I turn to her, and I can tell by the way her brow furrows that I do not look okay. I incline my head, indicating the direction she should look. I can’t bring myself to look again, but I watch her eyes sweep the rows behind us and I see surprise, followed quickly by anxiety flit across her face.
“Oh my God!” she says.
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Your brother is sitting with Mustapha.”
“I know.”
“They’re chatting. And laughing!”
“I know.”
She takes a deep breath and pastes an unconvincing smile on her face. “Look on the bright side,” she chirps.
“Bright side?”
“It’s taken your mind off …” She hesitates, obviously reluctant to voice my fears. “It’s just that now you’re not dwelling on, well, you know,” she finishes lamely.
“Getting hacked to death?” I ask. “I guess it’s true that being trapped in a theater with five hundred other kids while angry mobs march the streets demanding our executions is scarier than my brother getting chummy with the guy who keeps embarrassing me.”
“Exactly!” she enthuses. “I knew you could put a positive spin on this!”
She turns back to Casey, who’s been watching us curiously. No doubt this will be another thing they’ll discuss behind my back.
“You okay, Casey?” asks Angie, looking her sister over like she might be oozing blood somewhere.
“Sure,” says her mini-me in a voice that manages to be brave and plaintive at the same time. “But it’s only the first week of school. I thought we might at least get through a week without one of these stupid lockdowns.” She sighs dramatically, which I find reassuring. She’s obviously more bored than scared.
Angie gives her a hug. “I’m sitting right back there,” she says, pointing to our seats. “So come get me if you need anything.”
“Stop worrying about me,” says Casey, even though she was totally begging for it. “She’s like the worst worrier,” she explains, grinning affectionately at her sister.
Angie throws her arm across my shoulders, which – given the short time we’ve know each other – should make me uncomfortable, but instead it gives me an embarrassing glowy feeling, and, awkwardly attached, we continue down, pausing at Mandy’s row. She’s at the opposite end from where we’re standing, so we agree to continue down to the kindergartners first and loop around to the outside aisle. When we reach the front row, a tiny girl leaps out of her seat and hurls herself in our direction. Angie drops to her knees and catches her just in time to prevent a painful landing. She settles back on her haunches and pulls her sister onto her lap.
“Penny, this is Emma,” she says. “Remember I told you about her?”
The little girl looks up at me with huge eyes. “Are you still lonely?” she asks, playing with a lock of her sister’s hair.
So I guess I have some idea of what Angie’s been saying. I stare back at her sister.
“How can she be lonely?” jokes Angie. “She’s got me, doesn’t she?”
Her sister nods solemnly and continues twisting Angie’s hair around her finger. I notice her own hair is neatly braided, complete with plaid ribbons that match her jumper.
“When can we go home?” Penny sighs.
“Pretty boring, huh?” says Angie.
Penny nods and burrows her head into Angie’s chest.
“It may be awhile,” says Angie gently, wrapping her arms around her sister and giving her a squeeze.
“She needs to take her seat,” says a teacher.
Angie nods and rises, pulling her sister to her feet. Taking Penny’s hand, she walks her back to where she was seated and makes sure Penny knows where we’re sitting. I wonder what good it will do either of them to know where their sister is when religious extremists burst through the door armed with machetes and blind hatred, yet they both look happier than when we arrived.
I walk to the center of the theater, directly in front of Mandy but several rows below her. She’s still staring fixedly ahead, not taking part in the whispering and giggling around her.
“She looks scared,” says Angie, coming to stand next to me.
“Maybe,” I say, hoping she’s wrong. As useless as I may be at friendship advice, I know even less how to cope with violent extremists. “What do I say to her?”
“You don’t really need to say anything,” says Angie. “But you can tell her there’s nothing to worry about.”
“But I don’t know if that’s true.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“She’s been lied to enough.” I give Angie a meaningful look. She looks back at me.
“It’s not a lie if you make it true. She has you to protect her.”
