Internment(32)

I’m at the farthest end of the rock garden, trying to give Ayesha and Soheil some semblance of privacy. Ayesha’s worried about being caught alone with him, so I’m her cover for this quick visit with Soheil.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Soheil inch closer to Ayesha—they’re perched on one of the giant rocks. I quickly turn away, occupy myself again with throwing pebbles. I’m not looking, but they’re only about ten feet away. I can hear everything, but I pretend not to.

“Do you think it’s weird we met in here?” Ayesha asks Soheil.

“‘Weird’ is one way to say it. Another is ‘fucked up,’” Soheil responds. “But I’m so glad we did.”

Ayesha laughs. “Yeah, it’s not exactly how I imagined a meet-cute.”

“How did you picture it?”

“Well, I guess I saw myself entering this giant auditorium. It’s packed, people jostling for a seat. Excitement crackles in the air. It’s the Star Wars panel at Comic-Con. Then I see him, across the crowded room. This handsome guy—”

“You forgot dashing,” Soheil interrupts.

“Oh, sorry. There’s a handsome, dashing guy across the room. Our eyes lock. All we see is each other, and then the action slows around me, the faces blur. He walks up to me. And my heart is beating, like, super fast. And he extends his hand and says, ‘Hi, I’m Riz Ahmed.’”

I try to stifle a snicker. I turn my head to catch Ayesha’s eye, but she’s only looking at Soheil, whose laugh is loud and warm.

The camp-wide siren sounds.

“Why don’t you guys go ahead to dinner. I’ll catch up,” I say to Ayesha and Soheil.

“You okay?” Ayesha asks.

“Yeah, I’m good. Need a minute alone.” I smile as the two of them set off.

Dinner in the Mess. Again. I don’t think I can stand much more of this. More pretending. More fake smiles and meaningless exchanges with the minders, who always make sure to say hello to each of us during dinner. More sitting on edge but faking like everything is normal. More wanting to scream but holding it in because screaming gets you dragged away. In the Mess, we’re all together in an enclosed space, minders and guards everywhere, and the air is so charged with fear and anxiety, but we can’t acknowledge it; we’re too scared to draw attention. In this place, the last thing you want is attention.

I close my eyes. As the sun sets, the evening cools. If I block everything out, for a minute—just for a minute—I can breathe without a weight on my chest. I let my mind float where it wants to go. It always settles on everyday things. Going to the movies. Air-conditioning. Ice cream. Kissing David in the stacks of the school library. School. For the barest second, I pray that I’ll wake up from this nightmare and be home. Then I force myself to open my eyes and face the stark desert. There’s no place for nostalgia here.

“Layla.” The sound of his voice makes me jump up. Corporal Reynolds is alone. He hasn’t turned me in for yelling at him. And for saying I hate the president, which used to be free speech but qualifies as treason now. Not clapping for the president at his damn State of the Union address is practically sedition. And some people still think this is a democracy.

I wipe the dust off my jeans. Pretend everything is okay. Well, as okay as it can be. I nod. “I know. I know. Mealtime. I’ll hurry and get to my five-star dinner,” I say, and begin walking toward the Mess. I usually meet my parents there. They’ll panic if I don’t show up on time.

Corporal Reynolds grabs my elbow.

I freeze. I look up at him, my mouth open. Waves of dread wash over me, and every internal alarm I have is blaring. Maybe I was stupid for thinking he wasn’t going to turn me in. Maybe he was waiting to find me alone so I would be easier to take away. Oh God, how could I have been so careless?

“I… I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was late. I’ll run to catch up with the others.” I lick my lips. Suddenly I’m parched. I blink back tears.

“It’s okay. You’re fine. I’m not taking you anywhere. Sorry. I shouldn’t have touched you.” He lets go of my arm. “Layla,” he starts again, but this time his voice is softer. “Hang back a second. I have something for you.”

People make their way to the Mess. The guards stationed at the blocks usually follow us to dinner before switching shifts. Everyone’s back is turned toward us. My instinct is to run. It’s always to run. But where? I wonder if after a while your body starts to wear down when you don’t listen to that fight-or-flight response. Does it start to give you the wrong signals because you’ve ignored all the earlier ones? Does that swooshing sound in your ears ever stop?

“I’m sorry you couldn’t get through to your boyfriend yesterday.”

That’s what he came to tell me? I stare up at him in disbelief.

“Look,” he says, and then carefully pulls what seems to be an ancient flip phone from his pocket and places it in my hand. “It’s a burner.”

My brain does not process what he’s giving me.

“Put it in your pocket. I’m going to escort you back to your trailer, and you’re going to walk into your bathroom clutching your stomach, and then call your boyfriend. You only have a few minutes. If anyone asks, you got sick by the garden, and I brought you here and then to the Mess. Do you understand?”