by Samira Ahmed
“Same,” Ayesha whispers back.
I’ve only known Ayesha a few weeks, but from the moment we met, I could trust her. It was friendship at first sight. In a lot of ways, it was a new feeling for me—that sense of trust, of loyalty. There was David, of course; he is that and more, and I have friends on the tennis team, and in student government, but no one tight—not recently, anyway. I’m so grateful I have Ayesha. I smile at her and say, “I’m freaked, too. But we won’t be stupid. We’ll plan. We’ll hide in plain sight. We’ll protect one another. We’ll try our best.”
Soheil nods.
Ayesha steps over to me and gives me a hug and squeezes my hand.
“Okay,” Soheil says. “You are going to figure out a way to get a message to David—”
“A way that can maybe fire people up on the outside. There are already protestors here, and media. I want to light a match. Be a spark,” I say.
Soheil starts pacing around the boulders. “But we also have to find a way to resist inside.”
While he’s walking, Ayesha opens a small plastic bag and hands each of us a sandwich. She smiles. “I was a Girl Scout. I’m always prepared for my inevitable bouts of hunger.”
Soheil and I thank her and take the PB and J she hands us. I notice that Soheil’s fingers linger on Ayesha’s when he reaches for his sandwich.
Soheil looks at his food. “Fast. We get people to fast. Like, everyone skips dinner. Refuses to eat.”
“You have noticed that I get totally hangry, right?” Ayesha says. “But maybe a protest fast—missing the dinner slop at the Mess one day isn’t the worst idea ever.”
Soheil laughs. “It’s Gandhi-esque. It’s in your DNA.” He points to the two of us.
Ayesha rolls her eyes. “Yes, you’re right. All the desis in America have regular meetings about being more Gandhi-like, and we spin our own cotton, too. And all the Arabs here know how to ride camels, right?” Ayesha playfully punches him in the arm, but it was probably a bit harder than Soheil expected, and he winces a little.
“Okay, I hear you. Checking my assumptions.”
Ayesha tilts her head. “One upside: Muslims are used to fasting. Who knew Ramadan was preparing us for this?”
I interject, “It’s only one meal. Besides, three people won’t get much attention. How do we get other people to join in?”
Soheil proposes the threads of a plan. “We start with a core group. I’d like to bring Nadia and Nadeem—the twins on my block—in on it, and some others. Next Friday. The Director is letting us choose seats at dinner to show us his supposed generosity, right? Let’s use it. We need a group of us, enough to get attention.”
“But how do we know who we can trust? We need to recruit people.” Ayesha looks right at Soheil, who smiles back at her.
He responds, “Recruiting is my thing. I recruited, like, half a dozen ballers for the soccer team at school. I’ll get people. But we can’t all meet here. Three people eating sandwiches doesn’t look suspicious, but more than five and the drones will start to sniff out a conspiracy.”
Ayesha smiles. “I know! Last week when I was at the Hub library, I suggested a teen vegetable garden to the librarian, and she was into it. She even requisitioned tools and seeds and stuff. So we plant. Get some tools, do some work. Rebel.”
Yes, I think. Sow the seeds. Perfect.
Ayesha and I are still buzzing from our conversation with Soheil earlier today. As we walk down the Midway toward the Mess, one of the Director’s shiny red drones flies above us, slows down, and follows. We stop talking altogether, too nervous to speak. Then Ayesha mentions the dinner from the night before and goes on to list all the foods she misses from the outside. I turn my chin up to gaze directly at the drone’s camera; I wonder if it’s sending a live feed into the Director’s office. Creepy. Unsettling. I don’t like being watched; I refuse to get used to it. We keep walking and talking, building our missed-food wish list: Flaming Hot Cheetos, chocolate cake with real buttercream frosting, In-N-Out Animal Style burgers, Badmaash fried chicken, biryani, kheema paratha, samosas, food truck tacos, salmon sushi. And now I’m starving. But the drone moves on, heading toward the back of the camp, which is weird because everyone else is heading forward, toward the Mess. It’s dinner. It’s required. The only reason—
We hear yelling and the sound of boots on the ground, and then a dozen guards run past us. I pull Ayesha toward the Mess. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the Director and his private security detail following behind the guards. This can’t be good.
