by Adi Alsaid
The woman runs her small electronic scanner over me, from head to toe, and waves it twice over the offending underwire. She’s blonde, though her brows are decidedly brunette, and she doesn’t crack a single smile, even though I greet her with my best. I grin, trying to put us both at ease. But apparently that was the wrong move. Faux-Ever Blonde runs it down my leg again, and we discover the real culprit. My payal, sitting sweet and elegant against my ankles. What was I thinking? But I know exactly what I was thinking. Rajan thinks they’re sexy. At least, that’s what Beck claims.
“I’ll take them off,” I say with a sigh, leaning down and removing the offending anklets one by one.
The lady’s still frowning. “Name?” she asks, and I raise a brow. Oh god, not today.
“Sarika Shah.”
“Where are you headed, miss?”
“Geneva.” Sweat pools at my neck and slides down my back. I want to wipe at it, but I can’t risk any sudden moves. I try to smile. Why am I worried? “School trip.”
She scans over my bra again, then uses her palm to do another pat-down. I frown.
“I’m going to ask you to stand to the side for a moment,” she says. I step out of the cube and spot Beck and Neha, waiting just outside the security gate. Thank god they didn’t leave me behind.
But they’ve got their bags already, and Neha looks pointedly at her watch. I shuffle from one foot to the other and peer at the conveyor belt, hoping they’ve already grabbed my stuff. Well, my laptop at least. It’s not there.
The rest of the group is gathered and ready to go. I point to the conveyer, and Beck shrugs. I don’t think my bag has come out yet. I stand there, trying to keep the panic from hitting my face.
“Boarding starts in half an hour,” Ms. Hollander announces to the group. “So if you need a bathroom break or coffee, it’s now or never. Meet me in front of Gate 32 in twenty.”
“We’ll wait for Sari,” Neha says, and Hollander nods before heading toward the ladies’ room.
Where’s my laptop? It has all my notes on it. I start to move forward to check, but the security lady comes out then, frowning. “Just a minute, miss.”
She’s got my bags. Behind the counter. Dammit.
“You ready?” Beck says, pulling her backpack onto her shoulder. “I want a frappuccino before we board.”
I look at the lady behind the counter, who’s still rifling through my bag. I shrug. “Go. I’ll meet you at the gate.”
I stand around, watching Faux-Ever Blonde dig through my stuff, and frown as the boarding time edges closer and closer. She studiously avoids my gaze, then looks up and scowls at me. “Can I see your passport, miss?” she demands, hand out and mouth stern. I reach for my money pouch, where I keep my passport, and realize I don’t have it. Hollander does. Or maybe it was the one they kept?
“I—um, I don’t know—it’s not with me.” I stutter as I say the words.
She glares my way a second, then storms back toward the security booth.
Faux-Ever Blonde talks to the man who scanned our passports earlier—he’s still frowning, too. He shuffles through a batch he has on his desk and pulls one out. Is that my passport? Weird. That can’t be a good sign.
It’s inevitable now. I’m going to miss the boarding window. And no one has come back to find me. The woman seems to be long gone, my passport MIA with her. And my phone, I realize with a start. It’s with the rest of the stuff in the scanner. So I can’t even call to let Hollander know I’m still here.
Everyone around me is moving on along, not noticing my silent panic. I have no phone, no ID, and no chaperone to come and resolve this.
Do not freak, I keep telling myself. Beck and Neha will be back as soon as they realize I’m still MIA. Right? Maybe another minute, or five, tops.
But where did that woman go with my passport and boarding pass? There’s someone else scanning bags now, and another uniformed lady is doing the pat-downs. What if that lady wasn’t a TSA employee at all, but a random passport thief who somehow managed to get into the security booth? No. That’s super unlikely. It’s probably just a case of classic racial profiling. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t been stopped before. But usually I’m with my mom and family, and not just by myself. Especially these days, with all this bullshit with the Muslim ban and stuff. It’s definitely that. They think I’m a terrorist. Because I so look like a terrorist at all of five feet tall, with my hair in old-school braids, and short-alls to go with my vintage ’NSync T-shirt.
