Love, Hate & Other Filters(41)

Lisa and Megan bounce up to Phil and Tom. Lisa puts her arm through Phil’s. Apparently, the rumors of their breakup were greatly exaggerated. I want to turn away. I should. Evidently, I’m a glutton for punishment.

“Let’s go,” Violet says to me as she frowns at Phil.

We move through the parking lot and begin walking up the ramp to the school doors. From the corner of my eye, I see Brian. He’s jogging toward us. I get a queasy feeling in my stomach.

Instinctively, I speed up.

When he’s within earshot, he yells, “Is that terrorist your uncle?”

He sounds gleeful and disgusted at the same time. There’s a viscous, dreamlike quality to all of this. I turn to him. For a split second, I think maybe he didn’t say what I thought he said. Maybe he’s not talking to me. But who else could he be talking to? My mouth is wide open. My mind races to find a retort, but it’s muddled. I’ve heard the words before. The taunts. I should know to expect them now. But the words still cut.

“Shut up, Brian,” is all I manage to get out.

Brilliant. I wish I were better under fire with scalding barbs. Not my strong suit. There is so much more to say. So much more I want to scream. I want to get in his face, to tower over him. But I’m a foot too short for that.

“Go to hell, Brian,” Violet yells. “You fucking jerk.”

“Oooh, so touchy. Well, the terrorist has the same last name as Maya, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, and he’s a sick asshole,” Violet responds. “That’s a thing you have in common.”

He grins. I can see how our words are like fuel that incites him further. “Why don’t you people leave America if you hate it so much?”

I wince, remembering the conversation I had with my parents. My own words spat back at me. “I was born here, you racist! And that guy was Egyptian. My family’s Indian.” My temples throb. Why am I even explaining? I shouldn’t need to explain, and it shouldn’t matter where my family is from. But I do. And it does.

A small crowd gathers around us, watching.

“Let’s go, Maya. Ignore him.” Violet takes my elbow. But the anger courses through me; my feet are cemented in place.

“Egyptian? Indian? What’s the difference? You’re both ragheads.” Spit comes out of Brian’s mouth as he yells.

I want to slap him. I want him to hurt.

A smile spreads across his lips as he turns away.

For the first time, I’m aware of the tension in my body, a rubber band stretched to its limit. I let my shoulders relax from my ears. I blink back tears. I won’t let myself cry. Not over this.

Violet moves in to hug me. “I’m so sorry,” she breathes.

“Please, you don’t need to be sorry.”

“You’re right. Enough of the Hallmark moment,” she says, taking my elbow. She knows I want to move on. “Let’s get to class. I doubt Brian will bother you again.”



The first half of the school day passes routinely. I don’t see Brian anywhere, but clearly, word’s gotten around. That’s one of the things I hate most about a small high school. Everyone knows everything immediately. There’s not even a semblance of anonymity. Or privacy.

At lunch, I want to grab a salad and keep my head down, but Phil walks up to me at the salad bar. It’s the first time we’ve been in any sort of proximity since the painfully awkward crying moment in his car.

“I heard about what Brian said to you,” he says, staring down at his tray. “I’m sorry. He’s an ass. I’m going to talk to him. I should’ve said something to him before …” His voice trails off, like his mind has wandered away.

I give Phil a quizzical look. “Don’t worry about it. It’s no one else’s fault. Besides, I’m over it. You kinda have to have a thick skin if you happen to be Muslim and live in America.”

I want to talk to Phil. I want to snare his attention. But not for this. And I definitely don’t want to open myself up to being hurt. Again.

“So … ummm … whatever happened with NYU?” he asks.

“I’m going. My parents gave in.”

He finally looks up, his face bright. “That’s amazing. Congratulations. I’m really happy for you.”

I look into Phil’s smiling eyes. For a second, my defenses come down. My heart leaps from my chest. I smile in thanks.

“Listen, Maya, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” Phil takes a hesitant half-step closer to me. “I’m sorry. Things got complicated.”

“You mean with Lisa?” And the defenses are up again. Fully reinforced.

His mouth opens, but his words take their time coming out. “Well … no … I mean … I guess … but why—?”

“Maya.”

I jump.

Dean Anderson has said my name. His voice is impossible to miss, the one no student ever wants to hear in the cafeteria, or anywhere else, really: grizzly, smoked too much over the years, always a few decibels louder than necessary.

Only this time, a police officer, who looks barely older than me, stands a couple feet behind him. The entire cafeteria tunes into the show. My chest tightens.

“Yes?” I ask and rub my forehead.

“I need to speak with you. Do you mind if we step outside?”