by Dona Sarkar
Talk? Now she wanted to talk? Fine, we would talk.
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t share anything with us. I don’t feel that you’re a very valuable member here.”
Ken was about to say something, but I held my hand up to stop him. This was not his fight.
“You don’t know anything about me or my resolution. Do you know what’s going on inside my head? Do you have some barometer?” I jerked my head away from her, knowing I was about to snap. “Or have you become psychic?”
She bristled. “There is no need to—”
“Then how do you know I’m not ‘moving toward acceptance’?”
“I can only assume from my past experiences with these groups,” she said in that snooty voice that made me crazy.
“Past experiences? Past experience is knowing and feeling what I or anyone else in here for that matter are going through. Past experience is not nodding and pretending to understand six grieving kids so you can check off the five stages of grief on a worksheet! We’ve all lost someone, and you’re going to have to accept that not all of us are going to get over it as quickly as you would like.”
Suddenly four pairs of eyes were watching me. I knew I’d helped them the previous week at the gazebo. I’d seen it in their eyes, and I’d known it deep down. I had to stay strong for them.
“My job is to facilitate the discussions, not relate and relay. Also, not everyone in here has lost someone, so please don’t—”
“Yes, they have,” I snapped. “Even if people have come back from the war in one piece, the person they used to be is gone. Do you even get that? Erica’s brother is not the same person he was before. She has lost him. Will she find a better, different version soon? Hopefully. But in the meantime, please do not belittle what she’s feeling!” I could feel my voice rising uncontrollably. I didn’t want to cause a scene, but I was tired of wasting my time in these group sessions if I wasn’t even allowed to talk about my feelings unless it was on some agenda.
I was finally starting to realize that yes, I had lost my father. I had no idea when he was coming back and why he was gone, but right now, he was lost to me. I wanted to talk about that, to express my sadness for as long as I wanted. I didn’t want to be told how I was “supposed” to feel by a certain week.
I felt like I was having a déjà vu moment. I’d had a conversation about this with Zayed at the tea house. He brought out a passionate argument in me about it, and I felt the same words slip out of my mouth now. “This therapy group needs a leader who can relate to our experiences of loss. You have to have gone through it! You have to understand that people take different amounts of time to heal.” I took another deep breath.
“Does everyone else feel this way too?” Stephanie stood up and glanced around the circle.
Krish raised a hand. “Sometimes, yes. I don’t feel like you really understand what we’re going through. You tend to hurry us through our discussions.”
“Then why are you here?” Stephanie snapped at her, clearly not having expected anyone to take my side. “Why are you wasting my time?”
I almost gave her a piece of my mind just then but decided to take the Zayed approach of trying to explain my point of view. “Listen, it’s not personal. It’s about empathy versus sympathy. Right now you may feel sorry for us or sympathetic or whatever, but do you really understand what we’re going through? Do you really understand that even if someone knows they need to move on, it doesn’t mean they can just do it? That acceptance isn’t one step?”
“Well, aren’t you the expert?” Stephanie didn’t take too well to my explanation. “Would you like to sit here,” she gestured toward her chair. “Would you like to lead these sessions?”
I remembered Zayed’s words. You understand what those other teenagers are going through. Because you feel a deep empathy for them. Because you “know.”
He’d taught me that we have to take chances sometimes, even though it might seem like a risk. Otherwise how do we learn anything?
I decided to take that risk.
“Maybe. Are you offering to let me try?”
Every eyebrow raised at the same time. Mutiny. That’s what I was staging here.
“Mars, I’m going to have to ask you to leave because you’re interrupting our work here.” Stephanie’s tone was cold, and I knew my time at these sessions was officially over.
“No problem.” I stood up. “I won’t be coming back. Sorry, guys.”
I breathed a deep sigh of relief after I’d stormed out of the building. Finally. I’d spoken my mind about something. I’d known it probably wouldn’t end well, but at least I’d tried.
The familiar jasmine perfume that followed me out of the building reassured me that Erica was right behind me. “I’m so proud of you,” she said as she hugged me close. “I am so, so proud of you.”
Truth be told, I was too.
* * *
“At least look at their program details. Please, Mars.” Zayed clearly was not going to give up.
I finally relented. I wasn’t going to attend the University of Michigan, so there was no harm in appeasing Zayed. He did have to understand that my mind was made up about staying close to home. Besides, I was hardly special enough to travel across the country to attend a top psychology undergraduate program. He was convinced I could perform well enough the first few years of college to qualify for the specialized, exclusive Honors Program.
Zayed and I were sitting on the roof of the College Prep building long after the last student had left, enjoying the unseasonably warm evening. I had put aside all of my thoughts about the bombing on the U campus and his interest in the news when he had mentioned nothing about it and acted completely normal during class.
He was probably just surprised that there was so much violence in Seattle. I realized I was hurt by his reaction to my proclamation of love and was choosing to suspect him of something ridiculous to make myself feel better. I had to stop making my feelings for him so obvious. I sounded desperate and silly.
