They could turn on the television, Edy supposed. No doubt, whatever had roused the secretary of state herself would be cause for snippets of burning things, bold flashing headlines, and grasping reporters speculating and retracting in the same breath. Mother and daughter exchanged a look of trepidation. They could go downstairs, or, they could wait for the real news, right there, in their very own home. This was what it meant to be a Phelps, right here in the flesh.
The conversation dragged on without leaving much to piece together. Lots of nods and simple affirmations, confirmation that he could leave immediately. The federal government seeking her father’s counsel wasn’t new; he’d advised on the pitfalls of nation-building in Iraq and Afghanistan, on the intersection of human resource deficiencies and human rights in the Middle East, and most recently, as a special adviser at a U.N. conference on least developed countries.
But none of those calls had come at six a.m.
Edy’s mother must have had the same thought, as she began pulling suits from the closet, shoes from the rack, ties from the drawer, and barking at Edy to help lend a hand. Though she had no idea what to do, Edy stepped forward; never brave enough to question her mother’s direct instruction.
Husband and wife communicated through brief glimpses and slight turns of the head, enough for her to know when a shirt or pair of shoes was undesirable. She tossed things to Edy, who folded them neatly, only to have her mother fuss and refold them. Edy’s fingers fumbled with the truth of what her mother’s shaking hands meant: that they were ushering her father toward someplace even she wasn’t certain about.
Finally, the call ended.
“Egypt,” he said. “There’s complete and utter chaos. Again. People have taken to the streets, rioting and immolating themselves in a violent rebellion of government.”
“So?” Edy blurted.
She didn’t mean “so” as in “so what if people are dying.” She meant “so, what can her father do?”
“Their democracy is decomposing. As a scholar, I’m obligated to discover why and aid my government whenever called.”
That. That endless need to be a Phelps. As if anyone knew what that meant.
“I’ve seen those places on TV,” Edy said. “When order breaks down, they fix it by shooting everyone.”
“Edith,” her father said. “That’s a tad overwrought.”
Only a tad? Well, good.
He’d been to dangerous places before, but after conditions settled and once troops were brought in—certainly not before breaking news could make sense of what had happened.
“You can’t go,” Edy said, in a groping childish grasp at control. “My birthday’s coming up. You can’t miss that.”
It was weak, she knew. And he could go; he would go. Just as he’d gone to Libya, Yemen, Syria, and Iraq. Just as he’d traversed much of South and Central America, and a handful of the worst places in Africa. He would go and be thrilled by the prospect of going.
Edy’s mother groaned. “Must you always audition for Hollywood, child? Your father’s going. It’s the opportunity we’ve been waiting for. So, shut up and be grateful,” she said.
“Rebecca,” her father warned, voice distant.
“Don’t ‘Rebecca’ me! The girl is impossible. Spoiled beyond my capacity for tolerance. ‘It’s my birthday’ she said. Of all the asinine, contrite—” Her mother looked around, as if the walls or ceiling might calm her. When they didn’t, she turned back on Edy. “The secretary of state just called your house. Can you understand that? You don’t shirk opportunity when it comes. Especially when fear is your rationale.”
Edy’s father cleared his throat.
“When your country calls, you come,” he corrected.
“But it’s not safe,” Edy blurted. “You shouldn’t have to go if it’s not safe. They might—”
“Stop it,” her mother snapped. “Stop the manipulative hysterics. You’re fine and well when he hauls you and Hassan off with him, no matter how questionable the destination, but now that he’s going without you, it’s a show. But if you’re going to perform, why not get serious? Fall to the floor. Kick. Scream. Go on being an insufferable brat.”
“That’s enough, Rebecca,” Edy’s father said. “She’s only concerned.”
She looked from husband to Edy, husband to Edy, face lined with distaste. Still, Edy’s father hadn’t moved. He sat rooted in contemplation.
“Concerned,” her mother said, as if the word were bird droppings in her mouth. “For who is the question.”
