by Samira Ahmed
“Ow,” I gasp, breaking the seal of our lips and taking a half step away.
“I’m sorry? Did you not want—”
“No … I mean … yes … It’s my arm. It still hurts from, you know.”
“Crap. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I was mainly doing.” Phil glances away, and a faint red appears on his cheeks.
“I’m the blusher, remember?”
“You kinda are blushing … all over.” Phil eyes all my exposed skin, and I’m suddenly aware of how little I’m wearing.
“Oh, my God. I forgot—” I snatch my jeans and hold them to my chest. “Can you turn around?”
Phil grins but complies. “You know, I’ve actually already seen you in your underwear.”
I quickly slip into the last of my dry clothes. I quietly walk back to Phil and run my fingers from his shoulder down his arm into his hand. He closes his fingers around mine, raises my hand to his lips, and kisses my palm.
Phil moves his face closer to look into my eyes. “I’ve been wanting to do this for a very long time. But the timing … I kinda screwed that up. And your parents. I’m guessing they wouldn’t exactly approve?”
“I would pretty much be facing deportation to India.”
“Speaking of them, your mom’s frantic. We need to get you home.”
“I know, but … can’t we stay? Please help me ignore reality a little longer.”
Phil finally pulls apart from me. I shiver in the sudden cold. He walks over to the chair, takes the sleeping bag, and spreads it over the damp pine floor, then lies down. I take my spot next to him, resting my head on his outstretched arm.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he says. “But why did you come here?”
I shrug. “I didn’t have anyplace else to go. I guess it was stupid. But I couldn’t be at home anymore. I couldn’t breathe. When I woke up yesterday, my mom told me I have to stay at home and commute to school. No way. I can’t. It’s not even … Brian attacked me, and someone vandalized their office, but I’m the one facing the consequences.”
“That was Brian, too. He confessed—to everything.”
My breath catches. “What? He … how?”
“That video you took while he was harassing you was enough to show that he lied—that it was more than words, that it was assault. It pretty much saved my ass, too.”
“But why would he—?”
“I don’t know the whole story yet. My dad talked to the lawyer this morning, and then the police came by the house. I guess they’re still sorting it out, but I’m off the hook.”
I turn on my side to face Phil and draw my arm across his chest. “I’m so sorry you had to go through all that because of me. If I had only—”
“No. None of it is your fault. At all. If anyone is responsible for not stopping him sooner, it’s me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been meaning to tell you this. I should’ve told you before …”
My pulse pounds. I don’t know what he’s going to say, but I kind of don’t want to hear it. I just want one perfect moment, but this isn’t going to be it. I take a breath, put my hand on his arm, and give him a little nod to continue.
“You know how he was being all weird with you at the bookstore and at school?”
“Yes, if by weird you mean an asshole.”
“Pretty much. And remember how I told you he’d been that way since the end of the football season?”
“Since he got benched? Right?”
“It wasn’t about getting benched. He was benched for behavior, not skill. His brother served in Iraq, and he came home around halfway through the season. He lost a leg over there—IED—and—”
“And he blames me. I know, he said.”
“It’s not that. I mean, his brother came out to talk to the team one day about leadership and loyalty and counting on each other. He is this total stand-up guy. He wasn’t blaming Iraqis or Muslims, more like the facts of war …”
“And …”
“And I said something to Brian about how his brother was an American hero. I actually said those words. Because it’s true. But Brian got pissed about it, shoved me off. I didn’t make a big deal about it or get into it with him. It’s his brother. Not my situation. But then the next day, I heard him talking to Josh and Brandon after practice. They thought they were alone. And Brian said some really awful things …”
“What did he say? He said some pretty horrible things to me, too.”
“No. It was worse. What he joked about doing. The words, some of them, one of them. I’ve never used that word in my life. And I should’ve stepped up, said something right then, and called Brian out. I’m the captain; that’s part of the responsibility. I should’ve talked to Coach. I mentioned it to Tom. He brushed it off, said I should forget about it. Just Brian blowing off steam. You know, locker room talk, Tom said. But that kind of talk—it’s not okay anywhere. I should’ve known better. I did know better. And I did nothing. And now … look what he did to you. What he …”
I feel like I’ve been punched in the chest.
Phil can’t look me in the eye.
“How did you know that I was in trouble, anyway?”
His voice is strained. “I saw you walking toward the food court when I was on the Demon, so I ditched the guys after and headed back to find you, to talk to you. Then I heard you scream.”
My eyes are wet with tears. I see now that Phil’s are, too. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t shown up. I tried to fight him off—”
“I could’ve ripped Brian’s head off when I saw him hurt you. I should have. I probably would’ve, too, if you hadn’t stopped me. I could’ve prevented it—stopped this whole thing from happening.”
“That’s doubtful.”
“I can’t get the image of him trying to hurt you out of my mind.”
“That makes two of us.”
Phil clears his throat and wipes his eyes. “I’m sorry, Maya.”