“I’m going to go see what’s happening,” I whisper to Ayesha.
“Are you cracked? We’re supposed to be in the Mess.”
“I’ll only be a few minutes. Besides, something is going on, and I’m sure everyone is going to be distracted.”
Ayesha sighs. “Fine, I’m going with you. If only to tell you to hurry up and get back to the Mess, where the major risk is indigestion, as opposed to getting shot out here.”
I smile a little. Then, when the guard at the Mess door steps toward the Midway to see what’s happening, I grab Ayesha’s hand and dart behind one of the admin trailers. We wait, then dash behind some Mercury Homes. We move closer to the direction of the guards and the drones, but keep some distance between us and the Midway so we can’t be seen.
Then we hear screams. I stop short. I can’t breathe. Goose bumps spring up all over my body. I look at Ayesha. All the blood has left her face. We peek out from behind the Mercury Home. A woman is being dragged down the Midway by the Director’s small special force, his personal security guards, as the Director follows calmly, walking with his hands clasped behind his back like he’s on a stroll, as if his hands don’t have blood on them.
It’s Noor.
Oh God. No.
During our first few days here, Noor caught me smiling at her American flag hijab while we were both doing laundry, and she introduced herself. Block 6, she said, rolling her eyes. Arab American. She told me Authority Suits grabbed her from her dorm room for seditious acts. When I asked her if she had done what they claimed, she looked at me with a mysterious smile and said, “Rebellion is as American as apple pie. And so is fascism.”
Now she’s being hauled down the Midway, pulled by each arm, bleeding from her mouth and her forehead. She’s writhing and trying to kick and twist herself out of the grasp of the Director’s private security guards. They ignore her screams. Like she’s a ghost they can’t see or hear.
I can’t turn away. I step forward. Ayesha pulls me back behind the Mercury Home, but it doesn’t matter. Because no one is in the Mess anymore. Everyone is standing around. Watching.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see two black women run toward Noor—they’re young, maybe in their twenties, Block 7 or 8.
No. No. Stop. They’ll take you, too, I want to scream, but the words catch in my throat. Neither of the women has a weapon.
The one I’ve met before, Asmaa, has close-cropped hair and wears a bright-yellow tee with BAD BRAINS splashed across the front in red letters. She lunges for one of the men taking Noor away. An Exclusion Guard immediately steps up, grabs her by the shirt, and elbows her in the face, like she’s inconsequential to him. She falls to the ground, cradling her head in both hands, groaning. Two guards yank her up.
Then the action feels like it slows down. There’s screaming and dirt getting kicked up and clouds of fine dust filling the air. I hear Ayesha say, “Oh no. It’s Bilqis.”
In the frenzy, Bilqis—who’s wearing a pale-blue hijab—sucker punches one of the guards. Right in the face. Blood spurts out of the guard’s nose and mouth. A beatific smile crosses her face, but before she can take another step, two guards are on her. One punches her in the gut, and when she’s doubled over, another guard kicks her to the ground and handcuffs her. When they pull her up, the guard she punched stomps up to her and rips off her hijab. Bilqis spits in his face, and he slaps her hard—so hard that her scream could crack the earth. Blood is every
where, smeared across their faces and clothes. I keel over, sure I’m going to be sick. Ayesha rushes to me.
There is so much screaming. And deep, almost animal-like sounds from the women. People in the crowd yell and curse and cry. Guards hold them back as Noor and Asmaa and Bilqis are taken away. But we don’t disperse. Someone from the back of the gathering throws a rock. It hits one of the Director’s security team in the arm. There are cheers. But when I glance at the Director, I know this is going to cost us. His splotchy red face looks like it’s going to explode. He marches over to one of his security guards, takes his handgun, raises it in the air, and shoots. The shot rings out and reverberates through the mountains. He does it again.
