Internment(60)

“I’m sure they’ll be okay. Once they get back, you all need to stay put. Do not leave this trailer, hear me? It’s a God-awful mess out there. And I’m sure there’s going to be a lockdown.”

“A lockdown?”

“I’m guessing the movements of the internees are about to get a lot more controlled. No one in or out. The Director is going to have to somehow convince the higher-ups that he wasn’t at fault for this shit show and that he is still in control.”

I take a deep breath. “Soheil? What do you think will happen to him? Dr. Mahar said the Director broke his nose.”

“You should be happy that’s all that happened. And he’s lucky the Red Cross visitors were here. They’ll get him out. The Director stepped way over the line when he hit Soheil. In front of reporters? I mean, the president is going to be apoplectic over this. He’s been trying to hide it all, and now he’s got journalists whose cameras were smashed and an articulate and charismatic young man who will be on the outside with the Red Cross protecting him, ready to tell his story to hungry press outlets.”

“So our plan worked.”

“I’d say so.” Jake pauses and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Things will be more dangerous than ever for you and your friends now. The Occupy blog posted your story right before the incident at the Mess. Between that and all the coverage tonight’s chaos is going to get—you have the world’s attention, but the Director is going to zero in on you like a target.”

“What about you? They saw you walk in here with me. Will you be okay?” I ask.

“It’s havoc out there. I don’t know. I have a friend in surveillance, so—”

“A friend?”

“Remember, I said I wasn’t the only one here on your side. The only side that matters.” Jake gives me a small smile.

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. But I have to go back out to find my parents,” I say.

We step into the common area.

The trailer door slams open. My parents, like phantoms made of dust, walk in but stop short when they see Jake standing in our kitchen.

I exhale. Deeply. If my parents had seen Jake come out of my room, it might have induced dual heart attacks.

“Ma’am. Sir.” Jake nods. “I was seeing to it that Layla got home safe. I told her that it was best for you not to leave your trailer. I’m sure instructions will follow shortly.”

My parents look too shocked to speak or move.

“We understand, Corporal Reynolds,” I say as I walk past my parents to open the door for him. “We’ll make sure to stay inside.” When he steps out, I whisper a thank-you. He gives me a sad, obligatory smile and then marches away, disappearing into the yellow, dust-filled air.

“What was he doing here? Are you okay?” my dad asks.

“I’m fine. I stumbled while I was running, and he helped me back.”

My mom glances at the camera and chokes back words. The hesitancy in her eyes makes me want to reassure her, but I don’t think I can explain in any way that will satisfy my parents.

They walk past me to the sink and begin wiping the dust and grime off their faces.

“What were you kids thinking? Look what you’ve done.” My mom doesn’t hold back. “People got hurt. Soheil? It could have ended much, much worse for him. Actions have consequences, and now we’re all about to face them, thanks to the stunt you and your friends pulled.” Part of me wants to believe she’s doing this for the camera, putting on a show of anger for them, whoever they are. I’ve begun picturing each camera trained on us as the Eye of Sauron. Perhaps she believes that acting the part of the livid parent will make the consequences less severe for me, show that I was merely being a ridiculous child, that I’m not a threat. But for the Director, even the slightest disobedience endangers his vision of his absolute authority in here. I want her to be proud of me for taking a stand, but if she has any pride at all, it’s been consumed by her fear.

“Your mother’s right, Layla. That was foolish indeed.” As always, my dad keeps his composure. But there’s anger in him, too. I can see it in his rigid posture and hear it in the deep, flat tone of his voice.

I open my mouth, but before I can reply, before I can formulate the right thing to say, my parents turn their backs to me, shuffle into their room, and shut the door.

So they’re going with the (mostly) cold shoulder. I would’ve preferred more yelling from my mom. Or any form of raised voice from my dad, for that matter. The truth: That’s what I want. For us to be honest with one another—to be free to hash out our feelings in the open. But there is no open here, only razor wire and electric fences, where all our truths are trapped. I walk into my own room, slamming the door behind me, eyes stinging from dust and bitterness. I strip and throw my clothes into a heap in the corner; tiny particles of dust rise into the air and drift soundlessly back to the ground. Outside beckons—I want to run into the foothills and scream into the canyons. I want my voice to echo and crack the ground beneath my feet.

The shower timer clicks on. I’m guessing it’s my mom trying to rinse off her fear and disappointment. I imagine stepping into a warm, sudsy bath and how the water would feel on my skin. The luxury of water seeping into every one of my pores and making me clean again. Dirt-caked fingernails are my constant companions here. Dirty nails and terror. I step to the sink and scrub my hands under the water until they are pink and raw. The door to my parents’ room opens and closes a couple more times. When I’m sure they’ve retired for the night, I tiptoe out and into the shower, but a stream of screaming-cold water greets me. We ran out of hot water. One more slap in the face. I step out, wrap my shivering body in a towel, and head back into my room. My fingers tremble as I pull on my warmest pj’s and add a sweatshirt. After putting my wet hair in a towel turban, I crawl into bed. Every muscle in my body aches, so even this stupidly hard bunk mattress feels welcome.