The Tyrant's Daughter

by Carleson, J. C.

  “No, not at all!” Tori shakes her head so emphatically that hair whips both sides of her face.

  My stomach flip-flops. What now? “You can ask me anything you want,” I say.

  “It’s just that Emmy thinks it’s rude. That we’ll offend you.”

  Both sets of eyes are locked on me. “No, I won’t be offended.” It comes out quieter than I intended, and the girls look skeptical. “What do you want to know?”

  There’s one more silent consultation between the two, and then Tori goes first. “We’re just curious about what it’s like there. I mean, the everyday stuff. Like, what did you used to do with your friends? Just …” She trails off. “It just seems so different. Like a different planet, you know?”

  I let out a sigh of relief. That’s it? I’m happy to be their living, breathing National Geographic. I sit up and cross my legs. “It is different there. It is a different planet. I feel that way a lot.”

  My audience of two waits patiently.

  “Okay, then …” I chew on my lip, trying to think of some sort of nugget to give them. “Everyday stuff?”

  “Yeah. Like with your friends,” Tori reminds me.

  That makes answering harder. “I didn’t have many friends,” I admit. “I mean, I did, but they changed a lot. I didn’t go to school the way I do here. But my mother used to take me with her to parties and lunches. There were always other girls my age wherever we went. The daughters of my parents’ acquaintances.” I’m finding it difficult to translate, not because I don’t know the words but because the social dynamics of my country just don’t have counterparts here. I need to back up, to explain.

  “In my country, girls don’t just ‘hang out’ the way you do here. I mean, they can’t go to the same places the boys hang out. They can’t just … roam.” That’s not the word I was looking for, and it draws a tiny frown from Morgan.

  “There are a lot of gatherings, I guess you would call them. Not really parties, because there doesn’t need to be an occasion. They’re just a chance for women and girls to get together. To take off our veils and relax, that sort of thing. To listen to music and eat too many sweets.” I try to keep my answer light, but now Tori and Morgan are both frowning.

  “So …” Morgan starts out slowly. “You’re not allowed to go out, then? Except to people’s homes? It sounds like house arrest.”

  I feel a buzz of frustration. “It’s not that we’re not allowed—” I can’t seem to find the right words. “It’s what we want to do.”

  But now that I see these gatherings through Tori and Morgan’s eyes, my old enthusiasm feels counterfeit. Glamorous parties now reveal themselves to have been stifling, claustrophobic affairs. But how to explain the lack of choices—the sheer absence of options—to people who make more decisions before breakfast than I made in a palace-bound month?

  “But—” Tori is hesitant. “But you like boys, right?”

  “Yes. I like boys.” Exasperation leaks into my voice.

  “So how do you meet them? How does anyone meet guys if you’re stuck indoors with just the other girls all the time?” Tori is so earnest, so puzzled by my answers, that I can’t take offense.

  “It happens eventually.” I smile at her. “Maybe not as soon as here. Here, I think that boys are a part of every group, every conversation, even when there are none to be seen. It happens differently there, but it happens.”

  Morgan nods. “Yeah, that’s true about everything here involving boys. Look at us—no guys in sight, but we’re still sitting here talking about stupid Asher’s stupid little soldier.”

  We all laugh at that, but Tori has another question. “What age do people start doing it, then? Sex, I mean.”

  “She just said not as soon as here. Not as soon as some people here, anyway.” Morgan lowers her voice to a stage whisper and leans toward me. “Tori’s already done the deed, did you know that?”

  “Morgan!” Tori flushes scarlet. “Why do you have to be such a bitch?”

  Morgan makes a face at her and goes back to painting.

  Tori sits silently for a minute, chewing her nails. “I think it sounds nice. To have time to just be with your friends without guys always interfering. I mean, it seems like it would take some of the pressure off, right?”

  I half shrug, half nod. It seems I can only convey a world to them that sounds either much worse or much better than mine actually is. Was.