We’re quiet for a while. I’m wrapped in Phil’s arms. I feel like I have so much to say and also nothing to say. Like I’m full and sort of hollow at the same time. Endings. Beginnings.
Phil kisses me on the forehead. A tear rolls down my cheek and onto his arm. He rubs the tear trail on my face with the back of his index finger. He kisses my neck. I move closer to Phil, and he gently pulls me on top of him. My hair falls across his face. He sweeps it to the side and traces his fingers over my lips. Phil kisses me, his lips hesitant. I kiss him back, deeply and softly.
I’m not sure what is real anymore.
I want the world to fall away so I can live in this exquisite moment. Where I don’t have to think or hurt—where I can simply feel the heat of our bodies and breathe in the sweet smell of his cologne until I pass out and wake in the fairy tale where reality bends to me and where this is our happily ever after.
Ethan Branson races home from school on a sunny spring afternoon clutching a story he’s written for seventh-grade English class. He runs, panting, into the kitchen and hands the paper to his mother. A gold star decorates the top right next to a large “A.” Stapled to the page is a note to the boy’s parents: Ethan’s story is wonderful. His best work this year by far. His creative writing shows tremendous potential.
Ethan’s mother hugs him and strokes his wavy black hair. For a moment he is her little boy again. She puts the paper up on the fridge with a magnet. She blinks back tears as she reads the note from the teacher over and over.
Ethan is in his room when his father comes home. He hears his parents talk. His mother shows the paper and the note to his father. His raised voice and slurred words tell Ethan what will come next. Potential? Potential for what? That kid is going to amount to nothing and no good. Biggest regret of my life.
Ethan opens his bedroom window and slips out as he hears his father’s footsteps approach.
Chapter 21
An impressive number of emergency vehicles surround my ho
use; red-and-blue lights splash across the lawn and down the street. It’s nearly midnight. My parents’ humiliation at this very public display must be gnawing at them like a vulture picking flesh off bone. As Phil pulls up to the driveway, the cadre of cops parts, letting us through. My mom bursts out of the house, running at full speed toward us, her unbraided hair wild in the breeze. I’ve barely stepped out of the car when my mother throws her arms around me, crushing me against her chest.
“Thank God. Thank God,” she repeats, tears running down her cheeks.
“Mom … my arm … remember?”
She steps back, blinking, and then a blast of words explodes from her lips at full volume. “What were you thinking? How could you? We were worried sick. We thought … we thought you were dead.”
“Mom … I’m sorry, please … I’m sorry. I know you were worried.”
She walks away, fuming. I edge my way to the front of the car, closer to my father and Chief Wickham—and Phil, who is explaining where he found me. The censored version.
I get the death stare from my dad. He doesn’t make a single gesture toward me. I was prepared for his wrath, but the cold shoulder stings more.
“Maya,” he begins in a formal tone, “why would you run away? You nearly killed your mother with worry, and half the police department was searching for you. You owe the chief an explanation and an apology after everything they’ve done for us.”
I look up at their inquisitive faces. “I’m sorry. It was wrong of me … I know I caused a lot of trouble. It’s that … I was scared.” The excuse slips off my tongue almost before I’m aware of it. Obviously, I can’t tell the whole truth, so I go with it. “I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid that Brian was going to try and hurt me again. Or would do something to you guys.”
My dad’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. No idea if he is buying this explanation, but the chief nods along. And in a way, what I’m saying is true. Sort of.
“Did any of those boys threaten you again?”
“No, Chief. It wasn’t that … I basically wigged out. I’m sorry.”
“Why didn’t you tell me or your mother that you were scared? Your mom wanted to stay home with you.”
I wanted to tell you. But I was afraid. You and mom were too blinded by your own fear to see me standing in front of you, almost broken. That’s what I want to say. That’s what I should say. But I don’t.
“You’re right, Dad. I’m so sorry. It wasn’t smart of me. It all feels so … hazy.”
Chief Wickham nods like he understands me, but Dad just gives me a slow, judgmental shake of the head. He turns away to escort the chief back to his patrol car, no doubt apologizing for the public spectacle I’ve caused.
I only now notice that Hina is here. She helps my mom back into the house. I wave at my aunt; she gives me an encouraging smile.
“Are you going to be okay?” Phil asks.
Suddenly we’re alone in the center of the driveway.
“They’ll probably want to send me to a boarding school in India, but I’ll manage.” I want to kiss him. I inch closer, and Phil raises his hands to grasp my arms and then pulls them away. I smile again, for real. “Thanks again for talking to my dad.”
“I gave him the G-rated version of finding you.”
“Which is why you and I are both still standing right now.”
“This … us … isn’t going to be easy, is it?”
“No. But I’ve gotten pretty good at sneaking out, and since I’m probably grounded for life, that skill is going to come in handy.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “I wish you didn’t have to leave. I wish I could leave with you.”
“Me, too, but under the present circumstances—”
I hug Phil. I don’t care if my parents see us. I’m tired of hiding all the important parts of myself.
My father walks back up the driveway after the last of the police cars have pulled away. He extends his right hand to Phil. “Thank you for bringing Maya back home. And for helping her. We are indebted to you.”