I consider telling Angie I’m no one’s hope for salvation. I couldn’t even protect our family from a five-foot-nothing Filipina maid with an infectious laugh and a gift for mimicry.
“All right,” I say. “I’ll do my best.”
Together we walk up the stairs. Mandy looks surprised to see me standing at the end of her row, but there’s another emotion as well that I can’t quite read. Relief?
She pops up immediately and begins pushing out of her row, completely ignoring her teacher’s insistence that she sit down.
“It’s my sister!” Mandy says, and even at a distance, I can hear the pride in her voice.
Reaching the end of the row, Mandy launches herself at me, clutching me in a bear hug that is totally not the way we behave in public, or anywhere else for that matter. Other than Dad, who was big on hugs, we’re more of a friendly squeeze kind of family. I look around to see who might be watching, but the only eye that I catch is Angie’s. She smiles encouragingly.
“What’s going on?” Mandy burbles. “Why are they keeping us here? I want to go home. Is someone going to kill us? When can we go home?”
I can’t think of a single thing to say, so I pat her back for a minute, just like Dad would. I expect her to push me away, knowing like I do the treachery that cloaks itself in affection, but she just clings harder, and so we stand there for an eternity, arms around each other. Like morons.
“Hey, Mandy,” says Angie, crouching down to reach eye level. “How’s it going?”
“I’m scared,” says Mandy, breathing heavily against my belly. I suddenly feel dampness and realize she’s crying. She burrows her face more deeply into me as I angle her away from her classmates so they don’t see. The last thing she needs is a reputation as a crybaby.
I look over her head at Angie, hoping she’s got some words of comfort, because I’m still trying to quell my own visions of machete-wielding jihadists bursting through the doors.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” says Angie. “This happens a lot. You’ll get used to it.”
Mandy pulls away from me and turns to Angie, shamelessly exposing her tearstained face to the entire third grade. “Why does this happen?”
“There are people here who are very poor and unhappy. They want someone to blame for their troubles,” Angie recites smoothly.
“Do they blame us?” asks Mandy.
I know the answer, but I find myself waiting to hear what Angie will say.
“Some do,” she says. “But most don’t, and that’s what you have to remember. Most people you meet here are kind and want to live peacefully, just like us.”
Mandy nods her head slowly, mulling this over, while I give Angie a grateful look – and not just for the explanation. I know I’m not a great sister, but she makes me feel like maybe there’s hope.
Mandy’s teacher demands she return to her seat, but it’s several more minutes before I can convince Mandy to let go of me. The truth is, I take my time. It’s comforting having her hot sweaty arms wrapped around me. If a bloodthirsty mob bursts through the doors right at this moment, I’m exactly where I want to be.
CHAPTER 16
Angie and I take our seats next to Leela and Tahira and, for the next hour, listen to every
minute detail of Tahira’s brother’s upcoming nuptials. Since Tahira’s future sister-in-law is also her cousin, she’s involved in planning for the bride as well as the groom. I’ve pretty much tuned out by the time she gets to the number of rubies in her cousin’s bindya, but I rally briefly when she and Leela get into a heated debate over offsetting the rubies with crystals rather than diamonds. Leela’s indignant on the bride’s behalf. She’s unmoved by the fourteen individually selected rubies, and there’s a tense moment when Tahira accuses Leela of being a snob.
Angie changes the subject, asking Leela what a bindya is, and while Leela struggles briefly with her desire to maintain an outraged silence, her innate helpfulness gets the better of her. She not only explains the bindya, but she prattles on about jhoomers – nose gems, necklaces, earrings, bangles, and various other optional gems and attachments. I’m pretty sure there are less ornaments on a Christmas tree, but I keep that thought to myself.
Two hours into the lockdown, the AC goes off. Despite the fact that there’s too much noise to hear the hum of machinery, everyone in the theater knows the instant it shuts down. When the superintendent takes the stage, he doesn’t even have to tell us to be quiet. We’re waiting for an explanation.
