Internment(55)



“I’m coming in.” Ayesha barges through the door as I stand up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. She looks annoyingly awake. “Hurry up. Here, put this on.” Ayesha hands me my worn gray Wonder Woman T-shirt and a pair of jeans. As I’m dressing, she continues. “There are people. Press. Protestors. Outside the gate.”

“What? I thought you meant the Red Cross.”

“Them, too.”

I wonder if David is with the protestors. He must’ve come back. He wouldn’t stay away, not from this. I grab the toothbrush that Ayesha has prepped with toothpaste. “How many?” I speak between brushing and spitting.

“I don’t know, but let’s go.”

I pull on a baseball hat, tugging my hair through the loop in the back, and run out with Ayesha. My parents are already at their job assignments for the day, so for now, at least, I don’t have to worry about them trying to stop me. We run down the Midway, past the Hub, and then come to an abrupt stop. Outside the fence are a couple hundred protestors. Some hold signs: FREE MOBIUS, NO H8 IN THE STATES, AMERICA ALREADY IS GREAT, AMERICA: ALL ARE WELCOME. Police officers stand in a line separating the protestors from the orange plastic barriers that sprang up outside overnight in front of the electrified fence. In case, I suppose, the protestors miss the giant white signs emblazoned with a DANGER warning. Six white news vans line the dusty road to the camp, and we see reporters prepping to go live with their camera crews. I blink back tears. I don’t dare have expectations, but I have hope. I feel dizzy, like when I haven’t eaten in a while, and being woozy reminds me that I’m hungry. Then I see David—standing, chanting with the protestors: “No justice, no peace.” I see him. Fist in the air, brown hair mussed from the wind. He’s wearing the same Wilco shirt I have. And he is beautiful.

“David!” I scream, and run toward the fence. I want him to see me. I want him to know I am okay. I’m ready. A row of Exclusion Guards stands between me and the electrified boundary.

“David!” I call again, jumping up and down to catch a glimpse of him over the shoulders of the guards blocking me, and of the police holding him back. I squint against the sun and peer between the guards to see David grinning madly and waving, sweat gleaming across his brown skin. The police won’t let him move closer because they’re trying to keep the protestors far from the fence. But we see each other, and I blow him a kiss, and he mouths an I love you before being jostled back into the crowd.

A small caravan of cars drives down the road and stops at the Mobius entrance gate so guards can check IDs and inspect the vehicles. As they do, the Director walks out among the crowd that has gathered inside the camp. He has a huge fake smile plastered on his face. I wonder if he’s ever fooled anyone with it. I wonder if he can fool himself.

“Okay, everyone. We’ve got a busy day ahead. Time to disperse. Let’s get to work. It’s a beautiful morning.” He speaks into a bullhorn so he can be heard above the chanting protestors, but otherwise he ignores them. He’s not even looking at them. It’s like he’s looking through them, like his brain simply can’t compute their existence. The gates open and the Red Cross vehicles are allowed in. The police keep the protestors back.

I strain to get another look at David, but I’ve lost sight of him.

“Let’s go,” Jake says, directing me away from the line of his fellow Exclusion Guards. “We need to clear the area.”

A lot of us are milling around, and the guards are being unusually nice as they try to nudge everyone to their work assignments or back to their trailers. This is probably the best chance I have to speak to Jake. I scoot up next to him. “How did this happen? Like, when, who, how?”

“Cars were pulling in all night, joining the folks who were already here. Your blog posts went viral in a huge way. And that Instagram Live clip. They were on all the major news stations, and they set social media on fire. There were already people coming together to raise their voices, but your words—you—were a catalyst. Occupy Mobius—that coalition of resistance groups—organized a protest. Their hashtag is trending. They’re exploiting a flaw in the executive order. All the land inside the fence is under War Department jurisdiction, but outside that fence, it’s California. And the governor here—he’s not a fan of the president or his racist politics.”

I hear Jake’s words; I see the protestors. I smile. Not the usual smile that I muster in here—the hollow, polite smile we all wear that says, Go along. Keep your head down. Pretend. But a real smile. The kind that makes your body light up from the inside. That makes your cheeks hurt. It’s a smile that reminds me I am alive.

The day has been meticulously planned. I watch as the guards shoo internees away and minders usher us to our tasks. The Director does not want to take any chances during the Red Cross visit. And with the press and the protestors here, too, I imagine the burning anger behind the Director’s false grin. I hope it makes him spontaneously combust.

The Red Cross team is easy to recognize, with their white T-shirts emblazoned with the large red symbol known the world over. A group of laughing, smiling minders ushers them into the Hub, where their official visit begins. I wonder if all traitors feel so at ease. The Red Cross will be spending the day at Mobius—visiting the clinic, the garden, the playground; watching some kind of star-spangled patriotic revue the early-childhood teachers put together; touring Block 1, where the Mercury Homes have been specially scrubbed and prepped for the visit. Then they will dine with everyone in the Mess. The Director will be with them all day, smiling, glad-handing, and pretending life in the camp is somehow enviable, exceeding humanitarian requirements.

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