Internment(44)

“What? How? When did you see him?” My mind floods with questions, and my body pulls me toward David, but I hesitate. Hold back for a second.

“On the outside, by the motel I’m staying in. Listen, I don’t have time to explain everything; we only have a couple of minutes. I’m sorry about the other day. About everything. I am so scared for you. I didn’t think it through. I never considered what I was actually asking—the compromises I suggested you make. I dunno, I guess I was hoping that I could make some kind of proposal to my dad—your freedom in exchange for you and your parents cooperating with the Exclusion Authority. Like I even have any leverage to do that. My dad would never take me seriously. Or help me. Help us. I’m sorry. But I meant what I said. If you need me, I’m here for you. Tell me what to do.”

For a moment, I’m stunned. At his words. At this impossible situation. And then I’m in David’s arms, and I see myself like I’m outside my body. Drawing closer to him, closing my eyes, raising my lips to his, letting this place melt away. Kissing him feels like the one thing keeping me really and truly alive in this place. It’s a reminder of everything that has been taken from us, but it also gives me hope. That feeling lasts only a fleeting second, though, because in the next, I wonder if David can hear my stomach churn. I’m ridiculously overjoyed to see him, but also terrified for both of us. If he gets caught in here, like this, I don’t know how much his father can protect him. And my thoughts wander to Jake. I was right: He won’t give us up. And that makes me scared for him, too.

When we pull away from kissing, I reach into my back pocket and hand over the post I wrote. Tell him my idea. Tell him about the White Rose. About Sophie Scholl. About what I need him to do. What I know he will do.

Jake clears his throat, loudly. Time. The minutes are long in Mobius, but also there is never enough time.

“He told you, right? There are people talking and protesting, and the Occupy people are here—the rooms in town are all sold out. They’re sleeping in cars and tents. They brought the press. There’s this reporter at the motel. I talked to her this morning at breakfast. She’s super sympathetic. She has Muslim family. She’ll get your article out there. I’m sure of it. People will hear your words.” Between sentences, David peppers my face with kisses.

“Please be careful. My name isn’t on that, but if your name is revealed, they’ll come after you. And your parents—”

“My parents would go apeshit. But I don’t care. I know they want to protect me, but they need to remember the prejudice they’ve faced and fought. They need to wake up. I’ll be okay.” David kisses my forehead. “Trust me.” Then he puts a finger to his lips and slips me a small flip phone. He puts his lips to my ear. “It’s a burner. Don’t tell him. Call or text me when you can.”

I nod and slip the phone into my front pocket, happy that this old X-Files T-shirt is loose and pulled out of shape so that it stretches down well past my hips and hides the outline of the phone. Then I respond normally. “I do trust you. It’s everyone else in this stupid world I don’t trust. And things are happening here, too. I mean, they will. We’re talking about things happening.”

“Layla, please don’t give them an excuse to hurt you. This camp is operating outside the law. The attorney general can’t even control it.”

“I know. I’m on the inside, remember? But I can’t sit by and do nothing.” Sophie Scholl’s words come to mind. “Someone has to make a start.”

David pulls me into his arms and his hug feels like I’m enveloped in my beloved kantha quilt. “You’re amazing.”

We stand there for a second. Quiet. And it reminds me of a line from a Walt Whitman poem my dad sometimes whispers to my mom: There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word.

“I love you,” David whispers, and runs his index finger across the necklace he gave me.

When Jake walks back into the kitchen, David kisses me one more time. His kiss is feather-light, and there is a kind of beautiful and bittersweet magic in it. He picks up two bulging black garbage bags and heads out a side entrance. Watching him walk out of the room crushes me.

Jake pauses, waiting for David to leave before he takes my elbow and directs me back through the main dining hall and outdoors. He’s the one I’m most flummoxed by in all of this.

He walks unusually slowly, dragging his feet back to my trailer. He scans the space around us and the sky above us and then comes to an abrupt halt and faces me. “Wait. Please.” He pauses. “Writing that story and giving it to David. Jesus. I shouldn’t have snuck him in here. I can only protect you so much. I have orders. If you’re planning on doing something inside here—some kind of civil disobedience or insubordination—you’re going to get caught. There will be consequences, and I don’t know how much I can shield you.”

Jake’s face contorts with worry. Normally he’s so composed, barely betraying any emotion. He’s taking a risk, too. But that’s his choice. I’m making choices for myself.

I narrow my eyes at him and shove my hands into my pockets. “I gave him a note, that’s all.”

Jake rolls his eyes and tips head to the sky. He takes a deep breath. “The Director is not an idiot. You see the cameras. I told you—there’s only so much I can take care of right now. He will see you. And if he catches on to what you two are doing or whatever you’re planning to do on the inside, the consequence is going to be far worse than what you’ve seen. I heard you talking about the White Rose. Those kids were executed. This has to stop now. I’m not going to be a party to this anymore. I’m a fool for letting it go this far. The risks—you have no idea.”