The Chosen One Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2022 by Echo Brown

  Cover art copyright © 2022 by Noa Denmon.

  Cover design by Sasha Illingworth.

  Cover copyright © 2022 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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  First Edition: January 2022

  Christy Ottaviano Books is an imprint of Little, Brown and Company. The Christy Ottaviano Books name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Brown, Echo, author.

  Title: The chosen one : a first-generation odyssey / Echo Brown.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Little, Brown and Company, 2022. | Audience: Ages 14 & up. | Summary: “A YA coming-of-age novel about a first-year, first-generation Black student at Dartmouth College”—Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021010558 | ISBN 9780316310666 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316310833 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: African Americans—Juvenile fiction. | CYAC: African Americans—Fiction. | Universities and colleges—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.B794 Ch 2022 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021010558

  ISBNs: 978-0-316-31066-6 (hardcover), 978-0-316-31083-3 (ebook)

  E3-20211209-JV-NF-ORI

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  PART I: The Joker Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  PART II: The Last Supper Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  PART III: The Rise Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Afterword

  Discussion Guide Questions

  A Note from the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Discover More

  About the Author

  Praise for Black Girl Unlimited: The Remarkable Story of a Teenage Wizard

  For the Jedi of Chosen Ones

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  And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.

  —ANAÏS NIN

  PART I

  The Joker

  He rises from a horizon of chaos. An eternal conflicting force disrupting the balance of things. The God of Opposition, a cosmic Darth Vader dressed as a clown to prevent you from seeing the true darkness of his antics. A trickster—look at the wicked smile on his face—mocking, unsettling. He knows. He thrives off disorienting the living. His purpose is to destroy from the inside out until pain rolls down like water.

  He’s the ultimate test for Luke and the Jedi of Chosen Ones. He wants to know what their souls are made of, to test whether they have the strength to answer the call, survive his madness, and complete the mission.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Someone is watching me. It’s not my mother’s Jesus, who hangs in blissful peace above the desk in my dorm room, or my roommate, Amanda, aka Mandy, aka Manda Panda, which her closest friends have painfully named her. There are many watchers and they are always white. My mother warned me about “lookin’ ass white people” that follow you in stores and stare at you on the sidewalk when you’re in the wrong neighborhood, attempting to control your entire existence with their eyes. I’ve learned from Children of the Corn, The Hills Have Eyes, and Jason Voorhees from the Friday the 13th movies that white people are always watching, especially when they are about to kill you. I don’t think anyone’s trying to murder me, but I am concerned.

  Dartmouth has more white people than I’ve ever seen in my life. Sometimes I just walk around campus marveling at how many there are. Prior to being here, I thought most of the world was Black, like my neighborhood in Cleveland. I was wrong. The real world is white and they are all watching me. Dean Harrison, the dean for first-year students, who also happens to be Black and talks in riddles and quotes, says everything happens for a reason, but she wasn’t in math class with me last week when I caught a group of students blatantly staring at me. The only possible reason for that is intimidation.

  I am sitting in class looking down at the blank piece of paper in front of me, pretending to study, but I’m really doodling, which I regularly do in this class since I never know what Professor Cartwright is talking about. Math is a foreign language. Even though I can speak and comprehend a few phrases, I am nowhere near fluent. I feel so stupid in this class. The stupidest. Professor Cartwright is world-renowned, yet he is a terrible teacher. He lectures like he is bored or can’t be bothered with the words coming out of his mouth. His “simplified” explanations are always complicated and confusing. What’s the point of all that brilliance if you can’t transmit anything to others?

  Instead of listening, I draw long curvy lines across the length of the page. On this particular day, I am doodling cheerfully when I feel the familiar chill of watching eyes. I glance up at the clock and notice a group of classmates to my right staring. Their hands are folded on the table in front of them. Their eyes, piercing and calm, land decisively on me. They don’t blink. I look around the room to see if anyone else notices, but everyone is focused on Professor Cartwright. I turn back toward them and shrug my head aggressively in frustration, at which point they look away one by one. I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone. I wonder if this is a bullying tactic against students of color? A way to make us feel unwelcome and out of place? I heard about stuff like that happening from juniors and seniors, but I’m not going to stand for it.

  Class ends. I stomp over to the culprits and confront them. “Your intimidation won’t work on me,” I say, inflamed.

  “What are you talking about? I don’t even know you,” a long-blond-haired girl responds. They each shuffle out of the room confusedly, whispering among themselves. The resoluteness of her response makes me question myself. Maybe they were looking at something else in my direction. Regardless, it’s strange that they would all be staring at the same time.