Now he perched at the ledge of the roof, and I sat near the stairwell. He had that evening’s practice exams to grade, and I had yet more practice exams to power through. I felt as if my essays were improving, but Zayed didn’t share my opinion. He claimed I could do better, be more honest with my writing.
How can humans not be fearful of the mistakes of their past? We are conditioned to learn from past behavior and evolve. This is why my stance is that memories should always be important as people make decisions.
Like I should have known better than to tell Zayed that I was in love with him. I was sure he’d heard me and had freaked out. Then I had to go and kiss him. I knew it was too soon; Zayed and I had been together for such a short time. It had been in the heat of the moment, and I hadn’t meant it anyway. What did I know about love?
“You’re positive you want to stay here rather than go to my apartment?” Zayed asked for the sixth time. “You look cold.”
I was, a little bit, but was not going to admit it. Instead I pulled my scarf tighter around my neck and glanced up at the overhead light on the roof. It wasn’t the best environment, but it would do.
It had been my idea to stay at the College Prep Institute rather than the alternative of going to his place. I couldn’t think clearly when he was so close to me, smelling delicious and inviting when there was nothing stopping us from continuing what had almost happened that night.
I trembled, remembering. How I felt like I belonged with him in his world in front of the fire. Like there was no other place I wanted to be. I was scared at how easily I’d bared myself and my soul to him. I was scared at how incredible his lips had felt on my skin and how much I wanted to touch him again.
“When I get home, I’ll look up Michigan’s psychology program. Happy?” I shook the thoughts out of my head. I wouldn’t go there again. I couldn’t afford to with the next SAT exam just a week away.
“Here, please use my computer.” He n
udged his laptop in my direction.
I rubbed goose bumps off my arms as I got up and retrieved the laptop. Even being near him for a moment had disturbing effects on me. I didn’t like it one bit.
“I can start the fireplace in my apartment. It’s much more comfortable.” He glanced up over the stack of practice exams he was working through.
“Uh, I’m okay here. Besides, I need to be home early. I have a calculus exam tomorrow morning.”
“You don’t have to sit so far away from me at least.”
Yeah, I really did.
I had to give myself some time away from him. I was scaring myself with my vulnerability. I was scared I’d tell him I loved him again or touch him in a way he wasn’t ready for.
“I was scared about what happened the other night,” I said changing the subject. “The bombing at the war rally. Things like this never happen here.”
Zayed didn’t react, but he did set his lips in that thin line. I watched him. So he wasn’t as unaffected as he let on.
“This happens in Afghanistan or Pakistan or somewhere in the Middle East, right? What do these terrorists want from us? You’re studying topics like this in your class. What do you think?” I knew I was crossing a line here, but I wanted him to talk about it. I would push him if I had to.
“You have to understand that they don’t think of themselves as terrorists.” Zayed set down his pen.
I tilted my head, surprised at how certain he sounded on the topic.
“What would they think of themselves as then?”
“Insurgents. Militants. Pursuing an idealized version of their old world, perhaps?”
“How? By hurting people for attention?”
Zayed cracked the knuckles in his fingers, clearly buying time. “You can’t expect such logical thinking. People who are in desperate situations . . .”
“Desperate situations like what?”
“Terrorists, as you say, are created, not born. They are people who have nothing, are uneducated. They do not know any other way.”
They went after children, Zayed had said at dinner with Lana and Vivek. These terrorists were taught from childhood that hurting others for a specific purpose was okay.
“They want to attain the first four levels of Maslow’s Triangle, you mean.” I recalled having studied this exact concept in psychology class the previous year.
“Whose triangle?”
“Abraham Maslow. He was a researcher who studied human motivation. Maslow believed there was a hierarchy of human needs based on levels broken into two groups: deficiency needs and growth needs. He believed humans were not able to understand growth needs until all of their deficiency needs had been met.”
“Food, shelter, and such?” Zayed asked.
“Something like that. Think of being stranded on a desert island. The first thing you’d try to take care of are hunger and thirst. The second is seeking out safety and a shelter. The third is belonging and love, being accepted by others in society.” I was impressed that I remembered so much. I had thought that the topic was interesting, but it had clearly stayed with me more than I’d expected.
“And this is the level these insurgents are operating in. They will do anything to be part of a group, a community of sorts. They just want to belong. Even hurt others. They don’t understand what is right or wrong or why,” Zayed said, resting his head against the wall he was leaning on.
I understood their motivations. People did terrible things to fit in. Any high schooler would be able to understand that. I didn’t understand what people were hoping to accomplish by bringing fear into a normally peaceful city. What did we have that they wanted?
“You seem to know a lot about human motivations. This may be an excellent area for you to focus your college studies in, don’t you think?”
There he went again. He had to get over this fascination with my future.
“What do you mean, ‘human motivation’? Is that a field?”
“Human behavior or maybe child psychology. It’s the perfect entry to graduate work. Michigan also has an excellent medical school if you were to pursue the field of psychiatry. You would do exceptionally well in either.”
