Internment(11)

I look at my palms, tracing the remnants of the tiny crescent marks that I pressed into my own skin. Words rise from my gut to my throat, and they taste bitter.

“How’s Ivy?” I ask the chief.

My parents both swing their heads in my direction. My mom grabs my hand and squeezes it, an indication I should stop talking—but fear and anger are waging a war inside me right now, and I can’t stop myself. If I can’t leave this car, if I have to hear the chief’s “following orders” excuse, the least I can do, the one thing I can do, is remind him that he knows us. He’s “escorting” us away from our whole life, and I don’t think it’s my job to make him feel comfortable about that, even if my mom is giving me the death stare to silence me.

“Did she decide on a college yet?” I don’t have the energy or acting skills to make my voice sound chirpy, like I want to, so my delivery is totally deadpan, which I suppose fits with how I feel.

I see the chief glance into his rearview mirror, and I make eye contact with him for a second before he looks away. “She’s fine. Thanks for asking. Not quite settled on a school, though.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I know the feeling.”

Maybe my mom is right when she says I’m sometimes stubborn for no reason. I imagine they aren’t saying anything because they’re afraid something worse could happen. I’m not sure what else we can lose, but if I’m being honest, I’m terrified that we’ll find out.


Union Station in Los Angeles is an art deco–mission revival mash-up wonder of inlaid marble tile, vaulted wood ceilings, and light fixtures that would make Frank Lloyd Wright proud. We’ve been here before. Normally, I’d close my eyes, ignoring the gum wrappers and wadded-up tissues that litter the sticky floor, to wonder at this echo of a time when people dressed up for dinner on trains with names like the Sunset Limited and the Pacific Sunrise, when train travel was romantic and featured in black-and-white movies. But now, as I stand outside in the broken quiet of the night, my synapses are firing with a million questions at once. I wrap my arms around my body, literally trying to hold myself still because my fight-or-flight adrenaline is in overdrive and I don’t know which way it’s going to lead me. Both, I think.

There are guards here, too. Same as the ones who were at my house, but more. Dozens more. This time, under the glare of extra lights that have been set up outside, I focus so I see them more clearly. There’s been increased security in public places—airports, train stations, even shopping malls. Somehow, seeing soldiers with giant guns strapped across their chests always makes me feel more scared and less safe. Maybe scaring people is part of the plan. But the soldiers here, the Exclusion Guards—their sandstone-colored uniforms look crisp, new. Jacket, pants, cap, boots, and bulletproof vest, like the kind the police have, but more heavy-duty and with shiny black plates across the front, like something Batman might wear. Our military is diverse, but not this shiny, new branch. They’re all white, it seems. A victory for nostalgic racists longing for the “good old days” of segregated units and separate bathrooms.

A gauntlet of guards lines the sidewalks to the entrance, some at the curb, others with their backs to the stone building. Their eyes alert. Their fingers aren’t on the triggers, but the air is so charged, it feels that way. I notice an American flag patch on each soldier’s sleeve, and below that a black rectangle with EXCLUSION AUTHORITY embroidered in white.

Outside the main entrance of the train station is the first checkpoint—a series of desks. That’s what the chief calls it. There are a couple dozen other people lined up, each with a bag in hand. Some other desis, an African American family, a few people who look like they might be from the Middle East. It’s after midnight, and everyone looks exhausted, almost jet-lagged. And it’s quiet—so quiet you can hear the buzz of the makeshift lighting that has been set up outside.

“This is where I leave you,” the chief says, as if he’s dropping us off for vacation instead of pointing us toward a sign that shows people where to line up according to last name. Which is next to a sign with enumerated instructions of what to do. This is Los Angeles; I’m used to seeing signs in public places with instructions in multiple languages. But not here. English only. And the chief gestures us toward a damn desk, so casually. As if men with giant guns meant to keep us quiet and herded in is normal. It’s not normal. So why are people acting like it is?

The chief extends his hand toward my dad, who takes it in his own—but when I see my dad’s face, he seems almost as surprised as I am that’s he’s acquiesced to this handshake. Maybe it’s a reflex he couldn’t help.

“Good luck, Ali,” the chief says, then quickly darts away, as if he’s the one who is afraid of us. The irony is not lost on me.

“Thanks for your service, Chief.” I don’t hide my sarcasm. My mom shushes me even though the chief is probably no longer in earshot.

“Layla, you really need to watch your tone,” she whispers. “You’re far too sarcastic for your own good. There might be a time for it, but it’s certainly not right now.”

I shake my head. “Mom, I think tone policing is the least of our problems.”

“Maybe,” my dad adds. “But your mom is right. Don’t draw attention to yourself. We need to blend in if we’re going to get through this.”