Edy lifted her head. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Her mother stepped forward. “You know he’ll be fine. And you know your only concern is Daddy being absent for your birthday,” she said. “But you needn’t worry about what extravagant thing he’ll come up with this year. We all know how you crave male attention.”
Edy heated through to her bones. Were they even talking about the same thing? No amount of courage could make her ask. It was true; she had felt some disappointment at the thought of her father not being there for her birthday. But it simmered low. Had it been wrong for her to feel it at all?
“I’ll be home soon,” her father said. “And I’ll call often. In the meantime, you’ll enjoy your birthday party at the Dysons’ just as you always do.”
He believed her mother. He believed Edy’s fears were little more than a child’s worries about Daddy not being there to spoil her.
Murder. Resistance. Islamofacism. Journeying to Egypt sounded about as safe as turning donuts on the interstate. And yet she couldn’t deny the ravenous way her father set about preparing, as if the sole purpose for which God had created him lay just outside, a plane ride away.
Edy pushed thoughts of discord and danger from her mind as she showered and pulled on clothes that might or might not have been ironed. She brushed her hair up and secured it with an office rubber band before shooting a single, furtive look out the window. They would be there for her father soon. The unmarked sedan, the men in suits, ready to transport him by private flight to another world.
She decided to focus on breakfast. Chewing was something to do; something to concentrate on, if she did it carefully, methodically. So, Edy shoved random books in her bag, sucked in a shuddering breath, and thundered downstairs into the hall. Voices in the study stopped her. Her father’s. Ali’s.
“I would love to accompany you,” Ali said. “In an unofficial capacity, of course. After all, the opportunity for observation and research is enormous. But it’s far too precarious a situation for both of us to venture into. That’s our agreement and I aim to honor.”
“Listen. In the event something went awry—”
“You needn’t ask,” Ali said. “She’s my daughter. Hassan’s your son. Hasn’t it always been so?”
“I know. But—”
“Heard enough, yet?” Hassan said.
Edy whirled at the sound of his voice.
“Don’t make it harder on yourself,” he said. “Nathan’s gotta go. Plain as that.” He reached past her and slipped the office door closed, eyes never leaving her face.
How could she explain a fear to him that was both rational and irrational? That she could lose her father, the only person that had ever been hers entirely, unconditionally? That there was no way to not make that hard on herself?
“Let’s go,” Hassan said.
Surprised by the dampness of her face, Edy wiped it with the back of her hand.
“But I haven’t had breakfast yet,” she said.
“We’ll get it on the way.”
He took her by the hand, led her out the door.
“On the way?”
“To school. We’ll be a little late, that’s all.”
Twenty minutes later they grabbed a corner table at Ted’s Diner and ordered waffles, hash browns, coffee, and kept heads low in the event of nosy neighbors. There were always nosy neighbors. How much time passed in silence, Edy couldn’t say.
“He’ll come bac
k,” Hassan said into his coffee. “He’ll come back because we need him.”
When he found her staring, Hassan chucked a bit of potato at her nose.
Edy responded with a boiled egg to the eye.
He could have blocked it, she knew, but apparently he’d found the idea of being attacked with an egg too amusing to pass on. When she followed the egg with a strawberry, he swatted it, eyes still on her.
“You don’t want to rumble with me, Edy. You must realize you’re outgunned.”
He gestured to all the food before him, twice as much as what she’d ordered.
Edy snorted on a laugh. “Rhinecorn would spazz if we showed up late and filthy.”
Hassan shrugged. “Maybe we won’t go today. Maybe we’ll just . . . slip back in the house once all is clear.”
Edy stared at him. This wasn’t funny anymore.
“Breathe,” Hassan said. “I’m kidding. We’ll only miss a few periods.”
“We’ll get in trouble,” Edy said. “Detention, again for starters.”
“Yeah?”
“And your whole team will have to run laps.”
“Yeah.”
“So why are you doing this?”