I’m staring at my feet, fretting about what to do, when a shadow falls over me. Oh, Hollander, thank god.
Except it’s not Hollander at all. “Miss, we need you to come with us.”
It’s a short, stocky white dude in a suit. He’s got close-cropped brown hair, and his face is grim. I mean, his whole demeanor is grim. Like he’s a reaper from one of those TV shows. Except not sexy.
Hollander shows up just as I’m walking away. “Where are you taking her?” she shouts after us, but as far as I know, nobody bothers to respond. I wave, frantic, hoping she takes that as a signal that I’ll be right out. I’m probably holding up the flight.
I follow the cranky man and blonde lady to a bank of cubicles just outside the security gate area. They’re all unmarked and gray, like prison cells in some dystopian novel. I know there’s something I should do or say right now. Refuse to speak unless accompanied by a lawyer, right? Or at least an actual adult. But the woman just nudges me along, her mouth a straight line of nothingness, all business, as we follow Meanie.
The man opens the door to one of the nondescript cubes, and I falter, but the lady pushes me in. “Sit.”
I take a seat at a wooden table as the guy sits across from me, the woman hovering by the door. A single bulb lights the cube, but just barely. I glance around the room, and spy my stuff stashed in one corner, the suitcase flung open, the contents of my backpack shoved into a bin. I open my mouth to speak, then shut it. On Mom’s favorite cop drama, the perp never speaks first. I suppress a nervous giggle. Or maybe it was a hiccup. When did I become the perp?
I stare down at the dark, scratched wood of the table. I wipe my clammy palms on my cargo pants, but there’s nothing I can do about the drop of sweat that’s sliding down my cheek like a tear.
If Meanie thinks I’m crying, he clearly doesn’t care.
“What’s your name?” he asks, in a super gruff tone that makes me sit up at attention, like I did at my citizenship interview four years ago.
I flinch but hold my voice steady. “Sarika Shah.”
“Age?”
“Sixteen.”
“Social?”
Like Twitter? Or Insta?
The man glares. “Do you have a social security number?” he asks again, slowly, like I don’t understand English.
Oh. “Yeah. Of course. It’s 999-732-1380.” I swallow hard. “Can you, like, call my teacher. Ms. Hollander? I’m gonna miss my flight.”
“Where are you from?” Meanie asks, ignoring my questions.
“Westwood. New Jersey. Twenty-five minutes from here.”
“No, where are you really from?”
“I live at 11 Maiden Lane, Westwood, NJ.” I sigh. “I think I should call my parents.”
“And you’ve lived there...”
“Two years. No, three. Like two and a half?” I look toward Faux-Ever Blonde, who’s leaning in the doorway, busy scrolling on her phone. I wonder what time it is.
“Where did you live before that?” Meanie asks.
“Jersey City. We got priced out. And my mom got married.”
“And your mom is?”
“Ambika Shah. I mean, Ambika Sharma, now. My Nanima is Gulmohar Shah. My stepdad, they got married three years ago. Nitesh Sharma. From Jersey City. By way of Jalandhar.”
“Your English is very good.”
&nbs
p; “Thanks. I get As in it, mostly. And I’m on the debate team.”
“Where’s your accent?”
“I’d say my only accent is Jersey.”
“But you were not born here?”
“No. We moved when I was two.”
“Not Indian.”
“Well, yes. And no.” Shit. I’m sweating now, because this is serious. They really do think I’m a terrorist. Based on one word on my passport. One word. The circumstance of my birth. My family is from Kashmir. Disputed territory. With a large Muslim population. But I haven’t been there since I was a baby, when my mom and Nanoo escaped here, seeking asylum.
“Have you been to your country recently?”
“I’m a US citizen.”
“Have you been to your country recently?”
I swallow hard. “Define recently.”