  “Hey, you guys are almost done!” Emmy’s arrival slices through the pensive mood that has settled over us. She slings her backpack onto the grass and edges her way into our circle. “The signs look great! How many more do you think we need to do? Four?… Five?” Her chatter bars any further questions, and I think we’re all relieved.

  I go back to my swirls and flourishes, and Tori and Morgan go back to their lettering. I don’t know that they understand my world any better than they did before our conversation, but somehow I feel as if I understand theirs a little better.

  “Are you doing okay, Laila?” Emmy whispers as she sinks down next to me with a blank piece of poster board. “Sorry it took so long for me to get back; I know they can be a bit much sometimes.”

  I smile at her and nod. I am okay. Talking about my world, seeing its distorted, fun-house-mirror reflection in the eyes of these American acquaintances, is okay. Their perspective is not mine, and my reality is not theirs. But somewhere between our differences is a shared space where we are friends.

  VOICES

  School has become a peaceful place for me. Here, today, I owe nothing but a paper on Animal Farm. I’d like to think I have particularly keen insight into the political maneuverings of the animals in the book—I’m certain to get a good grade.

  There are small tragedies and minor dramas all around me as I walk through the halls, but they don’t touch me. Emmy has tried to explain the nuances of high school social dynamics, but her lessons don’t sink in. She’s given up on that and on teaching me to appreciate American football. In both cases I see nothing but large numbers of bulky strangers hurrying this way and that. I can’t seem to focus on the game the way everyone else does; I’m content to sit quietly on the sidelines and watch the blur of people move by me.

  I like my locker. It’s a small space of my own—the only one I have.

  I like my classes, with their lessons so different from those at home. World history is reinvented here—the same stories retold upside down. English class, where contractions are allowed and books are not banned, is a pleasure. I even like PE—boys and girls mixed together, their bare legs so casually mingling.

  I like my friends. I’m learning to trust them. I told Emmy about last weekend’s kiss, and she squealed her approval. “Eeeeek!” Eek indeed, I agreed. It felt good to reveal a secret freely.

  I like Ian, too. He walks me home again.

  “So, that guy who was waiting for you the other day. Amir, right? Is he your …?” He waits for me to fill in the blank.

  “Hmmm. Be careful, Ian. You almost sound jealous.” Our conversations are two parts banter, one part substance. “I told you, he’s just a family friend.”

  “From back home?” His fingers dance against mine, fleeting teases of contact.

  “No. Well, yes. That’s where he’s from. But I didn’t know him there.” I want to change the subject.

  “You don’t talk about home much,” Ian says.

  I shrug, American-style. Back home the arms are more involved. Palms turned skyward, elbows bent up and away from the body. Here, the gesture is more contained, all shoulders and eyebrows.

  “Would you, though? Would you be comfortable talking about it, I mean? I’d love to interview you for the school paper. You have an amazing story.”

  I pull away from him. I don’t want to talk about the paper. “No. I’d rather not. I mean, I don’t want to be in the paper. I’m sorry.” Just the thought of it makes my heart race. Why is it so hard to keep my two lives separate lately?

  Ian stops walking. He’s
hesitating, shaping his words carefully. “Look, I’ve read up on your family. It’s messy. I get it. But what if we just talk about your transition here? You know, a firsthand account of someone new to this country, that kind of thing. We can keep it light if you want. Besides, you’re going to want to start talking about it eventually. You might as well take advantage of your situation.”

  “What do you mean?”

  We start walking again. “College applications, for one thing. You’re smart. You could get a full ride just about anywhere with your story and your grades. It’s not that far off, you know.”

  Not that far off? Years are lifetimes in my world. I hadn’t even thought about college since we moved here. Not once. Dare I? Ian glances over at me, waiting for an answer.

  “Or if you’d rather start slowly, then maybe you can just talk to me about it. Off the record.” He takes my hand for real this time, fingers through fingers. Substance.

