We Are the Scribes

by Randi Pink

Genres: YA Contemporary; YA Literary Fiction

Synopsis

A young adult novel by Randi Pink about a teenage activist who is visited by the ghost of Harriet Jacobs, an enslaved woman.

Ruth Fitz is surrounded by activism. Her mother is a senator who frequently appears on CNN as a powerful Black voice fighting for legislative social change within the Black community. Her father, a professor of African American history, is a walking encyclopedia, spouting off random dates and events. And her beloved older sister, Virginia, is a natural activist, steadily gaining notoriety within the community and on social media. Ruth, on the other hand, would rather sit quietly reading or writing in her journal.

When her family is rocked by tragedy, Ruth stops writing. As life goes on, Ruth’s mother is presented with a political opportunity she can’t refuse. Just as Senator Fitz is more absent, Ruth begins receiving parchment letters with a seal reading WE ARE THE SCRIBES, sent by Harriet Jacobs, the author of the autobiography and 1861 American classic, Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl.

Is Ruth dreaming? How has she been chosen as a “scribe” when she can barely put a sentence together? In a narrative that blends present with past, Randi Pink explores two extraordinary characters who channel their hopelessness and find their voices to make history.

A Macmillan Audio production from Feiwel & Friends.

 

 

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Release date: October 18, 2022

Publisher: Macmillan Audio

Print pages: 296

Sample

 Prologue 

 

The world burns and I sit quiet, incapable of anything.

It’s a necessary burning. A scorching away of weaker forest to makeway for the newer, greener, fairer nation if there is such a thing asthat. A nation where sixteen-year-old introverted Black girls likeme don’t have to feel guilty for not knowing what to say or how tosay it. A nation where we don’t fill up with pain and fear and angertoward a system built for the sole purpose of keeping us quiet in the first place. My hands feel too small to push against a mountain astall as racism. Today, like yesterday and the day before that, I ama coward.

“What you writing this time, Ruth?” asked my older sister,Virginia. “Don’t tell me it’s that ridiculously sad, depressionshit again.”I didn’t answer her, because she knew she was right.

 

 

“Where are you going?” I asked, watching as she tied hershoe in a triple knot so tight she’d have to use her teeth toget that out later. “It’s not even eight in the morning.”Virginia crossed the bedroom in one energetic leap.“Revolution never sleeps, Baby Sister.”With surprising swiftness, Virginia snatched the pagesfrom my grasp.“Give it back!” I yelled. “That’s private. Don’t—. . .”But it was too late. She’d already read today’s entry. Withpity in her almond eyes, she handed it back and took a seatat the foot of her unmade twin bed. “Ruth.”“No,” I replied. “Don’t lecture me about how to feel.”“Ruth.”“No!” I repeated, staring at the floor to avoid her gaze.“Ruth,” she said, again crossing our small bedroom butthis time slowly. “My quiet storm.”That’s when I looked up. Virginia looked at me like I wasmade of something breakable. “You think I’m weak,” I said.“No,” she said, kneeling in front of me, almost bowing.“I think you’re valuable.”Virginia’s slow, deliberate drawl drew out the most impor-tant words in her sentences. She threw away the first threein a jumble and hung onto the last like it was the only onethat mattered—

valuable 

. Such a phenomenal word,

valuable 

.There was a knock on the bedroom door— our dad.“We’ve got to go,” he said to Virginia. “Protest’s about tostart.”

 

 

“We’ll talk later on.” She bounded toward to door.“Wait,” I said, desperate to know what she’d meant.“Valuable how?”Virginia cracked the door and told Dad, “Just a second,ok?”“Seriously, Virginia.” His voice deepened. “I will notmiss this one. Mayor’s taking down the monument.”But Virginia had already come back to sit next to me onmy bed. Her dainty hand gently swept my cheek, the metalfrom rings on all five of her fingers cool against my skin.“You’re a scribe of the movement. An illuminator. OurHarriet Jacobs. I’m a dime a dozen. A trend on TikTok. But you, my love, are a writer.”“You’re so much more than a trend on—. . .”“I’m out.” Dad’s voice vibrated from frustration. “Meetme at the Linn statue.”Virginia rolled her eyes and smiled. “He always threatensto leave me and never does.” She grabbed hold of my cheeksand pressed her forehead to mine.“Promise me, Ruth. My sweet, wise, quiet storm. Nomatter what happens. Promise me you’ll write this moment.”Self-conscious about morning breath, I attempted topull away but she wouldn’t allow it. “I stink,” I told her.“I don’t care,” she replied, almost angrily. “Promise me.Do it right now.”“Of course I’ll write,” I said, trying not to blow badbreath into her beautiful face. “I can’t help but to—. . .”