Hassan shrugged, gaze on a still full cup of coffee. “It bothers me to see you upset. That’s all.”
He reached over and pinched her nose, earning her smile despite her best efforts.
They did indeed earn detention, having arrived at school one period before lunch. In class and after, she felt the stares of the masses and bet they all knew that she’d missed half the day, that she had no excuse, and that she’d arrived with Hassan—both with food on their clothes.
Hassan, to his credit, found the whole thing hilarious. The smile faded, however, when he pulled her to join him in the cafeteria and she insisted on waiting in the hall for Wyatt, instead. After ten minutes in the corridor at their trusted meeting place, Edy entered the cafeteria and spotted Wyatt at their table, shoulders hunched, shoveling food into his mouth as if bent on first place in a race. Hassan sat a little ways off at his usual table, eating at a leisurely pace.
He’d let her wait, like an idiot. It wouldn’t have taken much for him to stick his head out and tell her to come and join them.
Then again, it was Wyatt who’d blown her off without saying why.
For three days he’d been too busy to talk in the halls, always en route to someplace else. For two days he’d been MIA at lunch.
Edy powered for him, brown bag lunch swinging. Wyatt looked up, registered her, scanned the room, and grabbed his lunch tray. He headed straight for the “it” table. Matthew and Mason made room.
Edy stopped, waited, and watched the boys resume eating. Only when her arms began to ache did she realize she still stood there.
“Hey, Cake,” Hassan said as she dropped into a seat.
Matt tugged her ponytail in greeting. Mason managed some sort of food spewing greeting around a mouthful of taco while Wyatt only waved. Edy raised an eyebrow.
“Did we have a fight and you forgot to tell me, Wyatt?” she asked.
Wyatt studied his chili.
“Leave him alone,” Matt said. “He’s enjoying the food and hanging with the boys, you know.”
She turned on Wyatt. “What did they do to you? Tell me and I’ll fix it.”
Red blotched Wyatt’s face. His gaze darted from each boy back to Edy. “What makes you think anyone did something to me? Or that anyone could? I’m my own man.”
“Slow down, Slim,” Hassan said.
“I’m sitting here because I want to,” Wyatt said. He swallowed. “Because I do what I want.”
A pair of blondes at the table snickered. Wyatt shifted his gaze to Matt.
“Isn’t that right?” he said.
Matt’s spoon hung in midair, halfway to the chili.
Edy raised a brow. “In that case, my birthday’s coming up,” she said, gaze even with Wyatt’s. “And I always have a party. Want to be my date?”
“No,” Hassan blurted.
Lawrence choked on his chili. Hassan burrowed a demonic glare into Wyatt, even as Wyatt stole furtive glances at the twins. After a thick swath of silence, Mason cursed, then gave him an indiscernible nod.
“Well, I guess that means ‘yes,’” Edy announced. “So I’ll see you if your captors permit it.”
She looked from one boy to the next, conflicted. Not for the first time, an avalanche of contrary emotions yanked at once. She hated their swarming, and hated their insistence on meddling. She wanted to show them that she could thwart all their plans. Edy could think of no better way, than going out with Wyatt. Yeah, she didn’t like him like him but it made her point. If only it didn’t kind of grate her teeth.
Edy stormed from the table, lunch uneaten, eager to get away from it all.
They were always micromanaging her, always hovering, with their overcharged masculinity and patriarchal fixations. She could rule her own mind and her own body, as good, if not better than one of them. Weren’t they the ones always in trouble? Drinking at parties, sleeping with girls, driving like maniacs with the devil on their heels? Edy had always been the responsible one, the obedient one, the sensible voice, and never did more than simmer, not even when wronged. At least that’s how she used to be. She didn’t know what was happening to her just now.
Anger seized her so much; she needed to rage right then. She could claw the paint from the walls and shriek at the ceiling that she-had-her-own-mind. Only, who would hear; who would care? So, Edy didn’t scream. She never did. Instead, she went to her locker to get the books for her next class, head low. A lucky break had her turning up a Tylenol sample on her top shelf. She didn’t know how they’d be for stomach aches, but something had to help the grating, churning, roller derby underway in her abdomen.
