The Weight of Our Sky(31)

Another silence as everyone considers this plan. On the floor, Roslan’s eyes blaze with hope.

“It could work,” Mala says eventually. “It really could.”

Vince shrugs. “What do we have to lose?”

And Mala’s mother grins a gap-toothed grin as she scurries off to find the perfect sari.

? ? ?

Half an hour later, Roslan stands in the middle of the room, his arms outstretched, as Mala and her mother put the finishing touches to his outfit. He’s draped in a bright blue sari, shot with threads of gold that gleam against his dark skin.

“It works,” Vince says, standing back to take in the full effect.

“Good,” Roslan says, sighing with relief. “Now let’s go.” He starts for the door, then freezes when we all yell, “Stop!”

“What?” he says, wide-eyed.

Vince shakes his head. “You won’t get more than five steps before someone figures out you aren’t a woman,” he says. “Your walk is a dead giveaway.”

“What’s wrong with the way I walk?”

“Nothing,” I say soothingly. “It’s very manly. But that’s the problem.”

“You need to be a little more . . . fluid,” Mala says. “Roll your hips a little bit. Like this.” She walks across the room gracefully, a stark contrast to Roslan’s wide strides.

He clicks his tongue impatiently. “Must I really do this?”

“Look, do you want to make it home or not?” I ask him.

He sighs, but eventually submits to a fifteen-minute walking lesson, trying so hard to move the right way that by the time we finish, sweat is streaming down his face.

“All right,” Mala says, “I think that’s the best we can do.”

A shadow of doubt falls across Roslan’s face. “Do you really think this will work?” he says, tugging absently at the soft material that swirls down to his ankles. Mala’s mother reaches out a wizened hand to pat his. “You will be okay,” she says softly.

Roslan takes a deep breath. “All right,” he says. “I’m ready.”

? ? ?

The car is silent on the drive from Sentul to Segambut. “It should take us about fifteen minutes to get there,” Vince tells us, but it feels like every inch the car moves forward ages us all by about ten years. “Hurry, hurry,” Mala mutters under her breath. Roslan says nothing at all; he just sits sandwiched between the two women, one hand holding tight to Mala’s mother’s, the other clutching at the shawl on his head.

“We’re almost there,” Vince announces, and I’m about to let out a joyous whoop when I see something that makes my heart stop.

A roadblock.

From the back seat, I hear a sharp intake of breath from Mala.

“What do we do?” she whispers.

I feel a churning in my stomach; slowly, the Djinn begins to stir.

“Just act natural,” Vince says calmly. “Let me do the talking.”

The car rolls to a stop next to the young Malay soldier manning the barricade, who nods at Vince. “Pass, please,” he says, and Vince hands over his curfew pass for inspection. The young man frowns slightly as he looks over the paper, and the Djinn squeezes my heart in response. You’re all in trouble now, he whispers.

“Where are you headed?” the soldier asks.

“Just getting these ladies back to their home in Segambut,” Vince replies easily. I steal a glance over my shoulder at the trio behind me; in Mala’s eyes, I see a mirror for my own mute panic. The only movement in the back seat is the trembling of Roslan’s hands.

Still holding Vince’s pass, the soldier peers into the car, taking a long look first at me, then at the others in the back. I can’t tell from his gaze what he’s thinking, and my uncertainty is fodder for the Djinn, who cackles softly and parades a dozen images of our deaths through my head in quick succession.

Finally, finally, the soldier hands the pass back through the window. “All right, go ahead,” he tells Vince. “Mind you get home quickly; it does no good to be wandering about too late right now.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Vince eases the car back onto the road to Segambut.

Five seconds later, we all burst out into hysterical, wild laughter.

? ? ?

The bright afternoon sun gives way to a mellower golden glow, and after sending Mala and her mother back to their house, Vince decides it’s time for us to head home. “We’ll tell Ma we couldn’t make it to Sungai Buloh,” he says. “We’ll have to try again tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I say agreeably. I’m breathless, euphoric: From somewhere in the depths of my chaotic, broken brain, I had produced a good idea. A good idea. Me! And we’d actually pulled it off, and gotten a man back to his home, and it was because of ME. As someone who has spent so much time in the past weeks and months feeling like I need saving, I am almost dizzy with the realization that I can also be someone who saves other people.

Can you? The Djinn’s voice is like smoke, snaking through my brain. Can you really? What did you do but provide one idea? Who actually had to carry it out? And then, crushingly: If you think you’re so capable of saving people, then why didn’t you? In my head, Saf and Mama bleed rivers of bright red through fresh gunshot wounds, the edges ragged from where bullet holes tore through their flesh. I inhale sharply and close my eyes, trying to ignore him, trying to hold on to that feeling of triumph, trying to stop my twitching fingers from flying to do his bidding. And I almost succeed.