  A week later, I’m still bothered. I grab a large bag of Lays potato chips from the secret stash
at the bottom of my closet while replaying the incident in my mind. I hope they aren’t all sitting together again today, which makes their group staring more terrifying. I open the chips, inhaling the salty goodness, then, like a character on a soap opera, I emerge from my dorm room, fake smiling for the imaginary camera. I pose dramatically in the doorway before beginning my walk to math class. I take the long route to delay the inevitable.

  “The Young, Black, and Restless at Dartmouth College,” I say, giggling. I’ve learned to entertain myself here in the backwoods of New Hampshire. I stop in front of Baker Tower, which is attached to the main library and is prominently featured in all the new student material.

  Those brochures made many promises they could not keep. The biggest one being an abundance of rainbow-colored minority students, who are actually very hard to find on campus. We are few and far between, and there definitely was no mention of threatening watchers who intimidate with their eyes. But the white clock tower, stacked on manicured red bricks—a staple of Ivy League architecture—has remained true to its collegiate mythology and is even more stunning in person. I imagined what it would be like to stand before this tower for months, despite my high school guidance counselor Mr. Walsh’s repeated attempts to dissuade me from attending a top ten school. I still remember sitting in his office senior year reading the posters on the wall.

  “IF YOU BELIEVE IT, YOU CAN ACHIEVE IT.”

  “REACH FOR THE STARS.”

  “NO DREAM IS TOO BIG.”

  “Why Dartmouth?” he asks.

  “It looks nice in the brochure.”

  “Well, you know, you really shouldn’t choose colleges based on the pictures in the brochure.”

  He reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out several pamphlets: Ohio State, Kenyon College, and Oberlin College.

  “All great schools. All local. Perhaps you should consider one of these. I would hate for you to…”

  He hesitates. I know what the silence

  between Professor Cartwright’s words mean. “Well, this really isn’t a good way to start the semester,” he continues. He hands me the paper, which has a large red F circled at the top. “I mean, these quizzes won’t be a big percentage of your grade, but… I don’t want you to fall further behind. Why don’t you stop by the student center and get a tutor? This kind of math is complex. You really needed to start establishing a solid mathematical foundation in high school, which I bet you didn’t. Real shame so many come here unprepared for the vigor of academic life.” He assumes he knows my story, subtly suggesting I’m not capable given my background. I thought getting into Dartmouth was enough to escape low expectations, but he builds another cage of limitation around me. As if the one Mr. Walsh built wasn’t enough

  to make me rethink my entire path in life. “Take some time to mull it over,” Mr. Walsh continues. “I want you to be realistic and clear about the odds. That’s my only goal.” I stare up at the posters on his wall again and then back at him, trying to mend the gap. Why did he bother hanging them at all?

  “Fools,” I say while continuing to take in the beauty of the clock tower and munch my chips. “How dare they try and dash the dreams of a savant”—a word I recently learned in Comp Lit—“from the inner city. We are already a rare and endangered species.” I’ll show Professor Cartwright, I say to myself triumphantly before shaking my head in disgust. I often engage in deep conversations with this tower, which briefly makes me feel like I belong here, even though I don’t really feel that way inside and the watching doesn’t help. I hilariously name the tower Matthew McConaughey to further amuse myself and distract from the deep discomfort churning in my core. I chose the whitest and cutest actor I could think of to channel the experience of being on a mostly white campus. I’m trying not to focus so much on race, but it’s hard when I feel so Black and out of place.

  “You know what?” I ask Matthew defiantly. “I’m gonna ace all my classes, confront them both, and fling my transcript in their faces. I can’t wait to watch their shocked reactions.” I speak passionately, convincingly, but deep down I wonder if Professor Cartwright and Mr. Walsh are right. It’s still early in the semester, but I’m also struggling in other classes. “Crap,” I say, careening backward down a rabbit hole of self-pity. Will I be among the thirty percent of first-generation college students who flunk out? Why are the voices of the naysayers always the loudest? Why do I never feel good enough no matter how much I achieve? I sulk as students scurry to class all around me, unconcerned about my growing self-doubt and probably consumed by their own.

  What the hell am I doing? This place is going to eat me alive. I concede my defeat. Then, Hark! The Defiance emerges. I knew they would come. They always show up when I doubt myself or am about to make a bad decision. They are my inner voice manifested as dramatic one-dimensional characters, reminding me of my own greatness. They are called the Defiance because they oppose all the negative messaging that has been programmed into my mind. Every Black girl needs a team of inner cheerleaders who can lift her spirits when the world tries to come for her.

