Love, Hate & Other Filters(42)

My gaze turns to Phil for a second, searching, but I’m not sure for what.

Dean Anderson adds, “Why don’t you head to your table, Phil?”

Phil touches my arm. It’s a small gesture, protective. But I shouldn’t read into it. I know better now.



The hallway is empty. And silent. Except for my melon-colored Chuck Taylors, squeaking against the linoleum.

“Maya, this is Officer Jameson,” Dean Anderson says.

Officer Jameson holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Maya.” He takes off his glasses and tucks them in his shirt so I can see my distorted reflection in the mirrored lenses.

I bite my lip. I rub my clammy hands against my jeans. “You, too, Officer. What’s going on?”

“Maya, there’s been an incident at your parents’ clinic,” the dean begins. “They’re okay. Neither was seriously hurt.”

“Wh-a … wha-a-t happened?” My lip quivers, and my voice shakes.

Officer Jameson continues. “Someone threw a brick through the window.”

I cup my hand to my mouth to hold in a scream.

“Your dad got a gash on the forehead,” he continues in the same monotone. “A couple people in the waiting area have minor cuts from broken glass. Your mom was in a back exam room, so she’s unharmed.”

“My dad … did they catch who did it? I mean, why would …”

I look to Dean Anderson, who in turn looks back to Officer Jameson for a response. Dean Anderson can’t even look me in the eye.

“It appears to be a hate crime,” the officer says. “There was a note wrapped around the brick. Apparently, the bombing in Springfield angered the perpetrator. The brick through the window was a kind of warning.”

“A warning? It’s because our last name is the same as the terrorist’s, isn’t it?”

“We can’t speculate right now,” Officer Jameson explains.

Confusion, anger, and terror churn in my stomach. Thoughts fly through my brain at warp speed. First, Brian and the altercation this morning. And now this at my parents’ office. What if they attack us at home? A message? What if this is only the first?

“Are we … I mean … are my parents going to be safe?”

“Maya, I assure you the Batavia police department is taking this very seriously. We will find the perpetrator,” Officer Jameson says. I can see that he is trying to sound reassuring, but he might as well be telling me fairy godmothers are real, because nothing he says right now will make this okay.

“Can I go see my parents?”

“Of course,” Dean Anderson says. “Officer Jameson will take you—”

Violet bursts out of the lunchroom doors and into the hall, silencing him. It probably took all her patience to wait this long. “What’s going on?” she demands.

Dean Anderson frowns. “Young lady, I believe Officer Jameson and I were having a private discussion with Maya.”

Violet stares at him like he’s speaking an alien language, then turns to me.

“Someone threw a brick through my parents’ office window.” I repeat the officer’s words, not really believing them. “My dad got cut and a couple patients, too. It’s possibly revenge for the bombing.”

“What? No way. That’s horrible.” Violet turns to Officer Jameson. “I assume this qualifies as a hate crime and that the police will be pursuing every lead with all their formidable resources?”

Officer Jameson’s mouth betrays a slight smile. “Yes, miss. I was assuring your friend that once we catch the perpetrator, we will be throwing the book at him.”

“Good. Maya, did you tell them about this morning?”

I shake my head, swallowing.

“This would be a good time, don’t you think?” Violet says.

I don’t want to have this discussion.

Dean Anderson raises an eyebrow at us. “What happened this morning?”

“They need to know,” Violet presses me.

I hesitate, nervous what this conversation will lead to. I honestly can’t deal with any more drama at school. “Brian Jennings …”

“Bullied her. Because she’s Muslim. And there were witnesses.”

“Why didn’t you report this to me immediately?” Dean Anderson demands.

I don’t know how to answer. I just want this interrogation to be over.

“Maya,” Officer Jameson asks, “have there been any other incidents of this kind? Anything else off school property?”

“No. Nothing.”

“I want to make it clear that you need to report any other events of this type to the school immediately. If you’re threatened, and you’re not at school, call 911.” Officer Jameson reaches into his right front breast pocket and pulls out business cards. “You can also call me anytime, day or night. My cell phone number is on the card.”

Violet eagerly takes his card. “Thank you, Officer Jameson. We will all rest easier knowing you’re looking out for us.” Her tone changes from terse and direct to something softer, and I look up to see that she’s standing right in front of him, smiling. I almost laugh. Neither time nor circumstance will stop Violet’s flirting. I resist the urge to cry or hug her or both.