Violet fills the ride to school with spring break tales of kissing Parisian boys and exploring the villages of the Côte d’Azur. I nibble on the rose-scented macarons she brought me from Paris. But for once, I share stories, too. Good ones. Great ones. Life-altering ones. The stuff origin stories are made of. I devour the last macaron as we turn down senior hall.
That’s when I see Amber and Kelsey, two of Lisa’s best friends, leaning against my locker, arms crossed in front of their chests. Scowling. They both wear their matching cinnamon-brown manes in perfect, shiny ponytails that would make my mom weep with joy. We’ve been in school together since sixth grade, and in that entire time, I’ve probably exchanged fifteen words with both of them combined. If that. You can usually find them huddled with Lisa every morning, laughing or gossiping until Lisa breaks away to walk to class with Phil. When they see me, their scowls only deepen; they both straighten up.
My laughter comes to an abrupt halt.
Amber steps forward with one hand on her jutting right hip as Violet and I approach my locker. She stares down at me. “You know what I think?” she begins.
“That your parents shouldn’t have given you a stripper name?” Violet responds.
I stifle an anxious chuckle because Violet always has my back. But sometimes she escalates before I even know if the situation calls for escalation.
Amber’s mouth opens to a perfect “O” of surprise.
I put my hand on Violet’s elbow and pull her back a couple inches. “What do you guys want?” I ask. I notice we are drawing the attention of a few people in the hall. Luckily it’s still a bit early, so senior hall isn’t at full capacity.
Amber clears her throat and tries again, face sour, jaw tight. “Maya, don’t even think about going to prom with Phil.”
I laugh out loud. I expected them to hurl home-wrecker insults at me, so this is actually a relief. “That’s why you came over here. All shirty?”
“What’s ‘shirty’?” Kelsey asks, disgusted.
Violet speaks up before I can respond. “It’s none of your damn business who Maya goes to prom with.”
“Wait. Why are you even bringing this up? Isn’t Phil taking Lisa to prom?” I ask. My heart starts beating faster.
Amber and Kelsey look at each other nervously. Amber shrugs and lowers her voice. “They broke up.”
The news strikes me like an anvil. Truly, I’m not sure if I should be thrilled or ready myself for a shitstorm. Maybe both. Violet doesn’t immediately respond, either, so I know she’s in at least as much shock as me.
Kelsey fills the silence. “Phil promised Lisa he wouldn’t go to prom with anyone else. So Maya can’t go with him.” She pauses, straightens her shoulders, and adds, “We came to warn you.”
My brain is still spinning. Violet steps into Kelsey’s personal space; Kelsey stumbles back a step. Violet is at least a couple inches taller than Kelsey and far scarier.
Now everyone is watching. I feel like I’ve crossed into some surreal world that I can’t wrap my mind around. But right now my only job is to make sure this absurd scene doesn’t turn into some ridiculous faux girl-gang turf war, so I pull Violet away and step in front of her.
“I have no idea why you felt this strange compulsion to tell me this, but whatever, you did. Now can you get out of the way? I have to get to class.”
“You can’t go with him,” Amber says. “Final word.”
Violet’s eyes blaze. “Leave Maya out of your psychodrama, freaks.”
We watch them turn and walk away, vanishing around the corner.
Other students turn back to their lockers, and the hall fills again with post-vacation catch-up chatter.
I quickly scan the hall—no sign of either Phil or Lisa, thankfully.
Violet and I look at each other, eyes wide. I mouth the words, Oh, my God.
She gives me this huge grin and a classic eye twinkle. She leans in and whispers, “It’s so on.”
“Bonjour. Ça va?” Madame DuPont greets us at the door. Her lilting accent never fails to capture the music of the language.
“Bonjour, Madame,” Violet and I reply. My own accent is always a little too chirpily American.
The rest of the students file in and take their seats. Madame DuPont walks to the front of the class. “Cette semaine, j’ai une petite surprise pour vous: nous allons regarder un film,” she says, taking a DVD off her desk and popping it in the player. Turning back to the class, she smiles and continues, “Et il y aura un test jeudi.” The class groans. “Je vous presente: Paris, Je T’aime.”
