Tell Me How You Really Feel

by Aminah Mae Safi

  Rachel didn’t want to click. Didn’t want to know if she’d been wrong all that time. If she had pinned all her hopes and dreams on a future that she had only imagined and would never be realized.

  Rachel took a deep breath. She thought about what Sana would say. “Come on, Rachel. Let’s go. Just do it.”

  Sana was always saying that. Come on. Let’s go.

  Rachel had to face it eventually. One more deep breath. And she clicked.

  She’d gotten it.

  Rachel was going to get out of LA for at least the next four years. Study film and art in a city that cared about film and art and not only how pretty all the people you cast were and how bankable they were in terms of box office results. Rachel had lived in LA long enough to know the business of film.

  NYU had given her enough scholarship money—not something they were particularly known for. Relief flooded through Rachel, practically from the ends of her hair to the soles of her feet. She’d done it. She’d said she could do it and she’d known she could do it and she’d believed she could do it. And here it was. Proof.

  Rachel Consuela Recht had done what she set out to do. She’d gotten into film school and was going to NYU, virtually for free.

  Rachel screamed into a pillow so she didn’t freak out a neighbor. She needed to release the energy vibrating through her. She got up, went back to her computer, and switched to her editing software. A cold, icy dread unexpectedly wrapped around her stomach.

  She had something to lose now. Not just the theory of something. Not just the dream of something. The reality of something that she’d worked toward for years. It was the potential to lose that reality that made the roaring sound in her ears and the whooshing sound of her dreams float away. It was the knowledge that if she screwed up this film, if she didn’t get it in on time, Douga could write to NYU. Pull strings. Maybe not pull her admission, but pull the scholarship that Rachel needed in order to be able to work as a PA on a crappy salary those first few years out of school.

  Rachel sat down on her bed. She didn’t know how any of this was going to turn out okay. She had to choose. Between love and money. Between her future dreams and getting this film out the door.

  Rachel closed her laptop.

  Fucking Sana.

  Sana

  When Sana walked into the living room, she did not expect her mom to be sitting there, coffee in hand, waiting.

  “Good, you’re up.” Farrah took a sip of her coffee. She was using a mug that said A WOMAN’S PLACE IS IN THE HOUSE AND SENATE, which normally Sana loved. Today the mug looked ominous and foreboding.

  Mom only used that mug when she needed to face something truly heinous. Mom usually used the mug when she had meetings with producers and people directly from the studios. Except today, Sana had a suspicion that the truly heinous thing was her.

  Sana went to the coffee maker. She was going to pour her own mug of coffee if she had to approach Mom while she was in this kind of mood.

  Farrah didn’t interrupt the coffee-making process either. She just sat there, sipping from her threatening feminist mug, and stared. She was waiting.

  Farrah could outwait anyone. She was just like Mamani.

  Sana took her mug of coffee and sat on the couch, a foot over from Mom. She angled her body toward her mom and sat upright. She took tiny, slurping sips. Her mug said Don’t Fuck With Me, Fellas and had a drawing of Joan Crawford on it.

  They both sat there, sitting on the cold couch that the sunshine hadn’t warmed up yet, facing each other but not looking directly at each other, waiting for the other to speak. The classical music that Farrah put on in the background was tinkling away in the kitchen.

  It wasn’t soothing.

  Farrah opened her laptop. It had been sitting on the coffee table in front of them. She clicked through and opened up a call.

  It rang twice before Sana realized the laptop was dialing out to Dadu and Mamani.

  “Are you kidding me?” Sana set her coffee down so hard on the table that it sloshed.

  “I can’t handle you anymore.” Farrah calmly took a sip of her coffee.

  On the fourth ring—before Sana could respond—Dadu picked up and his face popped up across the screen. “What is it, beti?”

  “Hi to you too, Baba.” Farrah waved at him, still holding her coffee mug in the other hand.

  Mamani picked up next. Her face took up the other half of the screen. “What’s wrong, maman-jaan? Che daste gol be âb dâdi? Are you in trouble?”

  “You know,” said Farrah, a touch of annoyance in her voice, “I’m not always the one that’s in trouble.”

  Mamani snorted. “You’re usually the one that throws the flowers into the water.”

  It was Farrah’s turn to angrily set down her mug on the table and slosh coffee. “Don’t blame me. Your precious granddaughter hasn’t put down her deposit for Princeton. And she only has six days left.”

  Mamani and Dadu began shouting in unison. Sana couldn’t make it out for a minute.

  “What is this?”

  “Why would you do this?”

  “Why are you doing this to us?”

  “Log kya kahenge?”

  “Yes, what would people think?”

  It was an unending barrage and it was, languages aside, difficult to tell who was even saying what. Mamani and Dadu spoke multiple languages each. Mamani with her French and her Farsi, her Bengali and her Urdu. Dadu with his Urdu and his own Bengali and his Arabic.

  Sana was done with it all. “I DON’T CARE WHAT PEOPLE THINK.”

  The voices on the other side of the computer went silent. Mamani and Dadu stared silently from their positions on the screen.

