Carnage leaps, bleeding, from the television screen. Over and over on the news, it’s the same image: the massive neoclassical building that used to take up an entire city block. One-third of it has been sheared off by the strength of the bomb. It looks like a giant meteor crashed through the roof, obliterating stone into dust. Bent steel beams and the pulpy ends of impossibly twisted floors are all that remain.
I sit on the edge of the sofa, my fingers digging into the fabric. Waves of nausea prevent me from eating anything but saltines and ginger ale. Death is everywhere. And the pit in my stomach grows and grows.
The ten o’clock nightly news confirms my quiet worry. The FBI holds a press conference at the site, corroborating hearsay that a passport found at the crater belonged to Kamal Aziz, an Egyptian national. They believe he is the suicide bomber.
It’s selfish and horrible, but in this terrible moment, all I want is to be a plain old American teenager. Who can simply mourn without fear. Who doesn’t share last names with a suicide bomber. Who goes to dances and can talk to her parents about anything and can walk around without always being anxious. And who isn’t a presumed terrorist first and an American second.
I sleep deeply, without dreams, but when I wake up, I feel like I haven’t rested at all. There is a dull ache in the marrow of my bones.
I trudge down the stairs for breakfast, trying to stomp out the self-hate and the doubt. I do not want to go to school.
“I made pancakes,” my mom says, lifting a lid from a plate on the table. “They’re still warm.” Her face shows her hope that food will snap me out my mood. But it’s not a mood. It’s my life.
“Oh. Uh … I’m not hungry,” I say, trying to sound as diplomatic as possible.
“But you have to eat,” she pleads.
She looks so crushed, I plop down in the chair and consent to eat one pancake.
“Are you okay, beta?” my mom asks, never able to provide silence when I need it.
“I’m fine, why?” Even my syllables sound worn out.
“Your face looks so … tired.”
“I apologize for offending your aesthetic sensibilities. Maybe I should’ve put makeup on before coming down to breakfast.”
“No reason to take it that way, Maya.” My father’s voice edges into impatience. “We’re worried about you.”
“Sorry I’m not Miss Mary Sunshine, but a so-called Muslim sociopath attacked us. Again. If these jerks hate America so much, why don’t they stay in their own countries? He killed little kids.” My voice breaks. “I don’t understand that kind of hate.”
“It’s a terrible tragedy. It’s a sin. The Quran says that whoever takes a life of an innocent, it’s as if he has killed all of mankind—”
“And if anyone saves a life, it’s as if he’s saved all of mankind. I know. But how is that supposed to change anything? How are we supposed to change anything?” My hands shake.
My father picks up where my mother leaves off. “These terrorists are the antithesis of Islam. They’re not Muslim. Violence has no place in religion, and the terrorists are responsible for their own crimes, not the religion and not us.”
“Then why is there so much fighting in the Middle East, and why are so many suicide bombers Muslim?”
“Terrorism has no religion. Think about Dylann Roof and that church in Charleston or the attack at the Sikh gurdwara in Wisconsin. Terrorists have their own ideology. Who knows what hatred compels them? They’re desperate and unthinking and ignorant followers—”
I interrupt my mother. “Too bad none of that matters. We all get painted like we’re un-American and terrorist sympathizers, no matter how loudly we condemn terrorism and say it’s un-Islamic. It’s guilt by association.”
“Yes, beta. But our friends, the community, they know we are good people.” My father explains what I already know, but in my rage against the bomber, I can’t hold onto the truth of what he says.
“There is going to be a prayer at the mosque tonight for the victims of the bombing. We’ll also be doing a fund-raiser. We want you to come,” my mom says. “We will leave at seven.”
“You barely make me go to the mosque, except for religious holidays or weddings.”
My father’s face falls as he looks at my mom. “Maybe we should have been going more as a family and teaching you more.”
“Oh, please. Don’t get all regretful because of this. I can’t deal with it.” I hear my own voice oozing sarcasm and anger. Shame and guilt pummel me, but my anger is real, too. I rise from my seat. “I have to get ready. Violet’s going to be here any second.”
“Maya.” The earlier tender tone in my mom’s voice dissipates. “Enough of these sarcastic remarks. You can go to the mosque and pray for the poor people who lost their lives. You will go. That’s final.”
“Fine. I’ll play the devout daughter for you.”
“Maya,” my father yells, but I ignore him. If I don’t leave now, I’ll say things much worse than I already have. I take the stairs two at a time to get to my room.
My bedroom door bangs shut. I grab the lamp from my desk and pull back my arm, ready to slam it into my reflection in the mirror so they can both shatter into a million pieces.
I stop myself. Like everything else in my life right now, the act is pointless.
The parking lot pulses with students who mill around, catching up. I’m sure they’re talking about the terrorist. The Muslim terrorist.
As I step out of Violet’s car, I see Phil. He’s at his car, talking to his friend Tom—the one who’s pushing for the perfect post–high school future at Eastern with Megan and Lisa—and a couple other teammates. Phil’s in profile and half-hidden by one of his friends, but I see Tom laughing.
Then Tom sees me.
