Fact: Women are socialized not to show their anger.
Lie: Anger is unbecoming in a woman.
Truth: Don’t underestimate the power of your rage to get things done.
The late-afternoon bus was mostly empty. A few students from a Catholic girls’ school, their noses buried in their phones, sat with their backpacks between their navy-blue slacks or green-and-blue-plaid skirts with dark tights. The farther west the bus headed, the more white people got off at their stops, until there were none left. Only the Black and brown schoolkids and a few adults who looked like they were maybe leaving work. One of them leaned her head back on the seat and closed her eyes. One man flipped through the pages of a book, his finger underlining the words as he read. We rolled along, hitting each new Chicago winter pothole with a thud, each one jolting me with the reality of what I was doing.
At breakfast my mom had asked me if I was okay. I’d assured her I was. I lied. I didn’t think she believed me, but she nodded anyway. She subtly suggested talking to one of the counselors at school. I said I would, but I lied about that, too. I didn’t trust the adults at school. She’d looked so worried, but I hadn’t been ready to admit that I was running on fumes, pushing images out of my mind, hearing Jawad’s voice. And believing so hard that I had to keep going forward. I didn’t have a choice, like how a great white shark will die if it stops moving. Except I didn’t feel like an apex predator at all. More like bait. Still, if I paused too long, thought too hard, all I’d see would be images of Jawad, and of Nate’s angry face, the Swallow your poison text, the swastika, the threatening letter to the mosque. If I stopped moving, I’d drown. In fear. In sadness. In rage.
Anderson Car Rental was not a chain. It was a small agency in a strip mall next to a place called Speedy Cash, which, judging from the signs in the window, was a money-transfer spot that also sold lottery tickets. On the other side of the rental place was a sandwich shop. If Nate was the one who’d rented a car under the name Fred Nietzsche (did he think he was being clever?), then it would make sense for him to come all the way out here. It was far from his neighborhood of gated mansions with wide lawns and old money, and unlikely that anyone would recognize him. It also meant it was premeditated. I shivered.
A cheerful bell rang as I walked in. A tall, skinny Black man in a red sweater and with gray hair around his temples greeted me with a warm smile. Next to him, a younger Black man with short locs was busy entering information into a computer.
“Good afternoon. Can I help you, miss? Do you have a reservation?”
“Oh, hi,” I muttered, somehow caught off guard with the simple, kind greeting. “Well, um, I have a couple questions, actually.” I’d planned out what I was going to say in the bus, but now as I stood here, I realized how ridiculous it all sounded.
“I hope I can give you some answers.” He grinned.
“I’m a reporter from the DuSable Prep Spectator,” I said. The young man at the computer paused his work but kept his eyes glued to the screen.
“The private school? That’s a bit of a ride, isn’t it?”
I chuckled nervously and edged closer because I felt the need to whisper. My hands were sweating, so I took off my mittens and placed them on the counter, leaning my elbow on them to steady me.
“Well…,” I continued. “We are doing an investigative report into a possible crime, and we think the criminal—uh, the, um, alleged criminal—might have rented a car here.”
The man jutted his neck out toward me and scrunched his eyebrows like he heard me but couldn’t believe what I was saying. The young man next to him sucked in his breath. There was a very long, painful pause. So I kept going. “You see, sir, we believe that a black Chevy 200 might have been rented here under the name Fred Nietzsche and—”
The guy entering info into the computer dropped a bunch of receipts and bent down behind the counter to get them. The older gentleman shook his head. “Now, miss, I’m certain the journalism teacher at your very fancy school has talked to you about rights to privacy. And subpoenas? I’m sure you also know that we would never give out any client’s personal information. And because I’m sure you’ve done all your homework, you are likely aware that the Graves Amendment bars vicarious liability claims against car rental agencies.”
“I… uh…” Dammit. What was I thinking? I’d broken all the journalist rules: research, prepare, don’t make it personal. This whole thing was a mistake, and I’d been presumptuous on top of it all. The gentleman didn’t even look mad, but he was staring at me like I was wearing a hat made out of stuffed parakeets. And I didn’t blame him. I was acting like the stereotype of a privileged private-school kid. “Of course, sir. I… I am sorry. I didn’t mean to imply…” I turned to the young man, who had finished picking up the papers he’d dropped. He caught my eye and gave me the slightest nod, a look that was almost imperceptible. “I didn’t mean to waste your time. I… I’m truly sorry,” I said, backing away from the counter.
“That’s all right, young lady. Live and learn. I’m sure you’ll do your homework next time,” the man said before turning from the counter and heading through a door marked OFFICE.
I locked eyes with the young man who was rearranging the receipts. He gave me a small knowing smile.
I headed out, the bell jingling again as I stepped through the door. As I slowly walked past the sandwich shop, I heard a voice behind me. “You forgot your mittens.” I smiled to myself and turned around. The young man was holding my mittens out for me. He stepped closer. “Did you leave them on purpose?”
I shrugged. “Maybe?”
“You’re #JusticeforJawad?”
I grinned. “You RyngofFyre?”
