Internment(77)

“And you calm down the kids you’ve riled up, get them back to their gardening and flirting. Things settle down. And you tell me if anyone else is agitating to do anything. It’s a win-win.”

“You want me to tell you if anything else is being planned?”

“I already have someone who will serve that purpose. One of your little friends was all too happy to make a deal and save himself from the consequences of your so-called protest the other night. And those consequences will come down, like a hammer, on all of you. But you have the power to lessen the blow.”

Abdul. Of course it was him.

The Director continues. “I want you to be smart. It seems like your little acts of resistance have given some people ideas. Traitorous ideas. I want those ideas to die. I want you to squash those plans so no one else gets hurt. So no one else has to suffer on your account.”

My dad. Has the Director hurt someone else? Mom? Ayesha? He wants me to worry. He wants me to ask. I don’t. Rage is burning inside me. And fear. But I won’t ask.

He looks at me with expectant eyes. He’s waiting for an answer. So I’ll give him one.

“No,” I whisper. The Director rises from his chair. I think he’s going to walk away, but he turns back and slaps me hard across the face. My head falls to the side from the force of his hand, and I taste blood in my mouth. My face stings and my cheeks burn. I’ve been sheltered from violence my whole life, any real violence. There’s no way I’m cut out to resist it. How do people do this? How can I do this?

The Director takes a few steps away, keeping his back to me. “Now see what you’ve made me do? I’m not a violent man. I don’t like to treat women—let alone girls—this way, so I’m going to give you another chance.”

The salt from my tears mingles with the blood on my lips. I spit on the floor. “Not violent?”

“Yes. You see, I’m a reasonable human being. I’ve run this place with kindness and compassion. Tried to build a community. And you”—he whips back around toward me—“you’ve brought nothing but upheaval and violence.”

Does he actually believe this? Does he really think he’s in the right, like he’s some kind of saint, a messiah for the forlorn?

“Remember your friend? The idiot who threw himself at the fence like a goddamn moron? He’s dead, and that’s on you and your infantile stunts. Or have you forgotten him already? Used him as a pawn for your childish rebellion, did you?” The Director scoffs. “And you think I’m the monster.”

My mouth falls open. The blood drains from my body. “I didn’t,” I whisper, then swallow my words. I’ll never forget Soheil or the buzz of the fence and his scream and his limp body.

“Didn’t think about that poor sap, did you? Too busy pretending to be brave and revolutionary. I told you from day one that actions have consequences. Now tell me who is writing the blog posts and sneaking them out.”

“I can’t. I can’t.” Tears fall down my face. My cheeks are hot, and my lips pulse with pain.

The Director stomps back to my chair and twists his hand around my ponytail, pulling my head back. “You dumb, stupid bitch.” He shoves his face into mine, spit spewing from his lips onto my skin. “Do you have any idea what I can do to you? What I can have done to you?”

I can’t breathe. The note my parents got. The threats? It was all him. My parents. Ayesha. Her family. Everyone in this place. Like fish caught in a net, struggling against the cords that trap us, trying to squirm free, not realizing we’re already dead.

“One more chance, Miss Amin. Understand? You’re lucky I’m such a patient man. But my patience has a limit.”

I look at the floor and nod.

I hear other people enter the room. “Clean her up. Get her back to the brig,” the Director barks, and marches out.

A guard uncuffs me and yanks me to my feet.

I rub my wrists and bring my fingers to my mouth. My face is burning, but the tips of my fingers are cold, and they feel good against my sore lip. I close my eyes and shiver. Goose bumps spring up on my arm.

“I can take her from here.” Another person enters the room. It’s Fred.

Fred and I watch the other guard leave.

“My God, Layla. Are you okay?”

“No,” I whisper.

I wipe the crusted blood from the edge of my lip with the hem of my T-shirt. “I think I bit my cheek.”

“I’m so sorry,” Fred says, and cups my elbow with his hand. I flinch. “Your lip is going to hurt for a while.”

“It’ll match the bruises from earlier.”

“Let’s get you back. I’ll find an ice pack and a washcloth for you.”

I nod. I take a step but wobble like I’m wearing high heels.

“Lean against me; it’s okay.” Fred offers his arm.

We walk out into the cool night.

“I thought the Director’s security were going to take me to a black-ops site. Or else why the hood?”

“He’s trying to scare you.”

“He’s succeeding.”

“No. You’re succeeding.”

“Me? Soheil died because of what we did. Because of me.”

“No. Soheil died because of what the Director did. Because of what the president did. Because of what this country is doing. But it’s not going to last. That protest, Soheil dying—it’s a bridge too far for the public. And what he’s doing to you, and—it’s not just Jake and me on your side. A lot of us—this is not what we signed up for. We’re National Guard, and we were reassigned without choice.”