I wonder what it feels like to be so unaffected that you can laugh even when horrible things are happening. Tom points his chin in my direction and mutters to Phil, who turns his head and waves. I hold up my hand in half-hearted response. I don’t know why I bother. My lips pull down at the corners. Those three texts I got in French class were the last I’ve heard from Phil.
Lisa and Megan bounce up to Phil and Tom. Lisa puts her arm through Phil’s. Apparently, the rumors of their breakup were greatly exaggerated. I want to turn away. I should. Evidently, I’m a glutton for punishment.
“Let’s go,” Violet says to me as she frowns at Phil.
We move through the parking lot and begin walking up the ramp to the school doors. From the corner of my eye, I see Brian. He’s jogging toward us. I get a queasy feeling in my stomach.
Instinctively, I speed up.
When he’s within earshot, he yells, “Is that terrorist your uncle?”
He sounds gleeful and disgusted at the same time. There’s a viscous, dreamlike quality to all of this. I turn to him. For a split second, I think maybe he didn’t say what I thought he said. Maybe he’s not talking to me. But who else could he be talking to? My mouth is wide open. My mind races to find a retort, but it’s muddled. I’ve heard the words before. The taunts. I should know to expect them now. But the words still cut.
“Shut up, Brian,” is all I manage to get out.
Brilliant. I wish I were better under fire with scalding barbs. Not my strong suit. There is so much more to say. So much more I want to scream. I want to get in his face, to tower over him. But I’m a foot too short for that.
“Go to hell, Brian,” Violet yells. “You fucking jerk.”
“Oooh, so touchy. Well, the terrorist has the same last name as Maya, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah, and he’s a sick asshole,” Violet responds. “That’s a thing you have in common.”
He grins. I can see how our words are like fuel that incites him further. “Why don’t you people leave America if you hate it so much?”
I wince, remembering the conversation I had with my parents. My own words spat back at me. “I was born here, you racist! And that guy was Egyptian. My family’s Indian.” My temples throb. Why am I even explaining? I shouldn’t need to explain, and it shouldn’t matter where my family is from. But I do. And it does.
A small crowd gathers around us, watching.
“Let’s go, Maya. Ignore him.” Violet takes my elbow. But the anger courses through me; my feet are cemented in place.
“Egyptian? Indian? What’s the difference? You’re both ragheads.” Spit comes out of Brian’s mouth as he yells.
I want to slap him. I want him to hurt.
A smile spreads across his lips as he turns away.
For the first time, I’m aware of the tension in my body, a rubber band stretched to its limit. I let my shoulders relax from my ears. I blink back tears. I won’t let myself cry. Not over this.
Violet moves in to hug me. “I’m so sorry,” she breathes.
“Please, you don’t need to be sorry.”
“You’re right. Enough of the Hallmark moment,” she says, taking my elbow. She knows I want to move on. “Let’s get to class. I doubt Brian will bother you again.”
The first half of the school day passes routinely. I don’t see Brian anywhere, but clearly, word’s gotten around. That’s one of the things I hate most about a small high school. Everyone knows everything immediately. There’s not even a semblance of anonymity. Or privacy.
At lunch, I want to grab a salad and keep my head down, but Phil walks up to me at the salad bar. It’s the first time we’ve been in any sort of proximity since the painfully awkward crying moment in his car.
“I heard about what Brian said to you,” he says, staring down at his tray. “I’m sorry. He’s an ass. I’m going to talk to him. I should’ve said something to him before …” His voice trails off, like his mind has wandered away.
I give Phil a quizzical look. “Don’t worry about it. It’s no one else’s fault. Besides, I’m over it. You kinda have to have a thick skin if you happen to be Muslim and live in America.”
I want to talk to Phil. I want to snare his attention. But not for this. And I definitely don’t want to open myself up to being hurt. Again.
“So … ummm … whatever happened with NYU?” he asks.
“I’m going. My parents gave in.”
He finally looks up, his face bright. “That’s amazing. Congratulations. I’m really happy for you.”
I look into Phil’s smiling eyes. For a second, my defenses come down. My heart leaps from my chest. I smile in thanks.
“Listen, Maya, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” Phil takes a hesitant half-step closer to me. “I’m sorry. Things got complicated.”
“You mean with Lisa?” And the defenses are up again. Fully reinforced.
His mouth opens, but his words take their time coming out. “Well … no … I mean … I guess … but why—?”
“Maya.”
I jump.
Dean Anderson has said my name. His voice is impossible to miss, the one no student ever wants to hear in the cafeteria, or anywhere else, really: grizzly, smoked too much over the years, always a few decibels louder than necessary.
Only this time, a police officer, who looks barely older than me, stands a couple feet behind him. The entire cafeteria tunes into the show. My chest tightens.
“Yes?” I ask and rub my forehead.
“I need to speak with you. Do you mind if we step outside?”
My gaze turns to Phil for a second, searching, but I’m not sure for what.
Dean Anderson adds, “Why don’t you head to your table, Phil?”
Phil touches my arm. It’s a small gesture, protective. But I shouldn’t read into it. I know better now.
The hallway is empty. And silent. Except for my melon-colored Chuck Taylors, squeaking against the linoleum.
