Redeployment(64)

She nodded.

“That’s not why I joined the Army,” I said.

“So why did you?”

I laughed. “‘Be All That You Can Be’?” I said. “I don’t know. That was the slogan for me, growing up. And then it was ‘Army of One,’ which I never understood, and then it was ‘Army Strong,’ which is about as good a slogan as ‘Fire Hot’ or ‘Snickers Tasty’ or ‘Herpes Bad.’ A better slogan would be, ‘You Can’t Afford College Without Us.’”

She seemed to be sizing me up, deciding how to take what I’d told her. I sat and smoked and didn’t say anything. Eventually she leaned back into her chair and gave me the sort of straight look she’d use in class before tearing someone apart.

“So that’s your story,” she said. “The story you wanted to tell me. Now what?”

I shrugged.

“Do you tell this story to other girls?”

“I’m being honest,” I said. “I’m not honest with other girls. It hurts my chances.”

She shook her head. “You say you joined for college? I don’t believe you.” Then, imitating my voice, “Nobody joins the Army to avoid pulling triggers.”

“You got no idea why anybody joins the military,” I said, the words coming out angrier than I wanted. “No f*cking clue.”

She smiled and leaned in, enjoying my anger. It was her, the old Zara.

“I know what you think,” I said. “I know your type.”

“My type?” she said. “You mean Muslims?”

“Why’s it always Muslims with you?”

“I know you don’t like us.”

“That’s not true.”

She shook her head. “We say things for a reason,” she said.

I sighed. “I’ve been hated as a Muslim. The last time my father hit me was after a kid at school called me a ‘sand nigger.’”

“What?” Zara said. “Your father hit you?”

“It’s how I handled it. The fight…” I stopped for a moment, tried to figure how I’d explain it to her. “Look, I went to a nice high school in northern Virginia, in a town too expensive for us to live in. My father moved us there when I finished junior high. He wanted me to have the best education. Which was great, I guess, though I really didn’t fit in.

“The fight turned out to be a big deal because a teacher overheard the kid using that word. The n-word. This was after 9/11, and it wasn’t that kind of town, you know? They didn’t see themselves that way. It became a big incident, and there was a lot of sympathy for me, because I was Arab, and because of 9/11, and because of what he said. I hated all of it. I don’t like pity.”

“What did you do to the kid?”

“Yelled back a few names.”

“That’s not really enough, is it?”

“My dad didn’t think so. It’s why he hit me. Because I hadn’t fought the kid who was insulting me and, by implication, our whole family. Or maybe he was just pissed the school principal seemed to think we were Muslim, too.”

Zara looked down and fiddled with her head scarf. “My father thinks Islam is the religion of poor blacks,” she said. “He says people will think I picked it up in prison.”

“Is that why you joined?” I said. “To piss off Daddy?”

She sighed and shook her head.

“So why?” I said.

“I’m learning why,” she said. “The practice of it teaches me.”

“And the clothes?” I said. “The whole…” I waved my hands at her.

She touched her head wrap. “It’s part of the commitment,” she said quietly. “What was it you said to the Special Assistant? Perception is reality?”

“Yeah.”

“Wearing this, people treat me like I’ve made a change in my life. Which I have.” She smiled. “That matters,” she said.

“In the military,” I said, “that’s part of why they give you the uniform.”

She nodded and we were quiet again. I could feel her slipping away. Her mind, perhaps, wandering off to other subjects. I knew I’d failed to communicate. Of course I had. I didn’t know what I wanted to tell her, just that I’d tell her anything to keep her listening.

Silence became awkward, then agonizing. She looked at me, her body relaxed but her eyes fixed on mine. Words, I thought, any words will do. If I were seducing her, I’d know what to say.