“It’s on a timer,” he says calmly. He flinches a bit when he admits it shuts off automatically at the end of the school day. He doesn’t want us to notice that the end of the school day has passed and we should be at home enjoying our freedom. His concern about enlightening us is wasted. There’s not a kid in the room who doesn’t know we should’ve been on the vans forty minutes ago. He promises he’s already dispatched engineers to restore the AC and tells us for the millionth time that there’s nothing to worry about.
Thirty minutes later, still no AC, and some workers, possibly the engineers, open the doors at the back of the theater. This turns out to be a mistake. As the stifling air from outside mixes with the oppressive heat inside, we all share a sudden revelation that the theater is actually cooler than the outdoor temperature. There’s some confusion as a couple of teachers jump up to shut the doors, and a couple more argue that it’s too late, we’ve already lost the last bit of climate-controlled air, so we may as well get some fresh air. A debate ensues as science teachers square off against humanities teachers. Voices are raised, but most kids are so hot and fed up they don’t bother to watch. Finally, the superintendent steps in and the doors are closed again – “Security,” he says. I wondered when that would occur to someone. I guess that’s why he’s the big boss.
Another thirty minutes crawl by. Tahira stopped entertaining us with her stories some time ago, but I only now realize she’s stopped talking. She’s halfheartedly fanning one side of her flushed face with a notebook while Leela, who has materialized an actual fan, is briskly fanning the other.
“She’s feeling faint,” Leela explains when I catch her eye.
“We should take her to the bathroom,” says Angie. “Wet some paper towel and cool her down.”
We all jump up, Leela helping Tahira.
“Sit down!” barks the nearest teacher, who is an alarming shade of burgundy herself and looks like she should be joining us.
“We need to take her to the bathroom,” explains Leela. “She’s sick.”
“One of you can go with her,” says the teacher, sweat pouring down her face from the exertion of bossing us around.
I think of arguing, but Angie is already wilting back into her seat, so I sit down and move my legs to allow Tahira and Leela to squeeze past. Angie and I sit in silence. A few rows down, Jazzy’s conversation with Johan has also withered. She’s no longer leaning into him with predatory intent. In fact, she’s slumped away from him. Perhaps the inadvisability of going after a guy when you smell like a sewer has finally dawned on her, though he’d have no way of identifying her stench above everyone else’s. I shake my watch, even though I know it’s working perfectly, and look at Angie, uncharacteristically quiet beside me. Her eyes are closed and her head has fallen awkwardly to one side.
Gently, I try to rearrange her head so it rests on the seatback. I’m amazed she doesn’t wake up, and all of a sudden, I’m flooded with memories of the Philippines. After long days of picnics at the beach or hiking in the hills, Mandy would fall asleep on the car ride home, and Dad would carry her into the house without waking her. I’d always run ahead, opening doors, and I’d pull off her shoes as Dad would gently lay her on the bed. Then we’d go downstairs, where Zenny would have cold drinks and some fresh baked snacks waiting. Vince would race off to the TV room, but Dad and I would sit in the garden, under the long shadows of the palms, until dusk turned into night.
Where was Mom? Why did she so rarely come with us? Was work really so pressing that she couldn’t spend an afternoon with her family, couldn’t even be there when we got home? I wonder if Dad and Zenny go on outings now. Does he think of us when they’re driving home, when he enters their house empty-handed? Do they sit in the garden as night falls and relive the casual moments of their day, not realizing how precious each one is? The familiar ache begins in the pit of my stomach and I feel tears gathering, but my wallowing in self-pity is short-circuited by another commotion at the back of the theater. I turn to see Leela arguing fiercely with a teacher.
“She needs air,” Leela insists as she tries to shoulder past two burly PE teachers, half-carrying Tahira.