“Maya, this is Officer Jameson,” Dean Anderson says.
Officer Jameson holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Maya.” He takes off his glasses and tucks them in his shirt so I can see my distorted reflection in the mirrored lenses.
I bite my lip. I rub my clammy hands against my jeans. “You, too, Officer. What’s going on?”
“Maya, there’s been an incident at your parents’ clinic,” the dean begins. “They’re okay. Neither was seriously hurt.”
“Wh-a … wha-a-t happened?” My lip quivers, and my voice shakes.
Officer Jameson continues. “Someone threw a brick through the window.”
I cup my hand to my mouth to hold in a scream.
“Your dad got a gash on the forehead,” he continues in the same monotone. “A couple people in the waiting area have minor cuts from broken glass. Your mom was in a back exam room, so she’s unharmed.”
“My dad … did they catch who did it? I mean, why would …”
I look to Dean Anderson, who in turn looks back to Officer Jameson for a response. Dean Anderson can’t even look me in the eye.
“It appears to be a hate crime,” the officer says. “There was a note wrapped around the brick. Apparently, the bombing in Springfield angered the perpetrator. The brick through the window was a kind of warning.”
“A warning? It’s because our last name is the same as the terrorist’s, isn’t it?”
“We can’t speculate right now,” Officer Jameson explains.
Confusion, anger, and terror churn in my stomach. Thoughts fly through my brain at warp speed. First, Brian and the altercation this morning. And now this at my parents’ office. What if they attack us at home? A message? What if this is only the first?
“Are we … I mean … are my parents going to be safe?”
“Maya, I assure you the Batavia police department is taking this very seriously. We will find the perpetrator,” Officer Jameson says. I can see that he is trying to sound reassuring, but he might as well be telling me fairy godmothers are real, because nothing he says right now will make this okay.
“Can I go see my parents?”
“Of course,” Dean Anderson says. “Officer Jameson will take you—”
Violet bursts out of the lunchroom doors and into the hall, silencing him. It probably took all her patience to wait this long. “What’s going on?” she demands.
Dean Anderson frowns. “Young lady, I believe Officer Jameson and I were having a private discussion with Maya.”
Violet stares at him like he’s speaking an alien language, then turns to me.
“Someone threw a brick through my parents’ office window.” I repeat the officer’s words, not really believing them. “My dad got cut and a couple patients, too. It’s possibly revenge for the bombing.”
“What? No way. That’s horrible.” Violet turns to Officer Jameson. “I assume this qualifies as a hate crime and that the police will be pursuing every lead with all their formidable resources?”
Officer Jameson’s mouth betrays a slight smile. “Yes, miss. I was assuring your friend that once we catch the perpetrator, we will be throwing the book at him.”
“Good. Maya, did you tell them about this morning?”
I shake my head, swallowing.
“This would be a good time, don’t you think?” Violet says.
I don’t want to have this discussion.
Dean Anderson raises an eyebrow at us. “What happened this morning?”
“They need to know,” Violet presses me.
I hesitate, nervous what this conversation will lead to. I honestly can’t deal with any more drama at school. “Brian Jennings …”
“Bullied her. Because she’s Muslim. And there were witnesses.”
“Why didn’t you report this to me immediately?” Dean Anderson demands.
I don’t know how to answer. I just want this interrogation to be over.
“Maya,” Officer Jameson asks, “have there been any other incidents of this kind? Anything else off school property?”
“No. Nothing.”
“I want to make it clear that you need to report any other events of this type to the school immediately. If you’re threatened, and you’re not at school, call 911.” Officer Jameson reaches into his right front breast pocket and pulls out business cards. “You can also call me anytime, day or night. My cell phone number is on the card.”
Violet eagerly takes his card. “Thank you, Officer Jameson. We will all rest easier knowing you’re looking out for us.” Her tone changes from terse and direct to something softer, and I look up to see that she’s standing right in front of him, smiling. I almost laugh. Neither time nor circumstance will stop Violet’s flirting. I resist the urge to cry or hug her or both.
Officer Jameson clears his throat and adjusts his collar. “Are you ready, Miss Aziz?”
Violet steps closer to me. “Dean Anderson, I’d like to go with Maya.” She doesn’t ask. It’s not a matter of permission. She’s going whether he approves or not.
After a moment, he nods. “Okay. You’re responsible for any assignments you’ll miss. And I’ll call Brian in about this morning’s incident. Gather your things. We’ll wait here.”
Violet takes my arm and whisks me down the hall. “I love that we’re getting a police escort,” she says in my ear.
“Yeah,” I whisper and dissolve into tears.
Three men in dark suits knock on the door of a modest house in Dearborn, Michigan. Tarnished gold letters spell out AZIZ on the black mailbox.
It is dinnertime.
A woman in black pants and a loose-fitting white shirt answers the door and then calls for her husband. One of the men talks for a long time at incredibly slow speed. Though both the husband and wife speak English fluently, they look at the man as if he speaks in tongues.
They turn to each other briefly, silently.
Then the woman shrieks and runs wailing up the stairs into her bedroom. The husband steadies himself against the doorjamb before inviting the men to enter his home.