The man sighs. “Let me put it another way—what interaction have you had recently with people from your country?”
Again, my country? “I’m an American.” I gesture toward my passport, which sits on the table between us, just out of my reach. “You know that.”
“Listen, Ms. Shah, I don’t want any trouble. But your family history and place of birth when we did the scan flagged you in our system. We’ve been ordered to hold you—and your passport—for further vetting.”
“But I’ll miss my flight.”
“So you’ll miss your flight.”
I place my hands on the table, trying not to fidget, working not to cry. “Can I call my parents?” I mean, even criminals get one phone call. Right?
“No. Sit tight. We’ll be back shortly.” He stands abruptly and walks out, taking the blonde with him.
I sit in the dimly lit cubicle for a minute, then two, then ten. No one returns. I wonder if they even remember I’m in here. I wonder where Hollander is. I wonder if my parents know. I’ve probably missed the flight. Would they just leave without me?
I scan the cubicle. There’s no clock. Nothing to give me any idea how long I’ve been in here as time ticks by. But my bag is in the corner. And my laptop is in the bin. I wonder if my phone is in there too. I stare at the door, willing it to open. Then I stare at it some more, wondering if I should risk it. I have to. If I can call Mom, she’ll know what to do.
I tap the table and then grab my leg, trying to get it to stop shaking. I need to do something. I can’t just sit here and wait for them to come back and interrogate me some more. Who knows what other nonsense they’ll come up with? These days, they’ll use any excuse to deport people. Especially brown people. Even citizens.
If I get caught going through my things, that might just give them the excuse they need. But it seems like they’re going to do what they want, whether it’s legal or not. So I might as well do what I need to do, too.
I stand, looking frantically around the room. What if there’s a camera, I realize too late. But now that I’m up, I have to move.
I’m definitely going to miss the flight. I’m going to miss Geneva, and hanging out with my friends, and making my speech, and maybe making out with Rajan. I’m going to miss prom and graduation and college and living my American dream. Everything I’ve worked so hard for. Everything that I’ve been dreaming about for days and months and years. All the reasons my family fought so hard to be here. All because of where I was born. A place I never really knew, a place I’ll probably never see again. My heart is racing and my eyes are wet, tears ready to spill, but I won’t cry. Nope. I have to stay calm.
Slowly, quietly, I tiptoe toward the corner of the room, where my stuff is scattered. As soon as I’m there, I turn back toward the door. No one. Thank god. I start to comb through the bin, looking for my phone. Or at least my ID. Definitely my passport. None of them are in my suitcase, which holds only the dresses and outfits I’d picked out oh, so carefully, hoping to impress Rajan. The thought makes me laugh now, though it’s a high-pitched, hysterical yelp of a thing. I can’t believe I let myself get excited. It was too good to be true. The bees that were buzzing so sweetly before are full-on stingers now, and my stomach roils like it’s being attacked by a swarm.
I have to find something, anything that will help me prove who I am when they finally accuse me of being a terrorist. Because they definitely will. I’ve seen this happen too many times, on TV, on the news, and I’ve even heard stories from people at the temple. It doesn’t matter that I’m sixteen, that I grew up here in New Jersey, that I haven’t touched Indian soil in years. It doesn’t matter that I’m a straight A student, that I’m on the Presidential Honor Roll, that my future will be as lawyer or a TV correspondent.
Well, I’ll definitely be news now.
This is it. That story you always see. Came here when I was two. A total Jersey girl. All-American.
Except that I was born in a region marked for “further vetting” or “possible terrorist ties.” In a nation I’ve barely known and may never get to see again. Unless they deport me tomorrow.
That’s when the shaking starts. Slow at first, a slight tremor in my hands. But soon I can’t control it. Then the tears come in a flood, the sobs wracking me from head to toe. And I can’t make it stop, no matter what. My mind is spiraling out of control, the stories that Nani told me about bombs on Dal Lake and the army taking over schools and homes scrambling any rational thought. I try deep breaths, and counting, and staring at a random spot on the wall. But I can’t stop thinking about how I’ll never see my mom or Nani again, about how maybe they won’t even know where to look for me. I have to pull myself together. I can’t let Meanie and the blonde find me here, lying on the cold linoleum in a dim room, sobbing.