  We’re at my door, a convenient excuse not to answer. “Just think about it, Laila.” Ian lightly frees a section of my hair that had tucked itself under the strap of my backpack.

  I give him a quick and impulsive kiss on the cheek and then dash into the apartment. “See you tomorrow!” I call out as I shut the door.

  I’m leaning against the door wondering if he’s still standing on the other side when I hear the voices.

  One voice belongs to my mother; it’s coming from her bedroom. She’s practically yelling, the way she always does on speakerphone. Bastien and I have tried convincing her she doesn’t need to shout, but she does it anyway.

  The other voice is a man’s—it’s muffled and staticky and familiar. Even through the long distance, the bad connection, and the passage of time, I recognize it instantly.

  My uncle.

  BARRIERS

  My father, like Bastien, was born a prince. Or that’s the story he told us. He was the second of four brothers, anyway. At least that part is true. His father led the country—by birthright or brute strength, depending on who you asked—and custom allowed him to pass his title to one of his sons when he died.

  My grandfather died early, as men in my family seem to do. His eldest son died next, in a car accident. He was never a real contender, though. Too wild, too reckless, too fond of all things easy. The youngest brother died several years ago from a mysterious fever—whispered accusations of a poisoning floated around his funeral but never settled firmly on anyone’s shoulders. That left my father and my uncle Ali.

  According to Mother, Ali was always strict, even with himself. He was a man of extremes. First with religion. And then, when Father named him the country’s top military official, he went to extremes with war.

  Uncle Ali killed my father.

  Not with his own hands—he left the dirty work to his second-in-command, a man who didn’t hesitate for a moment when he shot my father in the chest. Mother saw it all. The killer, someone she’d known for years, stared straight at her after he’d pulled the trigger. “I’m sorry,” he told her, as if he’d knocked over a vase instead of murdered her husband. She thought he might shoot her next, but he didn’t. He simply holstered his gun and left the room, pulling the heavy doors closed behind him. He slipped out into the street, where he vanished into the rioting crowds as my mother screamed and screamed for help.

  Word spread quickly. Within the hour, people outside stopped fighting one another and joined together to turn on our gates.

  Our gates were strong. Metal bars, thick as a man’s arm, topped with razor-sharp spikes both decorative and deadly. They’d survived riots and protests, kept out agitators and enemies. No one could breach those gates, so heavily reinforced with deep concrete foundations and double shifts of armed guards. “Don’t worry, Laila,” my father would say whenever the noise from the crowds outside grew loud enough to scare me. “They’re just having their say. They’ll get it out of their systems by morning. We’re safe here.” He was so calm, stroking my hair and speaking in soothing tones. Of course I believed him. It was just a rowdy parade out front—nothing of consequence.

  But the day my father died, the guards began to vanish. One by one they slipped away from their posts. Cowards or traitors, we’ll never know. The end result was the same: We were unprotected. We were alone.

  There were gunshots. Far more than usual, and closer than ever before. There was shouting and breaking glass, cars turned over and fires lit. It was unbearably loud and unbearably smoky, and the lone saucer-eyed guard in our living quarters was already inching toward the exit.

  I was paralyzed with fear. We all were.

  And then came Darren Gansler. Not a knight in shining armor exactly, but the closest we could have hoped for at that moment. I still don’t know what he said to my mother. She was shaking, as pale as the paper she signed, and my father’s blood had soaked a gruesome rose pattern into her blouse. I’m sure she didn’t read anything he gave her. Her movements were jerky, robotic, and she didn’t speak. She kept mouthing something, some silent plea that terrified Bastien and sent him clinging to me.

  I don’t like to think about that day.

  I don’t like to be reminded of it. By crowds or by smoke or by any of the hundred things that reignite the panic in my gut. So my uncle’s voice is the last thing I want to hear.

  STATIC

  “It’s in your best interest to hear what I have to say.”

  My mother is having a conversation with the devil. I listen from the hallway, willing my heart to slow down before my rapid breathing gives me away. The voice on the other end makes my stomach roil—the only thing that keeps me from vomiting on the spot is the need to hear what she could possibly be discussing with him.