I check to make sure my phone is turned off. I hate when people forget to turn their phones off during the movies. Nothing pulls you out of your suspension of disbelief faster than a stupid ringtone.
I’ve missed a text. From Phil. Actually, three of them.
Phil: I’m sorry about Amber and Kelsey.
Phil: I should’ve told you.
Phil: Can we talk?
Is it possible to be happy and angry at the same time about the same thing?
I tap Violet on the shoulder and show her my screen, but before I can say anything, the teacher gives me the stink eye. “Mademoiselle Aziz, s’il vous plaît,” she says in a clipped tone as she motions for me to put my phone away. Phil will have to wait. Good.
Madame DuPont turns off the lights. The movie begins. The soft bluish glow of the television soothes me. I’ve already seen the movie—it’s an anthology, a little collection of vignettes about life in Paris, each taking place in a different quarter of the city. My favorite is the one set in the Fourteenth Arrondissement.
It’s a short film that follows a middle-aged postal worker on her first trip to Paris. But the conceit of the film is that it feels like a documentary, even though it isn’t. It makes the character’s story so much more poignant. She narrates the whole piece like it’s an essay for a French class. And what I really love about it is the mood. She just feels so alone, like she’s lived her whole life in “quiet desperation” as Thoreau would say, instead of sucking the marrow out of life. And it should be super depressing. It is, kind of. But there’s this little moment, where she feels joy and sadness at the same time, and what she realizes is that you can find life even when you think it eludes you—
“Lockdown.”
It’s the principal’s voice, barking over the intercom.
“All students are to remain in their classes. Teachers, begin lockdown procedures. This is not a drill. The all clear will sound when lockdown is over.”
Madame DuPont rises from her desk. She hurries to lock the classroom door so it can’t be opened from the outside. We all straighten up from our comfortable movie-watching positions, looking around the room wild-eyed. I am among the “we,” but I am also just me, detached. Everyone speaks at once. Or some of us. I am silent.
Madame DuPont doesn’t immediately shush us. She runs her hand over her face, trying to conceal her worry as she stands at the door looking out the slim glass window. I sneak a peek around her. A couple security guards rush through the hallways, walkie-talkies in hand.
Madame DuPont turns off the DVD. The lights stay off.
“What’s going on?” someone shouts.
“You know as much as I do.” She switches to English, her voice calm and commanding. “You heard the principal. Now I need all of you to move your desks to the left. It’s going to be close quarters for a while. I want to make sure that no one can see you from the window in the door.”
Metal desk legs screech against the floor, students bump into one another, backpacks fall with the thud of heavy textbooks. Madame DuPont cuts copy paper in half lengthwise and proceeds to paper over the skinny glass window in the door. She leaves a small flap untaped so she can check out the window if necessary.
“Why are you doing that?” Brian yells from the back row. He’s usually quiet in class, especially lately. I don’t turn to look. To be honest, I’ve been completely avoiding looking in his direction since that weirdness at the bookstore.
“So no one can see in to shoot us, duh,” Jessica yells at him from the front row.
“Ssshh,” Madame DuPont says. “There’s not going to be any shooting. It’s a precaution. Now we’re going to stay in here until we get the all clear. No one leaves and no one comes in, understand?”
We all nod.
“We don’t have the facts, so let’s not speculate. The best thing for us to do is stay calm. I’m going to turn the movie back on, and you’ll have more information as soon as I do—when the principal announces it.”
Madame DuPont hits PLAY on the remote, and the movie resumes.
I almost lose myself in the dreamy soundtrack until the cacophony of discordant ringtones starts. All at once, everyone has their phones in their faces.
The uproar is loud and immediate.
“There’s been a terrorist attack,” one student yells out.
“It’s in Springfield,” adds another.
