Optimism is a funny thing. I swear I’m walking on clouds.
After lunch, I duck out of more roller coasters because I’ve had enough g-forces for one day, thank you very much. Also because all through lunch, Phil was smiling at me from across the food court and I was smiling back, and I’m secretly hoping that he ditches his friends to come find me. Of course, it’s not so secret because Violet made sure to announce a loud, “See you, Maya! Have fun filming by yourself!” as she left the food court with Monica and the boys. Real subtle like.
I’m glad she did.
I’m still wearing my post-Phil conversation smile as I film the park before I head back to the deserted food court. There’s a drinking fountain and bathrooms in a small courtyard surrounded by a hedgerow. When I walk out of the bathroom, I blink against the sun’s brilliance, but I know I’m glowing from the inside. I turn my camera on again. Walking up the path, I film the light dancing on the brick wall outside of the bathrooms.
“What are you smiling at?” Brian snarls at me as I step into the front courtyard. The light falls from the bricks; it falls from everything.
I lower my camera, grasp it tightly in my right hand, keeping it running. “N-n-nothing. The light and …”
I look left and right. Josh and Brandon stand a few feet behind Brian, flanking him, effectively cutting off my only exit. If they weren’t with Brian, I probably would’ve walked right by them. They both have these expressions that look more clueless than menacing. Sort of blank, I guess. They haven’t joined Brian in his shaved-head-and-fatigues look. But clearly they’re along for the ride.
I swallow and try not to let fear consume me. Think. Be cool. Figure it out. A hard pit forms in my stomach. I need to get out of here. “Are you guys having fun?” I try to make my voice sound confident, but it squeaks out of me. I’m buying time. Hoping someone passes by.
Brian looks at Josh and Brandon; they laugh. “Fun’s about to start,” he says.
He turns back to me. In that moment, I see what happened. Brian snapped after the bombing. It’s more than the creepiness I felt when Phil and I ran into him at the bookstore. It’s the eyes. I’ve never seen his eyes so cold and dead. His hands tremble, he’s amped up, jittery.
I take a step toward my right, looking over their shoulders, past the entrance to the courtyard and the park beyond. I don’t see anyone, but all I need to do is walk a few feet, and maybe I could make a run for it.
Brian steps in front of me, closer, now, menacing. He cuts off my path. The world around me comes into deep focus. My heart pounds in my ears, and each hair on my arm rises in warning. Tiny leaves on the hedges ripple individually, distinctly in my peripheral vision. Beads of sweat form at Brian’s hairline, and one trickles down the side of his face. I can hear the entire cycle of his breath—inhalation, exhalation.
His face tightens into a scowl. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m meeting back up with Violet and Monica and everyone. They should be in the food court any second,” I lie, trying not to let my inner frenzy bleed into my voice. Breathe, I remind myself. Talk your way out of it. But my lips are frozen, and my body is leaden as if earth’s gravity has tripled in the very spot I’m standing.
“Doubt it.” Brandon speaks for the first time. “Justin and Monica are making out by the kiddie rides.”
Brian’s stare is unwavering. He chuckles. “You know, Maya, you really are a tremendous pain in the ass.”
I hover between fear and rage. I clench my left hand in a fist; my right grips my camera even tighter. “Back off, Brian.”
“Back off?” Brian and his friends laugh. “Pretty ballsy for someone who’s cornered.”
“Look.” I take a tiny, hesitant step back as Brian moves closer to me. “I’m sorry you got suspended. I didn’t ask for that—”
“And I didn’t ask you to come to our country.”
“But I was born here …” I let my voice fade. There is no point in responding or trying to be reasonable. It’s safer if I keep my mouth shut. Every muscle in my body twitches. I’m afraid my knees will buckle.
“I don’t give a fuck where you were born.” Brian’s face twists in anger. “My brother lost his leg in Iraq because of you … people.”
I shake my head. I can see his pain. My breaths are short and fast. “I’m … sorry that happened to him,” I whisper, and I am.
