Love, Hate and Other Filters(54)

Too late to disappear.

Damn it. I’ve told you a million times not to play in the house. You’re going to pay for that, boy, the man yells as he loosens his belt and wraps it a couple times around his hand to get a tight grip.

The mother runs out of her room, pleading.

The boy takes the first blow standing up and then falls to the ground, hoping playing dead will make the man stop.

But he forgets to cover his head, and the buckle strikes hair and skin and bone.





“Maya, beta!” I hear my mother’s voice before my parents even enter the curtained-off examination area. My father looks grim. My mother immediately bursts into tears upon seeing me. She clutches me in a death grip.

“Mom, I’m okay … but … you’re hurting me,” I say, trying to nudge her away.

I study my parents. They look beleaguered. It’s like they’ve aged another decade since this morning. My mom’s face is completely ashen. I have a strong urge to move and let her lie down in my place.

My doctor walks back in, saving me from a parental conversation that might be even more painful than my elbow. He details my various injuries: hairline fracture in my left elbow, a deep contusion in my thigh, and various other minor bruises and scrapes.

My mother rubs her temples, and while the doctor outlines what he expects to be a quick recovery process, Dean Anderson enters—along with one of the police officers that I saw talking to Phil. Chief Wickham from the Batavia PD follows. They shake hands with my dad and nod at my mother. We all stare at one another.

Chief Wickham disrupts the charged silence. “Maya, this is Officer Russell. He’s with the county sheriff’s office. He wants to ask you a few questions. The amusement park is in his jurisdiction, but he’s letting me sit in because of the ongoing investigation with the incident at your parents’ office. Are you up to it?”

I nod, my throat too dry to speak.

Officer Russell steps forward. He’s shorter than Chief Wickham, more barrel-chested. When he smiles, it’s natural. Friendly. Not like the chief, whose smile feels like he watched a YouTube tutorial on how to seem friendly. I answer Officer Russell’s questions. The memory feels fuzzy, like I’m looking through a soft-focus filter, but I give him every detail I can remember about what Brian did.

But then Officer Russell starts asking me about Phil. When he arrived, what he said, how many times he hit Brian. Then he uses the word assault. And it’s not Brian he’s accusing.

“Phil didn’t assault anyone. He prevented Brian from hurting me … more.” I shouldn’t have to say this. And it makes me feel sick that I have to.

“Unfortunately, Brian has a different story.” Officer Russell looks at me. “He claims you two simply exchanged words and that you were injured in the scuffle with Phil. So we’re looking at two possible assaults.”

“He’s lying.” I want to scream, but my voice is a scratch.

“We’ll sort it out, but for now it’s your word and Phil’s word against his.”

“Wait. My camera. I almost forgot. I had it recording the whole time. There’s probably no decent picture, but I’m sure I got audio.”

Officer Russell nods. “That could help us get all of this straightened out.”

“And my daughter’s safety?” my mom asks. “When she goes to school? Who is going to be protecting her from this … this …?”

“Both of the young men will be suspended from school and—”

“Both? Why is Phil suspended? That’s not fair.” I start rising out of my bed, but my father places a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“Fighting has consequences. It’s school policy.”

“But Phil didn’t pick the fight—”

“Maya, let the dean decide what is or isn’t fair,” my father says.

I collapse back against the pillows.

“We’ll take a look at any footage you might have caught, miss, and share it with the DA’s office,” Officer Russell says.

I motion at my mom, and she pulls the camera out of my bag and hands it over.

“The county will be working with Batavia on this, so I’ll make sure it’s returned to you, Maya,” Chief Wickham promises.

The policemen leave, but Dean Anderson hesitates at the door. “I don’t expect to see you at school tomorrow, either, Maya. Take as much time as you need. Stay at home and rest up. Get a little TLC from your parents. Dr. and Dr. Aziz, I know how frightening this must be for you. You have my assurances that we will do everything in our power to ensure that Maya is safe at school.”

Tears well in my eyes. My head pounds. I barely hear the doctor give my parents my at-home care instructions—a sling, a prescription, and physical therapy starting next week.



Back home, I half-hug my mom and then shut my door. I pull down the blinds and draw the curtains. Using only my right hand, I brush, splash water on my face, and fumble-strip down to my underwear, leave my clothes in a pile on the floor, and climb into bed, cell phone in hand. I dial Phil’s number. I don’t want to text. I want to talk to him. I get his voicemail.

“Phil … it’s me … Maya.” My voice is raspy. “I wanted to make sure … are you … okay? I’m so sorry. I gave the police my camera … I got footage of Brian cornering me. It should help explain how you helped me. I don’t know what else to say. Except … thanks.”