I jump to my feet. Angie, suddenly alert, is at my side as we hustle out of the row, ignoring the irate commands of several teachers who tell us to sit back down. Faarooq, Mustapha, and a boy I take to be another of Tahira’s brothers beat us to the back of the theater. My brother is no longer in sight. Faarooq has taken Tahira’s arm and is trying to pull her out of Leela’s grasp, but with more strength than she looks capable of, Tahira is gripping Leela’s free hand. The teachers look worried and determined at the same time as they block the doorway.
“We’ve sent someone to get the nurse,” says the older of the two teachers. “You all need to calm down.”
“I think I’m going to faint,” says Tahira seconds before she slumps against Leela, almost knocking her to the ground. Leela relinquishes her grip as Faarooq eases his sister to the floor, but Leela drops to the ground and it’s her lap Faarooq rests his sister’s head on.
“I think you need to elevate her feet,” I say, suddenly noticing Aisha lurking just behind Mustapha. Her bored expression transforms instantly into contempt.
“What do you know about it?” she challenges.
The nurse arrives before we can get any further and presses a bag of ice to Tahira’s forehead.
“Put her head on the ground and lift her feet,” she instructs Faarooq.
Aisha snorts in irritation, but I’m too busy watching Tahira for signs of life to enjoy my victory.
Tahira’s eyes flutter open.
“We need to cool her down,” says the nurse.
“We could put her in our car with the AC on,” suggests Faarooq.
The nurse nods in agreement, and Mustapha moves in to help Faarooq lift Tahira.
“I’m okay,” she mumbles, her already-red face turning several shades darker.
“Do you think we could get her home safely?” Faarooq asks Mustapha, ignoring the teachers who, like me, are all foreigners.
“Let’s see how she feels when she’s had a chance to cool down a bit.”
One of the teachers who was formerly barring the exit starts to say something but thinks better of it. For the first time, I realize they’re as ill equipped to deal with the jihadists as I am. Sweat beads on my forehead as I start to feel queasy myself.
As a hand slips into my own, I jump. “It’s going to be okay, Emma,” says Leela, giving my hand a soft squeeze. “All these badmaash will get hungry soon and go home for their dinners. You’ll see. We’ll be out of here in no time.”
Faarooq and Mustapha half-carry Tahira as they make their way to the door, with Leela right behind. I’m annoyed to see Aisha following as wel
l but don’t even bother trying to make my own escape. The PE teachers are still on either side of the open doorway, and I don’t have to be told that they would never let me get past them. The double standard feels both unjust and reasonable. As if they’re reading my mind, they shut the door firmly behind Tahira’s entourage and move to stand in front of it again. Behind us, the microphone crackles from the stage, and I turn to see the superintendent waiting patiently for silence. I expect another excuse about the air-conditioning.
“I’ve been informed that the demonstrations are breaking up,” he begins, but he gets no further because raucous cheers drown out his speech. Over the chaos, it’s just possible to hear him instructing us to let the lower grades exit the theater first, but the upper schoolers are already halfway to the doors, and I think even he realizes it’s safer to get the big bodies out of the way so they don’t trample the little ones.
As much as I’m dying to get outside, I wait at the back of the theater for my sister. I’m watching the exiting tides, which is why I don’t notice Mustapha until he’s right beside me.
“What are you doing back in here?” I demand, sounding more indignant than intended.
He looks startled but quickly recovers. “I came back to see you,” he says smoothly.
“Is Tahira okay?”
“She’s fine. They’ve left for home already.” He pauses, which gives me enough time to think I may not want to hear what he has to say next. “It’s a shame we missed our class today.”
Nothing to worry about after all. He’s just making idle conversation.
“Yes, it’s very disappointing,” I say, infusing my voice with so much regret you’d think I planned a career in the theater.
“Lucky we’d already arranged to meet at my house tomorrow,” he continues cheerfully.
My heartbeat suddenly kicks into overdrive, and my mouth goes dry. I know we’ve already established I’m not going to his house tomorrow. So why is he grinning?
“I’m sorry,” I say warily. “As I said before, I’m grounded and I can’t get my mom on the phone.”
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