  “I don’t care what people think,” said Sana. “I can’t care anymore. I’ve been caring for so long. I haven’t screwed up since I was eight years old. I can’t breathe anymore. I can’t put down a deposit on my dream school. I don’t even know if it is my dream school.”

  “Poti, this is American nonsense. There is no dream school. You go to the best school you get into.” Dadu nodded as he spoke.

  Mamani tsked and waved her hand like she was pushing the screen away. “Tell her, mama. This idea of dreams is nonsense.”

  Farrah put her head into her hands. “I don’t think dreams are nonsense. I need you to talk sense into her. Not yell at her for her beliefs.”

  “We can yell at her for her beliefs if her beliefs are wrong!” Dadu’s voice warbled and warped through the laptop speakers, so it was less like he was shouting and more like there was static interference with what he was saying.

  “You can’t make me turn in my deposit!” said Sana.

  “We’re family. We can send it in for you.” Mamani nodded.

  “I’m eighteen.” Sana was shouting back now, a first for her. She’d never even shouted at her mother before this week and now she was yelling at her grandparents. She’d never felt more like she had entered a circle of hell before than in this moment.

  “This is a ridiculous argument, poti.” This was Dadu.

  Sana clenched her jaw. She was going to go around and around in circles with her grandparents at this rate. They would never see eye to eye on this.

  The only bright side was that Farrah had a look on her face like she was regretting this call as much as Sana was. Good. At least someone else was suffering alongside Sana.

  “Poti, tell me why you can’t answer me?” Dadu was looking at Sana.

  “This is just a phase,” said Mamani so definitively. “Send her here. She can miss a little school. She is already into Princeton. We can help.”

  This was it, then. This was as close as Sana would ever get to being sent back to the old country for misbehaving. And all she’d done was not put down a deposit. She felt herself starting to dissolve, where the edges of her were starting to disappear, beginning to break into pieces that were ready to fade into the wind and become nothing at all.

  “No,” said Farrah.

  Sana looked at h
er mom, feeling hope for the first time in the whole conversation.

  “I’m not sending her to you. And that’s final.” Farrah shook her head.

  “But, beti—” but neither Sana nor Farrah got to hear the end of whatever Dadu was going to say, because Farrah closed the laptop before he could finish.

  Farrah folded over herself for a moment, her head in her hands. Then she sat up, composed herself, found her posture again. She stood up. “You’ve still got school.”

  Farrah left the room without looking at Sana.

  And that’s when Sana knew she’d broken her mother’s heart.

  25

  Nobody Expects the Spanish Inquisition

  Rachel

  The Santa Anas were blowing today.

  Rachel hated admitting she was a romantic about anything, really. But there was something about the Santa Anas. The winds swept through Southern California September through May, but they were the most notable when they could really kick up some dust and destruction during wildfire season. They should have been almost over by now. The rain should have wiped them out entirely. But these were the Santa Anas.

  Anything was possible.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Yes?” Rachel didn’t turn around. This entire project was turning into a nightmare. Her future was a nightmare. She’d gone over from the beginning like Ryan had suggested. Like Ryan had suggested that she had suggested. It made it all worse. Rachel ended up doubling down on Douga’s notes. Doubling down on her future in film rather than her precarious future with Sana. They were both leaving for college soon, anyway.

  And Sana was maybe leaving for India.

  There was that knock at the door again.

  Please don’t be Sana.

  Rachel didn’t want Sana to see this version of the film. It was cut so that Helen was back to a two-dimensional, Hollywood-standard beautiful woman. It was exactly the kind of role that had been tossed haphazardly at Rachel’s mother. It made Helen of Troy look like beautiful garbage. It made the entire film beautiful garbage.

  Sana walked in, the door shutting it behind her. “Oh good, you’re here. I brought A Little Romance.”

  “Why would you do that?” Rachel didn’t turn around. She couldn’t face Sana. Not after she’d finished editing this film the way she had.

  Hesitation entered Sana’s voice, but none of her words faltered when she spoke. “I thought I’d swing by the editing bay and we could watch it. Together.”

  “I’m editing.” But Rachel wasn’t, not really. She was adding the final touches. The film was basically done at this point.

  “Oh. Can I see it?” Sana’s voice came out small and distant.

  Rachel turned around and saw Sana standing there, her face twisted in confusion. “I don’t know. It’s not in a great spot.”

  Sana’s face slanted into a little, subtle frown. Rachel might not have noticed it if she weren’t looking for it, but she always seemed to be noticing Sana, looking at her, trying to understand what was going on underneath the surface. Because if the last several days had taught Rachel anything, it was that Sana had an entire reel of subtext going on below the surface. She was like some series of rewrites and postproduction shoots where most people only saw the final, polished picture. The one the studio okayed for the world to see. Rachel preferred the part that hadn’t been okayed for release. Not even a director’s cut. The rough cut. The raw footage. She wanted to see all of it, know all of it.

  The impossible. That’s what Rachel wanted. The kind of thing that only happened in movies. The kind of thing that could never happen once Sana saw this cut.

  Sana looked over Rachel’s shoulder. “Oh! That’s my favorite scene.”

