Love, Hate & Other Filters(51)

“I didn’t want to disturb you. I know it’s your spot. I should never … I’m sorry. I was presumptuous.” I long for grace under pressure, but I simply can’t conjure it.

“It’s fine,” Phil says in a voice so gentle and kind I might cry. The tips of his fingers graze my jeans, searing imaginary marks in my skin. “I took you there because I wanted to show it to you. Besides, I don’t own it or anything.”

“You’re kind of squatting, though.”

Phil grins. “I’m so edgy. But didn’t you want to … at least say hi?”

“I thought you might be there with someone else.” My cheeks redden.

“Who?”

I keep my voice low. Phil’s making me spell it out one painful, humiliating syllable at a time. “Lisa. I thought maybe you were there with her, and I didn’t want to be in the way.”

“I told you I’ve never taken her there. I’ve never taken anyone there but you.”

The earth stops spinning. I raise my eyes to his. I shouldn’t speak. If I don’t speak, this moment will exist, preserved in the amber of my memory forever, exactly perfect.

I do speak, though, because when have I ever been silent? “Then why have you been avoiding me?”

“I’ve been avoiding you?” Phil looks at me like I’m speaking in tongues.

I nod.

“I tried talking to you. I wanted to. I thought maybe you didn’t want to have anything to do with me after that crap with Lisa’s friends. And last week when I was talking to you, the dean came in with that cop. I texted you and didn’t hear back.”

I take a long, slow breath. “I guess— I couldn’t deal with the drama. And Lisa seemed happy, like you two were back together.”

Phil looks into my eyes. I don’t turn away. “I was trying to be a friend, and she took it the wrong way. Apparently subtlety is not my thing.”

“So you’re not … back … with—”

“No.” Phil grazes my shoulder with his. I let my hand rest on his forearm.

The bus stops.

Phil slides out of his seat. “I’ll talk to you later?”

I smile. It’s my first truly spontaneous smile since the bombing. It feels good to know I can still smile like that.

True Crime TV Profile: American Terrorist

The authorities are still piecing together the scraps of what appears to be the tragic and broken life of America’s homegrown suicide bomber, Ethan Branson. Here’s what we do know about this deeply disturbed young man: The FBI raid on the motel room that Branson stayed in the night before the bombing yielded only a handful of items—a copy of Timothy McVeigh’s letter to Fox News written in 2001 shortly before his execution and a novel that is said to have inspired McVeigh’s actions, The Turner Diaries. The Diaries describe a violent Aryan revolution in the United States that overthrows the government and seeks to take over the world.

The FBI also found an envelope placed squarely on the otherwise empty motel room desk. The standard inspections for trace elements of toxic substances came back negative, and the only fingerprints appear to be those of Branson. It was Branson’s last letter to the world. Two brief sentences in his scratchy handwriting:

Tell my mother I died for my country. I did what I thought was best.—John Wilkes Booth





Optimism is a funny thing. I swear I’m walking on clouds.

After lunch, I duck out of more roller coasters because I’ve had enough g-forces for one day, thank you very much. Also because all through lunch, Phil was smiling at me from across the food court and I was smiling back, and I’m secretly hoping that he ditches his friends to come find me. Of course, it’s not so secret because Violet made sure to announce a loud, “See you, Maya! Have fun filming by yourself!” as she left the food court with Monica and the boys. Real subtle like.

I’m glad she did.

I’m still wearing my post-Phil conversation smile as I film the park before I head back to the deserted food court. There’s a drinking fountain and bathrooms in a small courtyard surrounded by a hedgerow. When I walk out of the bathroom, I blink against the sun’s brilliance, but I know I’m glowing from the inside. I turn my camera on again. Walking up the path, I film the light dancing on the brick wall outside of the bathrooms.

“What are you smiling at?” Brian snarls at me as I step into the front courtyard. The light falls from the bricks; it falls from everything.

I lower my camera, grasp it tightly in my right hand, keeping it running. “N-n-nothing. The light and …”

I look left and right. Josh and Brandon stand a few feet behind Brian, flanking him, effectively cutting off my only exit. If they weren’t with Brian, I probably would’ve walked right by them. They both have these expressions that look more clueless than menacing. Sort of blank, I guess. They haven’t joined Brian in his shaved-head-and-fatigues look. But clearly they’re along for the ride.

I swallow and try not to let fear consume me. Think. Be cool. Figure it out. A hard pit forms in my stomach. I need to get out of here. “Are you guys having fun?” I try to make my voice sound confident, but it squeaks out of me. I’m buying time. Hoping someone passes by.

Brian looks at Josh and Brandon; they laugh. “Fun’s about to start,” he says.