“Yeah, you’ll be sorry.” The veins in Brian’s neck bulge. He steps closer to me, his beady eyes in my face. Then he seizes my right arm, hard.
“Ow!” I scream. “Let go of me!” I squirm, try to get out of his grasp. Fear turns to panic. He squeezes my upper arm tighter. His grip is a vise. My hands tingle, but I hold onto my camera like it’s a lifeline.
“Come on, Brian. You said you wanted to scare her,” Josh says. Brian doesn’t turn his gaze from me. “Now you’re hurting her.”
I catch the shadow that passes over Josh’s face. He’s wavering. It gives me the tiniest speck of hope that this could still end here.
“That’s the point. She has to pay,” Brian spits back.
If Brian has doubts, his face doesn’t betray them.
“This is bullshit. I’m outta here, man.” Josh slinks out of the courtyard.
I turn to Brandon, wide-eyed, pleading. He lowers his head and hurries after his friend. I’m alone now.
“Brian, please. You don’t want to do this.” Hot tears splash down my cheeks. I want to scream, but I can’t hear my voice anymore, and I have no idea if any sound escapes my mouth.
“Yes. I. Do. I want to hurt you.”
I look beyond Brian—if I can break his grip, I can make a run for it. It’s a few feet … if only … Brian yanks me closer to him. He grabs my face and squeezes my cheeks so I can’t speak.
The ground pushes up against my feet, compelling me to move.
I kick Brian in the shin.
“You bitch.” He slaps me and throws me to the ground. I hear a crack as my left elbow slams into the pavement. I taste blood. Brian’s handprint stings my skin. I try to push myself up. Brian stomps on my left thigh. I scream as the pain pierces to the bone. He clenches his right fist above me. I raise an arm to shield myself.
I’m frozen—until Brian stumbles forward, pushed from behind.
Phil.
When Brian turns around, Phil punches him in the stomach. Brian clutches his front with one hand and swings wildly at Phil with his other. Phil strikes Brian’s face. Blood spurts from Brian’s nose and mouth as he falls backward to the ground, groaning.
Phil looms over him. “I should’ve done this a long time ago,” he says, raising his right fist to punch Brian again.
“Stop,” I yell.
Phil eases himself back, breathing hard, his eyes fixed on Brian—who covers his face with his hands, blood dripping between his fingers.
Finally Phil turns to me. His jaw slackens. The rage in his eyes is replaced with worry. I’m still on the ground, clutching my knees and sobbing. He kneels, wraps his arms around me, and speaks softly. “Maya, are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“Uhh … my arm … how did … where did you come from?”
Holding me to his chest, he strokes my hair and kisses the top of my head. I cry into his shirt; my entire body shakes. The frames in my mind fast-forward, rewind, fast-forward without pause, and it’s all out of focus.
I’m not sure how much time passes. Seconds or minutes. When I finally look up, the courtyard is a jumble of people and voices. I see the dean and Ms. Jensen with Josh. Violet rushes into the courtyard with Mike and is followed by staff from the park. It’s all spinning, with me at the very center, trying to hold on.
Phil makes space for Violet, who crouches beside me, her eyes crinkled with concern.
“Can you help me get up?” I ask. “I want to go wash my face in the bathroom.”
“Sure, honey.”
Violet helps me stand up. I hold my left elbow close to my body, my right hand still fastened around the mini-cam. I limp over. My leg throbs. Every muscle coiled, wound too tight.
In the bathroom, I clutch the edge of the sink, trying to balance myself. Violet places a comforting hand on my upper back. “Try splashing cold water on your face. That might help.”
I hand Violet my camera and do as she suggests, wincing as I move my left arm. I dry off and breathe deeply a few times. My fingers shake, but it’s hard to believe that this is real.
“I caught part of it on camera,” I say.
“What?”
“I mean … my camera was running the whole time. I’m not sure what the picture looks like, but I probably got the sound.”