“Maybe?” He grinned back.
He took a step closer to me. “That Fred Nietzsche thing you mentioned? I remember. I’m not supposed to say anything, but I can’t let this go. I remember because it was weird. We almost never get rich white guys like that in here. Especially not ones who pay with AmEx gift cards.”
“Wait. Did you say guys? As in more than one?” My heart stopped. My fingers went numb. I couldn’t even tell whether I was breathing anymore.
“Yeah. There were two guys. I remember. One of ’em was thin and had some funky glasses. He kept glancing around like he was about to get jumped. So ridiculous.” The boy shook his head. “The other one was bigger, had on a hoodie from your school. It said Captain on it. Which made me laugh. Like, who wears that around like it’s a big deal? That kid definitely thought he was the shit.”
I reached into my bag and pulled out my phone with trembling fingers. “Is that one of them?” I asked, showing him the screenshot I’d taken of Nate from one of his birding videos.
He nodded. “Think so. Those green glasses. He kept adjusting them like a nervous tic or something. He also asked for our most expensive vehicle, the newest one we had. For real.” He rolled his eyes. “The Chrysler we gave them was the same as the rest except it had a heated steering wheel, satellite stereo, and beverage warmer. No one ever wants to spend the extra seventy-five bucks for that package. I don’t think anyone’s taken it out since, either. January is our slow month.”
I tightened my sweaty grip on the phone, searching for the selfie Richard had texted me that day he visited me at the store. I was afraid of what the answer was going to be. But there was no turning away from the truth now. This was way beyond the power of denial. I turned the screen back around to show the young man. “And this guy: Was he the other one?”
“Yeah! That’s him. I’m pretty sure. How many captains does your swim team…” His voice trailed off. He looked up at me, then back at the photo. He was starting to understand what I was trying to wrap my mind around. The smiling kid in that photo was definitely a liar. And maybe a killer. And was a guy who was sending me selfies. And getting me garbage cookies. And taking me to the dance. I went numb.
All the things Richard had said to me played over and over in my head like a twisted montage now that I was seeing them with a new lens. God. When we thought Usman had seen Nate arguing by the loading dock… It wasn’t Joel he was fighting with. It was Richard. “You’re having second thoughts now cuz of her? She doesn’t scare me.” How was this real? Bile rose in the back of my throat as my body went cold and clammy all over.
“Thanks,” I whispered, my mind shifting into some kind of automatic-response mode. “I… I’m going to have to tell the police.”
“Yeah. Yeah. But you can’t say where it came from, okay?”
“No worries. I’m a journalist. Even if I didn’t sound like it when I was talking to your boss. I swear, I protect my sources.”
The young man raised an eyebrow. “That applies even for high school papers?”
I nodded. “Of course it does. At least for me.”
“Check your Reddit DMs in a minute. I’ll send the receipt,” he said as he started to walk back inside.
“Hey!” I called. He stopped and turned around. “What made you decide to help us?”
“I felt bad for that kid… Jawad. All he did was try to live his life. I couldn’t stand by and stay quiet. Wanted to help if I could.”
An ache grew in my chest. Jawad deserved people looking out for him. I wish he’d had that when he was alive. I waved at #RyngofFyre as he slipped back inside. My phone buzzed, a voice text from Asma: “#JusticeforJawad is trending in Chicago. Your article got picked up by a news outlet and is blowing up. It’s got fifteen thousand views! Uh… I gotta go. There’s a haggling situation going on with aunts and the tailor. I’ll call when I get home. Be safe!”
I rubbed my thumb over my screen as I contemplated what to text Asma. What I should do next. The thought occurred to me that maybe we shouldn’t be texting this stuff anymore. We needed to talk IRL. My phone buzzed again. This time it was Richard: Can we meet up? Need to talk.
My heart leaped to my throat. Richard had played me. He’d been in on it with Nate the whole time. Had they planned it all? The murder? Everything at school? Had all of it been a ruse? A sick joy ride? I plopped down on the curb. Tears I’d been holding back flowed down my face. My phone lit up with another text from Richard: Park across from Medici? 30 minutes?
I felt stuck, like a fly in amber, as I sat on the edge of the sidewalk. Every moment with Richard since we’d gotten back from break played like a jagged patchwork of scenes in my mind. Every look, every gesture, every word: a toxic lie. He’d been feeding me the poison they wanted me to swallow. And I’d fallen for it.
How had I not seen who he was? A fireball whirred in my chest. Guys like Richard and Nate—rich, connected, from “good families”—always got away with everything. I remembered the words of the former president, one who was from the same club as Nate and Richard—the silver-spoon, always-get-out-of-jail-free club: I could stand in the middle of the street and shoot someone and I wouldn’t lose any voters. I’d still win.
I wiped my tears on the back of my coat sleeve, stood up from the curb, and brushed myself off. I texted Richard back: Make it 45 minutes and bring cocoa.
I was terrified. I was angry. My body felt like it had shattered into a million pieces of blood and bone. I wasn’t sure if I should be doing any of this, but I had to find the truth.