” Usman said.

“Nihi-what?” Rachel asked the question I was thinking.

“Nihilist.” Usman took in our blank faces. “A person who believes existence is useless and everything sucks, so destruction without any purpose is necessary. Did none of you take philosophy last year?”

I shrugged.

“Well, Nazis were pretty into Nietzsche, so maybe that’s it? Doesn’t prove much, though. Nietzsche quotes are everywhere. Like, ‘That which does not kill you—’”

“‘Makes you stronger’?” I finished.

“Yup. That’s him.”

“I think it’s the same assholes who put that meme on the school Facebook page. Another thing Hardy blew off,” Usman said.

Rachel twisted her light-brown curls into a low bun and began doodling little blue flowers on the whiteboard. “Yeah, but that was different because it was added as a comment from a fake account. Ghost Skin had to steal the password to post their BS.”

“Could be the same person escalating,” Usman added. “That’s usually how the delinquent life starts.”

I elbowed him. “And you’re basing this on?”

“A lecture my auntie gave me last weekend.”

“Dude, you’re in early admission to University of Chicago. You’re the last person who needs a lecture on keeping your crap together,” Rachel said.

Usman and I looked at each other. “Aunties!” we shouted at the same time before cracking up. His family was Shia Hazara from Afghanistan and mine was Hyderabadi Indian, but apparently aunties of every ethnicity had the tough-love gene.

While we were laughing, the fire alarm blared throughout the school, startling all of us.

“What the hell? Is this a drill? It’s freezing out!” Rachel grabbed her hoodie and pulled it over her head.

The three of us headed out. It was weird because the school never held fire drills in winter. Then we heard the sirens.