“At least you’ll have evidence.”
“For what?”
“If Brian lies. He assaulted you. You can press charges. And you know, with him maybe being involved in the incident at your parents’ office and the whole hate-crime thing, he could be in serious trouble.”
“I didn’t … I hadn’t thought of … I don’t want to tell my parents.”
“Maya, that’s not an option,” Violet says. “You’re limping. Your left arm is swelling up—you need to go to the hospital. The dean’s probably called your parents already.”
In the distance, I hear sirens.
The little courtyard bursts with people.
Just beyond the hedgerow, park security guards are talking to Dean Anderson. One of them barks at the buzzing crowd outside, “Make some room, people.” A police car pulls up, trailed by two ambulances. Red-and-blue lights splash across the pavement.
God. One of those ambulances is for me.
Violet helps me hobble out to the center of the courtyard. I strain to look for Phil, but I don’t see him in the crowd. Justin, Monica, and Mike rush up to us, full of questions. I look at Violet and slowly shake my head. She pulls our friends to the side and gives them the story so I don’t have to. I watch the flurry from outside myself. I’m inside the plane of focus, sharp and defined and totally still. All around me, my friends, the cops, they’re out of the plane, a blur, a fast-moving spiral. It’s dizzying.
I see Phil. And everything stops.
He’s talking to a policeman who is writing things down in a spiral notebook.
Two EMTs help Brian onto a stretcher. He’s holding an ice pack to his nose. I know it’s horrible, but I want him to be in pain. I want him to disappear off the face of the earth. When they move him away, I see splotches of blood on the ground.
Violet reappears at my side as the dean escorts an EMT over to us. “Maya, this is Rachel. She’s going to examine your arm and leg and see if you have any other injuries, and the police will need to talk to you as well.”
“That can wait till we get to the ER,” Rachel says.
“The hospital? But … I …” I whisper. I don’t want to go to the hospital, but like everything else lately, it’s out of my hands.
“I’ve notified your parents,” Dean Anderson adds. “They’ll meet us at Community General.”
The dam bursts on my river of denial.
“Can I ride with her in the ambulance?” Violet asks.
“Fine with us,” the EMT says and looks to the dean, who nods.
The EMT gestures for us to follow her. Violet takes my good elbow. I search for Phil’s face again. Did I thank him? I have to thank him. I can’t find him anywhere.
“Watch your head,” Rachel says, as she helps me step into the back of the ambulance. Another EMT joins her. They put an ice pack on my swollen, bruised arm, take my blood pressure and heart rate, and examine my leg.
“Violet, where’s Phil? Can you check?” I’m worried. Why has he disappeared?
“Back in a flash.”
“Is he the young man who stepped in?” Rachel asks while scrutinizing my injuries.
“Yeah.”
“Brave kid. He your boyfriend?”
I shake my head no.
The EMTs wrap up, ready to take me to the hospital against my wishes. Violet ducks back into the ambulance and sits down but doesn’t look me in the eye.
“Did you find him?” I ask.
“Not exactly,” Violet says in an uncharacteristic whisper.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s with the police. They’re charging him with assault.”
The little boy with dark curls knows how to make himself invisible.
One rainy day, with his mother shut in her room, he occupies himself bouncing a ball against the living room wall. He hears his mother’s rhythmic prayers from behind her closed door, and he loses himself in her voice and the soft thud of the rubber ball against the wall. Startled when he hears the front door slam, he misses the ball and watches it bounce in slow motion as it knocks down a small vase full of fake flowers that his mother keeps on the end table.
Too late to disappear.
Damn it. I’ve told you a million times not to play in the house. You’re going to pay for that, boy, the man yells as he loosens his belt and wraps it a couple times around his hand to get a tight grip.
The mother runs out of her room, pleading.
The boy takes the first blow standing up and then falls to the ground, hoping playing dead will make the man stop.
But he forgets to cover his head, and the buckle strikes hair and skin and bone.