I sit up and try the deep breaths again. I will myself to stand and cross the room, one step at a time, making my way back to the table. I’m nearly there when the door opens, creaking ominously, the dim light casting Meanie’s shadow across the floor. I shudder, and I hear him laugh.
“Just a misunderstanding, of course,” he says with another boom of laughter. And then I see the other shadow, small and slim, cast alongside his. Hollander. Thank god.
She pushes past the man and reaches me first, and I sort of collapse into her, even though I’ve never so much as high-fived her before.
“Are you okay?” she shouts, practically shaking me. “I was so worried. They wouldn’t tell me where you were, or why they took you. They wouldn’t let me talk to Agent Lombardi here until I threatened to call the governor’s office. Lombardi is from ICE. But your passport clearly states you are a US citizen.” She’s stroking my back now, as my tears soak her T-shirt. I’ve never been more happy to see another human in my life. “Your mom was frantic.” That just makes me sob harder. My mom. I need to talk to my mom. “Thank god you’re okay.”
The blonde security guard slinks past us, and the shaking starts again. I can’t believe it. Are they going to keep me?
Then I see it. My phone and passport, safe and sound in Hollander’s hands. She follows my gaze and nods. “I made them give them back to me. You have every right to be here. They kept saying it was fake.”
“Look, Ms. Hollander, we said we were sorry,” Meanie says. “There have been a lot of fakes lately, and ICE has put a high alert on certain countries and regions, especially areas like Kashmir. It’s just protocol and we have to follow orders.”
“Your protocol does not apply to a sixteen-year-old American citizen traveling alone.”
“Yes, it does.” Meanie’s voice is firm, and he has a fake smile plastered to his face, which is now a livid red. “I don’t make the rules. But I do follow them. And so should you, if you don’t want to escalate this further.”
The threat in his voice shuts Hollander right up, and I can’t bring myself to open my mouth either. I just want to get out of here.
“Well, if everything is in order now, I think we should get moving,” Hollander finally says. She takes my ar
m as the blonde brings my bag, which she’s apparently repacked. “Check your stuff now, make sure you’ve got everything. Everyone’s waiting.”
“My mom—”
“Let’s call her on the way to the gate,” Hollander says. But I can’t make myself move. What if they stop us again? What if they don’t let me come back? I can see it now, all those years ahead of me, living in fear.
“Is there a problem, miss?” It’s the blonde, her mouth still the same, disinterested, flat line. She literally could not care if I live or die.
I can’t let her have the satisfaction.
“Yes,” I say, using my best, take-no-prisoners debate voice. “We’ve got to hurry. We’ve got a flight to catch.”
Hollander grabs my bag, and we race through the crowd toward the gate. “They’re holding the flight,” she says. “We have to be quick.”
I hold fast to my boarding pass, passport and phone, unwilling to let them out of my sight again.
The man at the gate scans and lets us through immediately, his face concerned and apologetic.
And then we’re on the plane, luggage stashed. Hollander takes a seat next to Andy, and nods toward the next row. “That’s yours,” she says. “Get settled.” She pulls out her phone.
The empty seat is next to Rajan’s. He stands, smiles, and hugs me really tight. I should be excited, but I still can’t quite stop shaking. “Sorry you had to deal with that,” he whispers into my hair. “It’s happened to me before, too.” He sighs. “Especially when I don’t shave.”
He stuffs my backpack under the seat, and Hollander leans across to pass me her phone. I can already hear my mom babbling at me in tearstained Hindi. My hands shake as I take it. “Beta, we were so worried. Ms. Hollander was so panicked. I thought—” My mom’s voice breaks. “I thought—” I can hear her breathing hard, trying to get the words out. “Are you okay?”