  There are three of them: Shaquanda, who wears dark blond wigs and looks like Lil’ Kim; Damon, who is bald and wears glasses and blue jean overalls with tan Timberland boots; and Terrell, who is suave and cool and sounds like the fourth member of Boyz II Men who talks but doesn’t sing. Shaquanda always punctuates her statements with “bitch” and claps when she speaks, for emphasis. Sometimes she claps so hard her electric-pink press-on nails come flying off. Damon usually pulls out a microphone as if he is about to give a speech to a large audience and finishes all his sentences with “you feel me.” Terrell sounds like a Black preacher with his deep baritone voice and his constant “hah” between words.

  When they finally reach me, I tell Matthew to prepare for a show. They form a circle around me and all speak at once, their voices a chorus of validation: Do you know who the hell you are, bitch?!—You da best dat ever did it! Don’t let small minds dim ya light, you feel me? Mr. Walsh and Professor Cartwright cannot see you. How dey gon’ know what you capable of, you feel me? Bitch, you ain’t neva met an obstacle you couldn’t overcome. Fuck da bullshit! Yo mother’s God, hah, is sittin’ right over dere on dat big-ass mountain, hah, waitin’ to pounce on dese hatin’ nonbelievers, hah. You gon’ win, my nigga, you feel me? All we do is win, bitch, despite the challenges. Keep ya head up, ma.

  I cheer quietly to myself, but loud enough for others in my immediate vicinity to hear, while pumping my fists. “That’s right! I’m gon’ win! They don’t know me. Who gon’ stop me, haah?!”

  I continue hyping myself up with the Defiance until I hear someone behind me interrupt, “What in the Boyz-N-Da-Hood is going on here? Have you forgotten where you are, Negro Brown? Talking to yourself like that in the middle of this snow-white campus? Now I’ve seen it all.” I know who it is, but I don’t turn around. Instead, I roll my eyes and take a deep breath in preparation for dealing with the force of life that is Earnell Jackson. When I finally find the strength to face him, I see that he’s with Kelicia, Keli for short, another close friend. Earnell is a “loud, animated negro” (we playfully call each other negroes to remember our roots) from Atlanta, and Keli is a short, brown-skinned negro from Chicago. We all have similar backgrounds: poor and the first in their family to go to college. We met during first-year orientation. The entire incoming class can probably recognize Earnell’s outrageous laugh, which rang out boisterously across the auditorium as various speakers told jokes while welcoming us. Numerous heads around the room pivoted angrily in our direction—watching—while Earnell unapologetically waved as if he were the president driving down Pennsylvania Avenue on Inauguration Day.

  Earnell’s lively spirit is infectious. Keli has more of a brooding nature, similar to mine, but Earnell is always positive, upbeat, and outgoing despite the many obstacles in front of us. If you didn’t know him well you might never be able to tell that he comes from such impoverished and bleak conditions. Keli, Earnell
, and I were all-stars in high school but are struggling to catch up here at Dartmouth. Earnell and I were both valedictorians and Keli was third in her class, which Earnell relentlessly teases her about. “We can’t all be number one,” he says, after out-arguing her over something unimportant.

  Our high school ranks don’t matter here, however. Now all of our classes are “introductory preparation” courses, which is just a fancy term for remedial. We are competing against students who come from schools with unlimited resources. Catching up is not easy. I’m taking Introductory Calculus, Comprehensive Literature (Comp Lit), Sociology, and American Government as well as a History of Film class.

  “I call them the dream team,” Earnell says about the roster of tutors and study groups he uses. “Helping negroes advance since America decided nothing will ever be truly just and equal. I’m not ashamed in the least and you shouldn’t be either. The system that failed us created this situation. Do you really think we’d be behind if we had grown up next door to Becky and Ken?” Earnell shakes his head in disapproval. “I think you should call Baker Tower Jim Crow instead of Matthew McConaughey. It’s a better fit,” he says. Earnell’s focus on race is next level. He is deeply suspicious of white people after having grown up in a racist town in the South and he lets it be known now that he’s in the “free North.”

  “And another thing,” Earnell continues, “I really think you should liberate yourself from the toxic myth of minority exceptionalism. We are only an endangered species, as you say, because of extraordinary oppression. Not because there aren’t literally thousands of people just like us out there in the trenches unable to excel due to systematic obstacles. Sorry to break it to you, but you ain’t that special, dear, and you shouldn’t turn away from all the resources at our disposal here. It’s foolish.”