“Sir, it was nothing. I’m glad Maya’s safe.”
My dad nods at Phil and then walks past. He pauses and turns his head back. “Maya, it’s very late. You should come inside.”
“I’ll be there in a second, Dad.”
Phil waits for the front door to shut. “I don’t suppose I can kiss you now?”
“I guarantee it’s a drive-in movie at my front window.”
“I’ll take a rain check, then.”
Phil gets into his car and eases out of the driveway, waving as he pulls away. I try to shake the foreboding sense that this is the end of something instead of the beginning. I try to grasp at the spark of optimism I felt at the amusement park before Brian attacked me. But it feels beyond reach, and that makes me more anxious. I walk into the house, steeling myself for the inquisition.
My aunt is alone at the kitchen table. Hina rises to hug me and says, “Your mom is in bed. Your father is with her. It’s been … a lot.”
I begin to open my mouth to respond, but Hina puts her hand on my arm and says, “It’s late, and everyone is tired. Let’s talk about this tomorrow?”
Guilt surges through my body as my aunt speaks, but so does defiance. “They’re forcing their fears on me.”
“Running away didn’t exactly assuage their concerns.”
“I know. It was stupid. But I was going to explode if I stayed here one more minute.”
Hina smiles and cups my cheek in her hand. It’s a maternal gesture that I’m much more willing to receive from her than my actual mother. I know I should want this comfort from my mom, and sometimes I do. If I’m being honest, I know I push her away because I can’t be the daughter she expects me to be and still be what I want to be at the same time. On some level, I know she’s listened to me, but she never really heard what I was trying to tell her. Maybe there’s more to it than that, but that’s all the truth I’m willing to face right now.
“So this Phil seems … like a lucky young man.” As always, Hina knows when to change the subject
“Is he? It’s like I’m watching my life through a double fog filter. Nothing is clear.”
She laughs softly. “Knowing you, I doubt that. Maybe you know what you want to do, but you’re scared to do it. Isn’t that why you ran away—to clear your head? To figure it all out?”
I pause. Hina is right. The choice is my dreams or theirs. In that way, it’s not a real choice at all. It’s an imperative.
PBS Frontline Documentary: The War at Home
For days after, weeks even, there was paper. It fell from the sky after Ethan Branson drove his truck through the doors of the Federal Building in Springfield, exploding the heart of the country.
Scraps of paper, driver’s licenses, receipts, grocery lists, drawings in crayon and colored pencil, school pictures. Burnt, charred offerings. Words of the dead, drifting down from the heavens like feathers from birds in flight. Remember me, they whisper.
Amongst them, a singed corner of letterhead and these words:
From our beginning as a nation, we have admitted to our country and to citizenship immigrants from the diverse lands of the world. We had faith that thereby we would best serve ourselves and mankind.1
*
1 Judge Abraham Lincoln Marovitz, Nov. 17, 1994 US Naturalization Oath Ceremony
Chapter 22
“No. That’s the final answer. End of discussion.” My dad sits stone-faced at the kitchen table. My mom stares into the four cups of tea at the counter, entranced by the little milk eddies she stirs up in each one. The air is heavy with the smell of fennel seeds, cardamom, and panic.
“I’m not asking you for permission; I’m informing you of my decision. I am going to New York in August.” I’m unusually calm and direct, which is almost the most shocking part of this entire scene. I don’t know if it’s the silent strength emanating from my aunt at my side, the soft underbelly of denial, or plain guts, but maybe for the first
time, I face my parents with a kind of composure that feels adult—at least to me. Which doesn’t mean I’m not also terrified.
“This is ridiculous. You’re a child. You can’t talk to your parents this way. Ordering us around as if we’re you’re servants. We didn’t bring you into this world to treat us with such disrespect.”
“Dad, I’m sorry. But I’m not a child anymore; I’m going to be eighteen in a few weeks. I’ll be legally emancipated, and I have a right to live my life how I want.”
“Emancipated? Rights? Now you talk as if you’re a lawyer? This is not how we raised you.” My mom lifts her eyes from the tea, her voice trembling.
“And how will you pay for school? Will you work in the school cafeteria? That won’t even pay for your books. Then you will realize what you’ve done.”
“Bhai.” I can tell Hina is making an effort to keep her voice relaxed.
“Last night I offered to help Maya financially if she needs it, and—”
“First you hide Maya applying to school in New York, and now this? Paying for our daughter to defy us? You have no right to do this.” My mother’s rage permeates the space around us.
“Aapa, I know you’re her mother. I know you love her. But Maya deserves a chance to pursue her dreams. I can help her do that. I can’t stand by and watch Maya be pigeonholed into a life she doesn’t want. And actually, yes, I have a right to spend my money as I deem fit.”
“No. No. No! Don’t you dare lecture me. I stood by you when everyone criticized you. Becoming a graphic designer. Living in Chicago on your own. Not married at your age. I’m the one who defended your choices, but I won’t have that life for my daughter.”