Madame DuPont turns to her computer. A handful of students gather around her desk, searching for more information. One student tries to get reception on the cableless television. The information and misinformation comes in fits and starts. A bomb exploded at the Federal Building in Springfield. Homeland Security has issued a red alert for the entire state of Illinois. There’s a shooter. No, it’s a suicide bomber. A plane is missing. There are dozens of victims. Wrong. Hundreds are dead. It’s a truck bomb. It’s poison gas. The building was leveled. The National Guard is being called up. The army has been deployed. The president has moved to an undisclosed location. All schools and government buildings are on lockdown. No one is allowed in or out. Parents are at the school doors demanding to get their kids. Police are stationed at the entrances of the high school. There’s a steady flow of news and innuendo, and it’s hard to discern the truth.
I’m frozen. My fingers curl tightly around my phone.
The entire room is in chaos, but I see the action as if through the blades of a whirring fan. Disjointed and surreal. My stomach lurches.
A terrorist attack. Another tragedy. Is there no end? Is this how life will always be? I want to know more, but there is one piece of information I absolutely hope I don’t hear. I whisper a prayer to the universe. “Please, please let everyone be okay. Please don’t let it be a Muslim.”
I know I’m not the only one hoping for this. I know millions of American Muslims—both religious and secular—are echoing these very same words at this very same moment. I know I’m not a very good Muslim, but I hope my prayers are heard. Prayers for the dead and wounded. Prayers for ourselves. Prayers for peace, hoping that no more lives are lost to hate.
I’m scared. I’m not just scared that somehow I’ll be next; it’s a quieter fear and more insidious. I’m scared of the next Muslim ban. I’m scared of my dad getting pulled into Secondary Security Screening at the airport for “random” questioning. I’m scared for the hijabi girls I know getting their scarves pulled off while they’re walking down a sidewalk—or worse. I’m scared of being the object of fear and loathing and suspicion again. Always.
I remember my parents telling me about how devastating 9/11 was, how those burning buildings and all the posters of missing people are seared in their memories forever. Hina thinks that was the tipping point, when the Islamophobia went mainstream and became fodder for campaign slogans. It left American Muslims to fight for their Americanness and their beliefs. I know what Hina says about all of it, about not giving in to fear. I’m trying to hold onto that.
Violet touches my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
I jerk upright. “Yeah. I … I’m worried. I can’t believe—”
“I’m sure we’re fine,” she interrupts in a rush. “They’re probably going crazy overboard with security. I doubt Batavia is high on the terrorist target list.”
“There is Fermilab.”
Violet stares at me, her eyes wide. “Oh. My. God. I didn’t even think of that. But they don’t store weapons. It’s physics research.”
“It’s a government facility. I’m guessing terrorists don’t sweat the details.”
“I’m calling my dad,” she says.
As I watch Violet dial, I’m painfully aware that I haven’t thought of calling my own parents. I look at my phone and see several missed calls from all their numbers. Worst-case scenarios no doubt colonize my mom’s head. I call the office. No answer. I call home. Mom picks up. She speaks before I can even say hello.
“We’ve been calling and calling you.”
“Sorry, Mom. My phone was on silent. The school is on lockdown.”
“Yes, beta, we know. We called the front office. They say they will probably let you out soon. They want to make sure that everything is okay before releasing students from school.”
“Can you believe this? It’s horrible. What are they saying on the news?”
“They still don’t know what happened or who is responsible. But it seems that a suicide bomber blew himself up inside the Federal Building in Springfield. They don’t know much more. It’s terrible. They are still trying to get people out of the building.”
“Do they know if the bomber is … if he was …?” I don’t want to say it out loud.
“No. Nothing, yet.” My mom doesn’t want to say it out loud, either. “Those poor, poor people who died. I’m going to go pray for them. Your dad is coming to get you.”
“No. It’s okay. He doesn’t need to. They still haven’t said when they’re letting us out, and I can get a ride with Violet.”
“Okay. Call us if you want. The school secretary said the lockdown is a precaution. Don’t be scared.”