  She hates him as much as I do. More, even. She had to tolerate him far longer than I did, starting when he urged my father not to marry her. He claimed she wasn’t pure enough—her mother was French, and she was not devout in her faith. She was unsuitable, he maintained. My father ignored him, so my uncle took it upon himself to torment her. He threatened, he bullied, and he spied. She tolerated his cruelty for years and forced me to do the same.

  “I’d be a fool to trust you, Yasmin. This conversation is a waste of time.” He is every bit as dismissive and harsh as I remember. My fingernails search for holds in the plaster of the wall.

  “I’m not asking you to trust me. I’m sure it will come as no surprise that I don’t trust you, either. I’m only saying that we might be able to come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.” My mother doesn’t sound like my mother. This version of her is firm, businesslike. She knows that this devil won’t be charmed.

  My uncle laughs, and then his laugh turns into a cough. It sounds like he’s choking, but that’s probably just me wishing. “I’ve already taken the only thing you had to give, and I’m not about to let your child challenge my position. Neither of you will ever set foot here again.”

  “You need money.”

  What is she doing? I slide down to the floor, dizzy with hurt and confusion.

  “I know the international community has cut you off,” she continues. “There’s no more aid money for you to steal. And you can’t line your pockets with the money you skim off everyone else’s profits anymore. Not since your war destroyed the economy.”

  Still no response.

  “No money means no weapons, Ali. Do you think your enemies don’t know that? They’re plotting against you as we speak—I’ve heard it with my own ears. You won’t hold that precious position of yours for long if you can’t defend it.”

  A grunt. He’s listening. “You have no money, Yasmin. You’re bluffing.”

  “I don’t. But the Americans do. This isn’t a secure line, so I don’t want to say any more right now. But I’m working with someone who can get you whatever you need. That’s all you need to know.”

  Who is this woman speaking? I don’t know this person. I hug my knees to my chest and let the tears escape silently, but I’m shaking so hard my teeth rattle. Just as I start
to think that maybe this is all too crazy to possibly be true, the stranger’s voice in the next room transforms back into my mother’s.

  “We just want to come home, Ali. I can’t live here. I can’t raise my children this way. We’re no threat to you. Please let us come home.” She’s groveling. Begging. My face burns for her humiliation.

  “I need to think about this. Next time we talk, you’d better have specifics.” I jump as my uncle slams down the phone.

  There is a long silence. And then my mother begins to sob—a terrible noise no daughter should hear. She sounds broken. She sounds inhuman.

  On my side of the wall, I bite my lip to keep from letting any noise slip out.

  My mother and I cry like this for a long time, separately, inches and worlds apart.

  ICE

  I sit outside her room until she comes out.

  She jumps when she sees me, hand to her chest.

  “What have you done?” I’m looking up at her, ugly with snot and tears, praying she’ll have an answer that makes sense. One that can take away this crushing dread.

  Her face is dry. She’s already composed herself, her lipstick fresh and her hair in place. “Laila, you have no business listening to my conversations.” She steps over me and stalks into the living room.

  “Don’t walk away from me!”

  She turns, and for a moment I think I see fear on her face. If it was ever there, though, it vanishes quickly, replaced by stone. “This does not concern you, Laila. I’m doing what I have to do.”

  She turns her back on me again, but I won’t be dismissed. Not this time. I jump to my feet and shout at her back, “Where are you going in such a hurry? To get yourself a drink, maybe? No wonder you drink so much! Is it easier to betray everyone around you when you’re drunk?”

  She freezes, then pivots. She covers the distance between us in three quick steps and slaps me across the face. Hard. I collapse to the floor, as much from shock as from the blow. She pulls her hand back to do it again but lets it hover over me, threatening, while she speaks. “Don’t question me again.” Her voice is whispered fury and her face a twisted snarl. “Ever.”