By fifth period, whispers drifted through the halls. By sixth, they’d been replaced by open gaping, wide eyed staring: the equivalent of shouts at their high school. Word was that she’d thrown herself at the new boy and even he had rejected her. Just like the Dysons. Just like Hassan. But just as quickly as the rumors appeared, they disappeared, crushed behind some unseen force.
Protection. That was what her boys gave her. Whether Edy wanted it or not.
Nine
Six days since her daddy left. A few more till Thanksgiving. Edy’s eyes flew open, and the scent of ocean water receded with each waking moment.
She turned fifteen today.
Fifteen and without a period, though the impertinent thumbtacks she passed off as breasts hurt like hell. She supposed that counted for something.
She’d spent the last three days in detention. Skipping the first three periods of class with Hassan had earned her an afternoon for each hour of tardiness. When compared to Hassan’s punishment of running drills until nightfall, Edy felt like she should have been able to muster more outrage. She hadn’t.
Her gaze slid over to the window facing his room. A shot of blue through the fogged pane caught her eye. She went over and used the sleeve of her pajama top to wipe a path for her vision. It was just as Sandra Jacobs scrambled out and made an unceremonious dump to the ground. Hassan’s head followed her exit, and he watched her descend, waiting to ensure her safety.
Had she been there all night? Had she kissed him in the dark and slept on his favorite Patriots sheets? Had he held her as he held Edy, with her cheek to his heart as they slept? His sheets, his bedroom, his body, it would all smell of that cloying fragrance she wore. He’d come to Edy like that; he’d come to Edy on her birthday, smelling like the girl she hated most.
Hassan’s head snapped up and their eyes locked.
Edy jerked away from the window.
“Good morning, my sanam! I see you’re up early!”
Edy’s bedroom door flew open and Hassan’s father marched in. She whirled to face him, heart thumping, back pinned to block his view. Ali Pradhan, formidable girth that he was, stood in her doorway, dressed in the simple white button-up
and slacks that he preferred for most everything. He held a clear Dixie cup of blueberry lassi out in one hand, Edy’s favorite drink.
“Have you seen your dress yet?” he asked.
The dress. The birthday dress. Edy’s gaze slid over to the swath of tangerine fabric draping the backside of her door.
“I know your father usually takes the honor,” Ali said. “But I couldn’t help myself. All things considered, of course.” His eyes darted from Edy to the fabric in beaming certainty.
Edy lifted it from the door for a careful inspection. Blinding tangerine in winter. Puffed long sleeves. High waisted. Ankle length. Gleaming gold trinkets attached, seemingly at random. Madness could be bought, it turned out.
Every year for her birthday, Edy’s father bought her a dress. When she was little, they were coupled with tiaras and pin curls. Growing up, the years were measured in fabric, marked in lace, noted with pearls. But the dresses never changed. Hoop skirts and tea-length numbers, unabashed in width, nauseating in sweetness, ruffles innumerable, with Rani standing by, resident stylist, ready to place a fountain of ribbons in Edy’s hair. More than once, Edy wished them longer, so that she might tie one around her neck and jump.
“I had this one made,” Ali announced, chest puffed. “The fabric? Imported from Mumbai. The design and sewing? Done to my specifications by a very exclusive shop. No one can boast a dress like this.” He waved both hands. “For you, my sanam, only one of a kind will do.”
Her eyes watered. This should have been the year she refused the dresses and scorned the smothering patriarchy that dictated what she wore on her most special of days. After all, she’d be sixteen next year—too old for frosting and tinsel and grownups at her parties. Truth told, she already was. But even as she thought all that, her hands reached for the garment. This was Ali. He’d read to her on countless nights and pushed her too high on swings, catching her when she leapt off as she always, always did. Of course, she’d wear it for him.
Love Edy Page 9