 

 

“No,” she interrupted sternly. “Promise you’ll write ithonest. Even the horrible parts. Just like Harriet did. Promiseme.”“I promise.”And she let me go.We heard the garage door lift and close. “He actually leftme this time,” she said, springing to her feet. “Guess I’ll haveto walk. Bye, Love.”“Wait,” I said. “Who’s Harriet?”She winked in response.That’s the last time I ever saw my stunning live wire ofa big sister.

 

 

 

1 

 

“Ready for this?” Dad asked across our thick

wooden dining table. “You don’t have to go to school.”I couldn’t think of anything to say in response. Instead, Istared at the extra-large stockpot of cheese and veggie eggs.He’d perfected them, because that was his way of dealingwith things.I checked his clean-shaven face. He’d perfected that, too.In the days after Virginia, constant YouTube videos blastedfrom his bathroom on how to get rid of his beard. He’dgrown it long and scraggly before and I’d liked it. Cou-pled with his red-rimmed glasses and neat sweater vest, helooked like the African American history professor thathe was. Ever since that horrible day, he’d gotten rid of the scraggle and hung the sweater in the back of the closet,exchanging it for pressed suits.Now, he looked like a banker.“You don’t have to speak if you don’t want to,” he saidbefore getting back up to stir the eggs. “They’re gettingclumpy just sitting here.”For the sixth time since we’d sat down, he began whip-ping the nonexistent lumps away.“More OJ?”He bounced up. I shook my head and kept quiet. I’dbegun counting my daily words again. It wasn’t quite sevenin the morning and I’d said none so far. I don’t know why Iwas doing it. Maybe I was saving them for a larger momentto release all at once.Dad sat back down for exactly four seconds, hummed atune, and jumped back up. Polar opposite of me, he hatedstillness and silence with a passion.“Do you hear the baby crying?” he asked, chuggingextra-hot coffee without flinching. “I think I do.”He took off, leaving me alone with the eggs and the OJthat I didn’t ask for.Virginia had been his favorite, but I couldn’t blamehim. Virginia was everyone’s favorite. She knew what tosay. Always. She didn’t overthink it. Empathy flowed directlyfrom her heart and through her lips without taking anystops on the way. Virginia and Dad especially, their soulsmatched. Orange and blue. Yellow and purple. Red and green. Complementary. He and I, on the other hand, well,we were different.He sprang back into the room holding Melody, my one- year-old sister. She was more like me than anyone in theworld. Another quiet storm on the horizon. I smiled at herand she smiled back.“Ruuuuu!” She reached and leaned for me and I took her.I wanted to tell her good job for getting my name righton the first try, but I didn’t want to waste words. Melodyhad started accidentally calling me other names. She’d stut-ter through Virginia and Ruuu and Mama and Dada untilshe’d finally give up and go quiet like me. Melody’s smilenever lasted all that long anymore, either. That morning,she sat in my lap, calmly and deliberately picking apart myplate of eggs with her fingers and frowning.She missed our mom.“Your mother should be home next weekend,” Dad said,sensing it, too. “Senate recess is coming up soon. Hopefully.”He added

hopefully

 to the end because the last threerecesses had been canceled. The nation was coming apart, somy mother had stationed herself in Washington, DC, to helpput it back together. I saw her face every night on the news.She rotated now from MSNBC to CNN and sometimeseven FOX. I was proud that my mom had steel balls enoughto raise her voice on the network’s highest-rated eveningshow,

Todd and Tracy Talk About the Day

. She was a badass. Dadwas a badass. And somehow they had a coward like me.

