go brush your hair

Salem was born a du Bois—a middle child, which already says enough. Just there, simmering somewhere in the middle, chronically overlooked, never quite loud enough to be a problem or good enough to be a pride. For some reason, she could never quite connect with her siblings, either. If you asked her, she would tell you they were always busy, buried in projects, parties, and people. There was never enough time for her. Or at least that’s how she remembered it. Maybe it only happened once or twice. Maybe someone forgot a recital or brushed her off at dinner. But Salem decided it was a pattern. She needed it to be one. It made the quiet, slow-growing resentment feel justified.

She figured early on that attention was currency. Naturally, she chased it, through achievement, then rebellion, then whatever brand of “different” would finally get her noticed. And when that didn’t work, she tried being good—like capital-G Good. Morally upright. Principled. She thought maybe if she poured herself into some grand cause, if she cared too much, someone would finally notice.

Her parents weren’t cruel. They weren’t even absent. They just weren’t enough for Salem. And “not enough” is a hard thing to accuse someone of. It sounds ungrateful. What would you do when you didn't want to sound like a brat? You'd turn your resentment into an ideology instead. Some called it activism. Sometimes it was. Other times it was boredom. Or loneliness. Or a very specific brand of rage that came from watching everyone in your family be worshipped for being morally questionable, while you got scolded for being a little too idealistic at dinner.

She told herself she was different from them. That she actually cared without resorting to any cruelty. About the city, the legacy, the truth. And yet, Salem still showed up at every gala. Still wore the name like armor. Still liked being photographed just enough to hate herself for it later. It was always like this: two versions of her running parallel. The one who wanted to burn it all down. And the one who still wanted a seat at the table.

By her early 20s, she’d already become a headache. Not in the dramatic, arrest-worthy way. Not like the cousins who lit fires just to watch their names blaze through the headlines. Salem’s sabotage was quieter, pettier. A leaked memo here. A strategically timed smear campaign there.

Whatever happened next—no one really says. Not aloud at least. There was no scandal on record, no dramatic fallout. Just absence. One day she was there, and the next? Gone. Exiled. Not a full-blown disownment—please, the du Bois would never be that cruel. But a soft erase. The PR equivalent of a sigh.

They cut her off financially (well, sort of.. Is it really a cut-off when you’re just not allowed to max your credit cards anymore?). Mid-purchase, if the rumors are true. One minute, she was buying some obscenely expensive art piece out of spite (something red and upsetting and supposedly brutalist), the next her card declined. Your credit card is declined. Just like that, legacy revoked.

She stayed gone for a while. At first, she liked it. Romanticized it, even. A girl without a legacy. No name, no safety net. Grocery lists instead of press briefings. Landlords instead of lawyers. She got a job. Paid rent. Took the subway. Learned how to pretend she wasn’t above it all. It was fun for a while. And slowly, Salem started to understand what the family had always tried to explain: The world isn’t run by the most righteous. It’s run by whoever can afford the microphone.

Life outside the du Bois orbit was humbling in all the worst ways: bureaucratic, indifferent, and underpaid. But it taught her something her siblings never had to learn, how to move without a surname to open doors. Somewhere between freelancing crisis comms and ghostwriting apologies for minor celebrities, it clicked: image was everything.

She didn’t set out to become a political image consultant. It just… happened. Like most things in her life post-exile: mildly unethical, wildly effective, and somehow always her idea in the end. At first, it felt opportunistic. A little gross. But also kind of genius. It let her keep playing morality police with a power complex. Once she had a name of her own—a reputation she built without the du Bois support—she decided to come back home. Not crawling, not failed. Just to prove a point. That she could survive on her own. That she was still the smartest person in the room.