Internment(24)

“Yes, we can’t even open the windows in our, um, Mercury Home,” my mom says.

Ayesha’s mom jumps in. “I don’t know how we’ll keep the clothes clean at all.”

I look at Ayesha, and she shakes her head a little. I guess dust is going to be like the weather, the thing you talk about when you can’t think of anything else to say.

We are allowed to get our food only when our block number is called. When it’s our turn, Ayesha and I head toward the line, and our parents follow. We file past the cafeteria workers to collect our plates of rice and some unrecognizable vegetable stew. There are milk boxes, fruit cups, and Jell-O. “I feel nauseous,” she says, looking at the food. “I don’t know if I can eat.”

“Same,” I say.

“It’s like junior high lunch all over again.” Ayesha grimaces as we walk back to our table.

“Down to the hairnets and surly looks from the cafeteria workers.” I scowl as I take my first bite. “And apparently, the only seasoning is salt. Is this supposed to be some kind of desi dish?”

“Serving this in a Pakistani home would be sufficient reason to be disowned.” Ayesha scoots closer to me and whispers, “The Director—holy shit.”

My upper body stiffens. I look around, worried that someone will hear her. But the clatter of lunch trays and cutlery is loud enough, so I let go of the tension in my shoulders. “I know. That was terrifying. It’s like he’s not even a real person. But the thing is, he is a person, which I guess makes it even more frightening. The scariest monsters are the ones who seem the most like you.”

“Where do you think they’ll take that woman?” Ayesha asks, lowering her voice to the barest whisper, even though I don’t think anyone else can hear her.

Part of me doesn’t want to think about it. “Jail, maybe? I mean, besides this open-air prison we’re all in? I guess there’s probably some kind of holding area here. I don’t know. I kind of don’t want to know what’s happening to her,” I admit. “I hope they don’t hurt her. I mean, more than they already have.”

I know I’m being na?ve, but I want to hold on to some hope for the woman—for all of us. Even if it’s a false one.

“It’s not like we have civil liberties in here—or lawyers.” Ayesha puts her hand over her mouth as this dawns on her.

“It’s like Guantanamo, except in California. I’m scared of what will happen if we get stuck here. There’s got to be something we can do.…” My voice trails off.

Ayesha’s eyes grow wide. She opens her mouth, then snaps it shut without a word. Maybe I’ve said too much.

We’re quiet for a while. I don’t think either of us can stomach any more discussion about the consequences the woman from the auditorium might be facing.

I push aside my plate of internment slop and tear open the fruit cup.

“So, which is your favorite?” Ayesha breaks the silence.

“Favorite what?”

“Star Wars film. Remember our conversation from earlier? At the train station? About Lando being the best?”

“Shit. That really was just earlier today, wasn’t it?” Ayesha nods and looks down, then shovels a little bit of rice onto her fork and raises it to her mouth. She puts it back down. And sighs. My stomach twists a little. I know what Ayesha wants: a second of normalcy. I can give her that. I take a deep breath. “Well, I haven’t seen anything before The Force Awakens, and I only went to that because my parents made me.”

“You haven’t seen the prequels or the original trilogy? The podrace? Young Luke? This is a travesty. We have to fix that.”

I grin. “My mom had this girlhood crush on Luke Skywalker,” I say. And it’s true. “She talks about waiting in line to see Star Wars when she was kid, and I swear to God there’s this reverence in her voice, like it was a religious experience. She joined Twitter to follow Mark Hamill.”

Ayesha laughs. “I totally like your mom. But, hello, Riz Ahmed is in Rogue One. A desi in Star Wars. I still haven’t recovered.”

I laugh a little. It’s nice to chuckle, to feel a moment of lightness. But I immediately silence myself because it also feels wrong. The moments of almost-normalcy hurt.

Saleem, our minder, stands. He’s got a neatly trimmed brown beard, which I think he hopes makes him look older, but it doesn’t hide his baby face. Fauzia stands up next to him and smiles at us. They’re almost the same height and build, maybe five foot six, both kind of skinny, with shoulders like swimmers. Her smile feels almost genuine. Not Saleem’s, though; apparently, he’s not a good enough actor to make his slight smile look anything but forced.

“Block Two, we will walk back to our Mercury Homes together. Remember, we operate as a team.” Saleem tries to make eye contact with as many people as possible while he speaks. He’s so rigid and rehearsed, he sounds like a talking manual.

“There are lots of things to learn about, and I’m sure everyone would like to settle in,” Fauzia adds. “A ten p.m. curfew is strictly enforced. We want our block to be perfect. The Director has promised extra privileges for the blocks that meet standards without any violations. Remember, if you have any questions, our door is always open.” She pauses and then adds with a hesitant smile, “There are cameras, and drones will be monitoring. You’ll be… safe. Unity. Security. Prosperity. Khudafis.” Fauzia leaves us with the Urdu greeting “go with God.” But I notice that Saleem grabs her hand and squeezes; she bites her lip and clears her throat. “I mean, have a good night.”