 

“Sure you’re ready for this?” Dad asked again. “Everyonewill . . . The school knows that . . . It might be . . .”I nodded and got up from my chair.“You’ll drop off Melody, then?” he asked with both sym-pathy and pleading in his eyes.He looked so much like Virginia when he did that. Theyshared the crooked worry-wrinkle just above their leftbrow and a frown dimple on the right cheek. His was vis-ible again, now that he looked like a banker with no beard.It was both beautiful and heartbreaking.I hoisted Melody into a wrapped scarf I used as a slingand made my way downstairs. Melody’s day care was a blockaway from my school, and both were walking distance fromour apartment building. Before leaving, Melody forced herhead back to lock concerned eyes with me.“Virgin . . . Mama . . . Dada . . .” Melody sputtered herway toward my name. She gave up just before she reached itand hung her head on my chest in frustration.Ten years ago, my parents moved us into downtownBirmingham. It’d been a ghost town back then—all emptybuildings and blight. Everyone told them it was a horribleidea to buy a whole building downtown. I remember sittingaround the Thanksgiving table, listening to aunts and unclesand friends say they were making a mistake. But my parentswere stubborn, as most brilliant people are.With two small children in tow, they sold the cookie-cutter cul-de-sac monstrosity and bought the brick shell of what used to be a radio repair shop with two apartmentsabove it. Virginia and I thought it was an adventure. Run-ning loops around the dusty concrete. Up and down ricketystaircases that were probably not safe. We loved it and so didour parents.Most parents might have fought constantly in such chaos,but mine were never more in love than they were back then.Building something together—a family, a home, a life unique.We all were. Now, ten years later, Melody and I walked thestreet that used to be empty buildings and homeless tents,past quaint coffee shops, lofts, and law firms. Gentrified.Our building alone was now worth at least a couple mil-lion dollars. But our happy family broke. Mom ran away toWashington. Dad looked like a banker. And Virginia, well,Virginia . . .As I walked the newly power-washed sidewalks, itoccurred to me just how long it’d been since I’d left mybuilding. Time got away from me sometimes, especially now.Approaching Melody’s day care, I spotted a nearly faded

BLACK

 

LIVES

 

MATTER

 sign crooked in the front window.When I opened the door, everyone inside stopped andstared at us. No one knew what to say, and none of themwanted to be the first to say the wrong thing. Silent gloomcame over the place.Feeling pressure to help them feel comfortable, I spokemy first word in days. “Hi,” I said, and they all said it back.Melody remained silent, and I wondered if it was a good idea to leave her there. This was a fishbowl and she was thefish to be gawked at. But I had no choice; I couldn’t takeher to school with me. I signed my name and tucked her inat a table of staring one- year-olds. It seemed that even theyknew she was the sister of the girl who had died.It took me less than six minutes to reach the front doorsof my high school. I’d never been noticed there before andhad no desire to be seen. Actually, I rather enjoyed mak-ing my way through hallways unacknowledged. Or if I was,only as the kid sister of beautiful, charismatic Virginia.They all knew me now.Snaking through the halls, every one of them looked andweren’t nearly as cautious as the day care staff.“There she is!”“Ruth! Ruth! Saw your mom on the news! Your dad,too!”“That’s her! That the sister!”The sister, someone had said. That’s the sister.Insensitive fucking morons. I didn’t even make it to firstperiod. Eight minutes later, I was back at Melody’s day careto sign her out. She dug her nails into my arm the entirewalk home and squealed with joy when I opened the frontdoor.She waddled to her room, surely to find her beloved QaiQai doll, and I noticed a single letter had been droppedthrough the mail slot. Well, not a letter in the traditionalsense. It looked more like an old-timey scroll with a black wax closure marked with an H. I picked it up to find myname handwritten on the side of the beige parchment.And underneath my name, the golden seal with a loopy

S 

 in the center surrounded by the blocky-type words—

WE

 

ARE

 

THE

 

SCRIBES

.

I opened it.