Internment(14)

The door behind the guard slides open again. A tall, broad-shouldered Exclusion Guard steps into the vestibule. God, now there are two of them and I have literally nowhere to run. My hands shake. I can’t call for any help because the people who are enforcing the law on this train are the ones I’m afraid of. Every fiber in my body wants to scream and cry, and I want to pound my fists into the metal walls.

“What’s going on here?” the tall guard asks. His dirty-blond hair is cropped short. He twists his sandstone infantry cap in his hands. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing a small tattoo on the inside of his right forearm. Two arrows crossed, an N between the arrowheads. I turn my eyes away so he doesn’t see me looking.

The stocky guard straightens up and salutes. I guess the Exclusion Guards have ranks, too. “Sir, this internee was out of her seat, sir.”

That word slaps me across the face. Internee. Is that what we are now?

Speak. I need to force myself to speak up. If I don’t speak for myself, no one will. “I’m sorry. I was trying to find a bathroom.”

Compass Tattoo studies me, narrowing his eyes a bit. I bite my lip and glance down at my shoes. Am I shaking? It feels like I’m shaking.

He clears his throat. “Private, I think we can let this slide.”

“Sir, the internees were given clear orders, and so were we.”

“There are bathrooms on this car for a reason. We can’t expect all of them to stop having bodily functions, can we?”

The stocky guard glares at me, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, then squares himself to the other guard. “No, sir.”

Normally any conversation that includes the phrase “bodily functions” and me in the same sentence would have me burning with embarrassment. But not now. Now I’m enraged because my bathroom use has to be regulated and is up for debate.

“You can go back to your seat, Private.”

“Sir. Yes, sir,” the guard says and steps back into his car. I watch the door slide shut.

“I still have to use the bathroom,” I blurt out. I don’t know why I say this. I should go back to my car. I don’t even really need to use the bathroom. But I feel like somehow I should assert my right to do so. Which is maybe a stupid hill to die on.

Compass Tattoo nods. “Fine. Then hurry up and get back to your seat. And stay there.” I can’t tell if his words are a caution or a threat.

I’ve mostly been trying to avoid looking at the guards directly, but as I turn to leave, I raise my eyes to meet his. He holds my gaze.

A caution? Or a threat?





Independence, California. The town where we disembark for internment is called Independence. I balk at the irony of the name. And at how sunny the day is. There should be dark clouds and storms. Permanent night. But the earth, the sun, and the moon keep on their course, utterly oblivious.

A loud voice barks from the PA: “Stay with your families. You will board buses for Camp Mobius by identification number. Show the underside of your left wrist as you exit the station. Stay calm and exit in an orderly fashion.”

Camp Mobius? I guess that’s what they’re calling it. They give it a name, like it’s a summer sleepaway camp, and not a prison.

“We’re in the first group. Let’s get in line.” My dad walks numbly forward.

“How can you be so calm about this?” I hiss at my parents. I know it’s not their fault, but I’m tired, and nothing makes sense, and I desperately want an explanation for something, for anything.

My mom takes my elbow. “Layla, enough.” My mom’s voice is low but not soft. “We’re not calm like we’re meditating. We’re keeping our cool so we don’t get shot. Understand?”

“They’re not going to shoot us. We’re American citizens. They can’t.”

“Our government is jailing us because of our faith,” a voice from behind me says. I spin around to face a girl who looks about my age. “They can do whatever they want. They already are. It’s a brave new world.”

“We haven’t gotten to that book on the syllabus yet,” I say. “What happens?”

“Spoilers.” The girl grins. I like her already.

“I appreciate your commitment to protect the secrets of nearly century-old literature.”

“I pride myself on my anti-spoiler crusade.”

I laugh a little. “So you wouldn’t tell me the focus of the next Star Wars anthology film, even if you knew?”

“Never. But obviously it should be Lando.”

“Duh. I’m Layla, by the way.”

“Ayesha. First of My Name, Protector of Stories, Mother of Dragons, and Soon-to-Be Interned Muslim.”

“If you’re Indian, that’s two things we have in common. Not so much that dragon thing, though.”

“It’s Game of Thrones. You never read it? Watched it?”

I shake my head no.

“Your loss. And I’m Pakistani, but, you know, a desi is a desi.”

“Show your wrist,” an Exclusion Guard officer calls out. I move forward in the line and show the inside of my left wrist. I feel naked. The guard passes a UV light over my arm and a small fluorescent barcode appears at the base of my hand, a number unique to me, 0000105. It doesn’t hurt when he scans me, but I still feel like I’ve been branded. The guard nods, and I board a bus with my parents. We crowd onto a single bench seat in the middle of the school bus. Ayesha, her younger brother, and her parents file past. She nods at me. “See you when we get there.”