“I’m not scared.” I lie because my mother’s concern annoys me. I know it shouldn’t. She’s a parent. She’s my parent; worry and love are part of the package. But to me, it feels smothering.
“Okay. We’ll see you soon, then? Let us know when they let you go.”
“Okay. Khudafis.”
“Khudafis.”
Violet puts down her phone at the same time. “My dad says they evacuated all the buildings at Fermi. There’s police at all the entrances, and apparently there is going to be the Army or the National Guard, too. He’s at home already.”
“My parents are home, too.”
After a few more interminable minutes, there’s a loud knock at the door. The room falls silent, and we all instinctively scoot as far from the door as possible. Madame DuPont walks to the door and asks who it is, carefully lifting a free corner of the paper taped over the slim window.
She opens the door to a security guard. He hands her a piece of paper and asks her to keep the door locked with everyone in the room until there is an announcement. The classroom is completely silent. Madame DuPont’s black heels click against the floor as she walks to the front of the classroom, paper in hand.
“It looks like the information we were getting on the internet was correct in part. There was a bombing at the Federal Building in Springfield. At this time, they think a suicide bomber drove a vehicle past the security gates and straight through the front doors of the building. There is no word on the number of people killed. They are still sorting through the rubble.”
We stare at Madame DuPont. The class is completely quiet. A couple students cry. Someone finally asks, “Are we under attack?”
“That’s all the information we have so far,” Madame DuPont says.
“It’s a Muslim terrorist,” Brian yells. “They hate America.”
I turn to look at Brian. He stares right back. His glare is icy and unnerving, and he mutters something under his breath.
“I need you all to stay calm,” Madame DuPont snaps. “Like I said, it doesn’t help to speculate.”
I turn to face forward. Madame DuPont raises an eyebrow. “Understand? All of you? I’m sure the authorities will release information when they have it. Now, as far as lockdown, there should be an announcement soon to dismiss everyone. They are going to let you out by class—the freshman will be first, the sophomores next. If you take a bus home, all the buses will be lined up at the front of the building, waiting for you. If you drive, please go to your cars and leave the back parking lot immediately. No loitering.”
It takes almost thirty minutes to get to us. We all hurry to senior hall, rushing by the grim faces of the school staff that line the corridors. Police and school security roam the halls.
Senior hall hums, the air thick with anxiety. We gather up our books and follow the stream of seniors exiting the hallway. I see Lisa at Phil’s locker, sobbing, her head buried in his chest. Phil has one arm against her upper back and his other stiff at his side. Our eyes meet. He holds my gaze.
A vise clamps its jaws around my heart. The scene is a perfect metaphor. Phil stands at the edge of the frame in the film of my life, slightly out of focus. There’s a girl in his foreground, but it’s not me. The distance between us ever widening.
I hook my arm through Violet’s.
As we walk down the hall, I have the distinct sense that we’re leaving a tiny, crumbling world behind us. We step outside into the brash light of another world I can’t possibly understand.
The Special Agent in charge, the man in a dark blue windbreaker with FBI emblazoned along the sleeve and back of the jacket, steps up to the podium. Now I’ll take any questions.
Q: Do you have any more information on the white truck that was at the scene before the bombing?
A: We have a partial on the license plate from a security camera across the street. It appears that the truck drove through the security gate at 13:10 hours and directly into the building before exploding.
Q: Can you confirm that an Egyptian passport was found at the scene?
A: Yes, it appears to belong to one Kamal Aziz.
Q: Is he a suspect?
A: He is currently under investigation as a person of interest. We are working to positively ID his body and determine if he was indeed the driver of the vehicle.
Q: Has any terrorist group taken credit for the bombing?
A: At this time, there are no claims of responsibility. We are still looking into any possible ties between Aziz and known terrorist organizations or splinter groups. We are also working to determine any accomplices or known associates who may still be at large. We urge the public to contact us at the investigation hotline with any relevant tips or information.
Finally, let me assure the public that we will leave no stone unturned in our search for those who committed this heinous act.