The Sun Is Also a Star(47)

Fitzgerald puts his pen down and leans back in his chair. “Why did you go to USCIS today? It’s not even their jurisdiction.”

I have to clear the tears pooling in my throat before I can answer. “I didn’t know what else to do.” The truth is, despite the fact that I don’t believe in miracles, I was hoping for one.

He’s silent for a long time.

Finally I can’t take any more. “It’s okay,” I say. “I know I’m out of options. I don’t even know why I came here.”

I make a move to get up, but he waves me back down. He steeples his fingers again and looks around the office. I follow his eyes to the unpacked boxes lining the wall just to his right. Behind him, a folding ladder rests against an empty bookshelf.

“We’re just moving in,” he says. “The construction guys were supposed to be done weeks ago, but you know what they say about plans.” He smiles and touches the bandage on his forehead.

“Are you okay, Mr. Fitz—”

“I’m fine,” he says, rubbing at the bandage.

He picks up a framed picture from his desk and looks at it. “This is the only thing I’ve unpacked so far.” He turns the picture so I can see it. It’s him with his wife and two children. They seem happy.

I smile politely.

He puts it back down and looks at me. “You’re never out of options, Ms. Kingsley.”



It takes me a second to realize that he’s back to talking about my case. I lean forward in my seat. “Are you saying you can fix this?”

“I’m one of the best immigration lawyers in this city,” he says.

“But how?” I ask. I lay my hands on his desk, press my fingers against the wood.

“Let me go see a judge friend of mine. He’ll be able to get the Voluntary Removal reversed so at least you don’t have to leave tonight. After that we can file an appeal with the BIA—the Board of Immigration Appeals.”

He checks his watch. “Just give me a couple of hours.”

I open my mouth to ask for more facts and specifics. I find them reassuring. The poem comes back to me. “Hope” is the thing with feathers. I close my mouth. For the second time today I’m letting go of the details. Maybe I don’t need them. It would be so nice to let someone else take over this burden for a little while.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers. I feel it fluttering in my heart.





MY DAD LOOKS AT ME from head to toe, and I feel like the second-rate slacker he’s always taken me for. I will always be Second Son to him, no matter what Charlie does. I must look even worse than when I first came in. The top button of my shirt is missing from where Charlie grabbed me. There’s even a bloodstain on it from my busted lip. I’m sweaty, and my hair is sticking to the side of my face. Premium Yale material right here.

He gives me an order. “Get some ice for your lip and come back out here.”

Charlie’s next. “You hit your little brother? That what you learn from America? To hit your family?”

I almost want to stay and hear where this goes, but my fat lip is getting fatter. I go into the back room and grab a can of Coke and press it against my lip.

I’ve never liked this room. It’s too small and always clogged with half-opened boxes of product. There are no chairs, so I sit on the floor with my back against the door so no one can get in. I need five minutes before dealing with my life again.



My lip throbs in time to my heartbeat. I wonder if I need stitches. I press the can closer and wait to feel (or not feel) the numbness.

This is what I get for letting the Fates guide me—beat up, girlfriend-less, future-less. Why did I postpone my interview? Worse, why did I let Natasha walk away?

Maybe she was right. I’m just looking for someone to save me. I’m looking for someone to take me off the track my life is on, because I don’t know how to do it myself. I’m looking to get overwhelmed by love and meant-to-be and destiny so that the decisions about my future will be out of my hands. It won’t be me defying my parents. It will be Fate.

The Coke can does the trick. I can’t feel my lip anymore. Good thing Natasha’s not here, because my kissing days are over, at least for today. And with her, there’s no tomorrow.

Not that she’d ever let me kiss her again.

From the other side of the door, my dad orders me to come out. I put the can back in the fridge and tuck my shirt in.

I open the door to find him standing there alone. He leans in close to me. “I have a question for you,” he says. “Why do you think it matters what you want?”

The way he asks, it’s like he’s genuinely confused by the emotion. What is this desire and wanting that you speak of? He’s confused by why they matter at all.

“Who cares what you want? The only thing that matters is what is good for you. Your mother and I only care about what is good for you. You go to school, you become a doctor, you be successful. Then you never have to work in a store like this. Then you have money and respect, and all the things you want will come. You find a nice girl and have children and you have the American Dream. Why would you throw your future away for temporary things that you only want right now?”



It’s the most my father has ever said to me at once. He’s not even angry as he says it. He talks like he’s trying to teach me something basic. One plus one equals two, son.