  “Wait!” shouted Rachel.

  But she hadn’t been quick enough.

  Sana reached over Rachel’s shoulder and hit the space bar easily. She’d been built for stealth and speed, and despite her injuries, she was still quick.

  Rachel watched Sana watch the edited scene.

  Sana looked over again, from the screen, a strange light in her eyes. “You changed it.”

  Sana paused, unsure of what to say next. No, not unsure of what—Sana was unsure of how to say what she was saying next. Rachel was learning to read Sana like learning to dial in a camera. Rachel needed the right settings, the right lighting, with Sana. But clarity wasn’t impossible.

  “I did,” said Rachel.

  “Why did you change it?”

  There were so many ways that Rachel could have answered that question. Because I had to. Because I had no choice. Because there was no other way. But Rachel knew those were lies. She had a choice. She’d just picked the option that made sure her bright and shining future in film stayed intact. Directors had to make these kinds of choices all the time. “Douga gave me notes. It’s stronger this way.”

  “Is it?” Sana set her hand on the desk, like she needed help propping herself up.

  Rachel had to look away. She felt naked and raw and exposed. More naked than she had when they had been alone in that karaoke room.

  God, she had to not think about that. She needed, desperately, not to think about that. Anything else, really.

  “I had to do it.” Rachel pointed to the screen. It was the worst subject change in the history of subject changes. But she needed space, to think. It was difficult to breathe right now. Difficult to think. “Douga said I had to.”

  “Did you?”

  Rachel shook her head. “Do you have to keep asking questions? Can’t I get a straight response out of you?”

  “It doesn’t matter, then. That you saw Helen in a new light. All that matters is that in the end it’s a better film to go back to your original vision. You see her the same, like you always did.”

  It did matter. But Rachel didn’t dare say that out loud.

  “Tragedy is tragedy.” Rachel swallowed back the nausea climbing up her throat. There was no way this could last. She had destroyed it.

  Sana took in a deep breath. “You used me.”

  Rachel shook her head, like shaking her head would make it true. “I would never use you.”

  Sana turned, slowly, away from the screen. “I’m having a hard time taking you at your word.”

  It was like the movie had hushed itself for the conversation. It should have. Maybe that was Rachel’s brain fogging out any noise, any additional input, that wasn’t Sana’s voice, her expression.

  “No. I didn’t use you. Not intentionally.” Rachel really was going to throw up now. She was going to throw up in her own editing bay. Her one sacred space.

  “It’s okay then if it’s not intentionally, isn’t it? It’s okay to accidentally use people, right? Because if you didn’t mean it, if you only accidentally benefit from it, you can maintain the moral high ground. Right?”

  Rachel could have screamed into a void. Fallen on her knees in epic fashion with a nice slow-motion shot that circled around her and her frustration, her pain. Instead she felt her voice go cold. “And you would know that better than anyone.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You take your grandparents’ money, even when they hurt your mom. You take the education they provide, and all the strings that go along with it. You’re not any different from me. You avoid shit when it’s uncomfortable, too.”

  Sana sat up straighter. “Go to hell.”

  “Learning to swear, I see. What about keeping your good girl mouth unsullied by curse words?” Curse Sana’s swishing ponytail and Sana’s belief in this project and Sana’s big, accusing doe eyes. Everything. All of it. It was life-ruining and it was enraging and Rachel wanted to pick up one of the most expensive pieces of equipment in the lab—probably the data storage—and smash it onto the floor, just to watch something break. To watch destruction in its purest form.

  Rachel couldn’t take it anymore. She wasn’t going to sit around and let Sana get the best of her. To let Sana dump her and let her down gently so everyone knew how sweet and ki
nd she was. Let Sana tell the story so that Rachel became the villain. Rachel was done and she was done right now. “Get out.”

  Sana shook her head. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Get out. Don’t come back. I don’t want to see you again.” There, Rachel had said it. Maybe now the nausea would subside and she could stop paying such close attention to Sana and her expression and her feelings.

  But the nausea somehow intensified and Rachel was locked onto Sana’s gaze as though she were a camera clicked in for a tracking shot. She had one fixed view and one fixed point and one fixed height and it was all toward Sana.

  Sana’s eyes were shining. Not in a good way. Not in a bold way, either. In a sad, defeated sort of way. “Don’t you dare call me after this, Rachel. Don’t you dare follow me either.”

  But Rachel could only wait a beat before fleeing the premises of the lab herself. She raced outside—luckily in the opposite direction that Sana had gone. She found the first large trash can and retched into it. Rachel spat a couple of times, then wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.

  Christ.

  As she walked back to the door into the building, a palm front blew across her path.

  Fucking Santa Anas.

  It was then that Rachel remembered that anything being possible meant that lives could be destroyed, burned all the way down to ash, with a change in the wind.

  Sana

  Sana was lying across the couch.

  Sprained ankle. Broken arm. Crushed heart.

  She’d gotten there the evening before, and she was still there. She must have gotten up at some point to take off her school clothes. Must have eaten something that her mom put in front of her, but she didn’t remember it. Say Anything was on the TV; it was some kind of straight romance torture loop.