These topics did interest me, but I could just as easily study this field from the U. Before I’d met him, I hadn’t thought about what I would do. I did know that I didn’t have what it took to go to medical school like he was convinced I could.
I searched for the University of Michigan on Zayed’s unwieldy large laptop. I was glad I had been researching newer, sleeker laptops as a Christmas gift for Zayed. It reminded me of my plan to ask Lana if Zayed could spend Christmas with us. No matter what was going on with him, I felt an overwhelming urge to take care of him, be his family. And I couldn’t imagine a better gift that waking up on Christmas morning to find Zayed by my side.
I scrolled through the campus maps, course information, and student life details of the beautiful University of Michigan. I’d seen pictures of their majestic campus before, in glossy brochures showcasing one of the top ten loveliest college campuses in the country.
I could easily picture myself there, walking across the bustling Diag, cup of steaming espresso in one hand, Zayed’s arm in the other. He could pursue graduate studies in education while I studied psychology. We would share an apartment on the picturesque Main Street in Ann Arbor and spend our nights talking about everything over tea and lavender shortbread cookies.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have the grades, exam scores, or any other qualifications to go there, and wished Zayed would realize it. Zayed believed I could do many things that I knew I was not capable of. I hadn’t told him about quitting my therapy group or how I had stormed out.
I landed on the developmental psychology page and skimmed the course work. The entry-level courses were focused on baseline stuff like directed experiences with children and teens, and the 300- and 400-level courses focused on specialized areas; each sounded more interesting than the last.
We’d talked a lot about topics like these in both my psychology classes as well as in the therapy group. I’d always participated in those discussions. In another lifetime, I would have loved to be the girl he thought I was.
After I was done looking at the page, I opened Zayed’s list of stored bookmarks scrolled along the bottom of the screen. I was snooping but couldn’t help wanting to know the last site he’d been looking at.
I almost gasped out loud when I saw what it was.
He looked up from his practice exam stack with a questioning eyebrow.
“The campus is really nice-looking,” I said weakly.
“I knew you would appreciate it.” He smiled, incredibly striking and angelic at once. At that moment, I knew there were many things he was keeping from me. Dangerous things. I also realized that, as much as I would have liked to believe otherwise, my first instinct had been correct.
I didn’t know Zayed Anwar at all.
CHAPTER 16
The Secret
I hadn’t been in Dad’s office since I’d moved all his books into my room. This time I realized how diminutive the space was compared to the rest of the house—a narrow, dark room lined on both sides with bookshelves, now mostly deserted. A Turkish rug pulled together a burgundy wooden desk, a leather love seat, and an overhanging lamp.
I hadn’t allowed Lana to give or pack away a single item, and now I was very grateful because Dad’s presence hung so strongly in the air, I could almost close my eyes and pretend he was there. I settled into the love seat with a flannel throw to ward off the chill in the room.
I was in over my head.
All my searches on the internet for “Zayed Anwar” had resulted in absolutely nothing. Usually this wouldn’t draw much suspicion from me. He was young, a student; I’d assumed he didn’t have a website or social network page, but the content I’d found on his laptop made me rethink my nonchalance.
His bookmarked sites list read like an inventory and accomplishment list of Islamic ins
urgent groups. Suicide bombers and kidnappings in the Middle East. Bombings in Iraq, Afghanistan, and London; the most recent one was about the trash-can set on fire in Seattle in early October, the day I’d first seen him, calmly sitting in the window of Sureshot drinking coffee when there was chaos all around him.
Honestly, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. After all, he was studying Middle Eastern culture; he would need to research these kinds of topics. Then I’d found the forum he was participating in.
Jihad. Fighting for the cause of Allah. He was logged into the site, and his last message had been sent the night before, in Arabic. I told myself he was just chatting online with other people about what was going on in the world. He was just curious. The graphics of guns and other artillery told me this wasn’t just a common discussion site. The messages that kept coming through with exclamation points and inflammatory words reiterated that theme.
I wanted to believe that he wouldn’t be so stupid as to give me his laptop to use if he had incriminating information on it. His fear the night of the blackout on the roof had been genuine. He’d been afraid of something. He had to have a good excuse for what I was seeing.
The intuitive part of me that had been overactive lately told me not to just brush this off. That there was something going on here. That either Zayed knew about these threats that had been taking place in Seattle . . . or he was a part of them.
I felt my heart slam against my chest again, thinking of the moment I realized there was something more behind those soulful eyes. A secret, possibly an incredibly dangerous and treacherous one. I cursed myself again for being such a fool and putting my trust in a man whom I knew nothing about.
We’d spent the night together, become an “us.” I’d fallen in love with him and his cat, and I’d never known him at all. He knew everything. What I wanted out of the future, how I felt about him.
My dance with the mysterious dark prince was over, and I realized how silly my dreams of fairy tales and happy endings had been.
He knew so much about the bombings and insurgents. He knew so much about their motivations. How had I not seen it?