The crowd quiets. Then there are only the echoes of the women’s screams.
The Director waits, the gun still raised. He waits longer. It’s unbearable hearing the last distant sounds from the women as they’re taken who knows where. My God, they are so brave. My heart is in my throat. This is what the Director wants. He wants us to hear the screams. He wants us to know that it could be us screaming.
And then there is absolute silence.
My parents tuck me in. They haven’t done this since I don’t know when. No one has said a word beyond the absolute minimum since the incident with the three women. The Director let us eat dinner. And we did so without speaking. It was excruciating. No sounds except people chewing, and forks tapping against plastic plates, and parents shushing their babies, who didn’t know any better. If fear had a sound, it would be the painful, heavy silence in the Mess tonight.
“Do you want me to stay with you, beta?” my mom asks. Her voice is so soft, it’s almost heartbreaking.
I smile up at my parents. “No. I’m okay.”
“If you ever want to talk, you know, about anything, your mom and I are always here for you. We can always take a walk with you.” My dad pats me on the knee. They’re trying to be reassuring. But they also probably know that they’re failing. It’s an impossible task.
I kiss them both on their cheeks, and they step out.
I wait until I hear them shut the door to their room to get out of bed. I step to my tiny desk, turn on the lamp, and take a seat. No way I can sleep tonight. The bloody, stricken faces of those women will not leave my mind. And neither will their bravery. I try not to wonder what is happening to them, what could happen, but I surrender my imagination to its most terrifying conclusion. Honestly, it probably is so much worse in real life.
Since I can’t sleep, I open the notebook I brought with me. And I write. I write about life inside Mobius. About Noor. About the brave women who tried to intercede. And the woman with the ponytail at the orientation and the desperate man who was so quiet as they took him away after his partner was disappeared.
And I write about the screams. Those screams will be etched in my memory forever.
I write it all in tiny print as legibly as possible despite my shaky hand while I wipe away tears so they don’t soak into the paper. I fold it up into a small square and tuck it under my pillow for now. Before the incident, Jake reluctantly agreed to get the note to David. I’m scared for him. For me. For David. I can’t even imagine what the Director will do if he gets wind of this. It would be impossible to talk our way out of it. It’s probably treason, like everything else these days. That whole freedom-of-speech thing? That right to petition your government? Yeah, doesn’t exist so much inside an internment camp.
I glance at myself in the Mylar mirror. My face is all puffy and red, like I’ve scrubbed it too hard with exfoliant. I drag myself over to the bed and rest my head on the pillow. My eyes sting. I let them close.
There’s clattering in the common area. I bolt up and barely miss hitting my head. I’m never going to get used to having a damn bunk. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. I feel woozy. I grip the sides of the mattress to steady myself. There are so many times I’ve woken up confused, wondering whose bed I’m in, whose room. This morning my head feels thick, but I know where I am. I know what I have to do.
I get up, splash water on my face, and change into my favorite jeans and my mom’s old X-Files tee. All my clothes feel dirty. There’s a laundry, but even after the wash, nothing I wear feels clean. It’s like the dust in Mobius is woven into the fiber of every article of clothing that touches my skin. Before I head out of my room, I take the note from under the pillow and slip it into my back pocket.
I step into the cramped common space of our trailer. My parents are glued to the media unit, watching the latest announcement. There’s no real news, only what the Director wants us to hear. And what he wants us to know today is that everything is back to normal after the “troublemakers” were dealt with. Then he turns back to the goings-on at Mobius.
“Looks like plans for the community garden are under way,” my mom says when she sees me. “There’s even a teen garden section.” She gives me a hollow smile. She is so pale. We’ve been in the blazing sun for a few weeks, and yet my mom is a ghost. I take a couple steps and stand next to her. She rubs the space between my shoulder blades—a gesture that always calmed me down when I was little.
I look from my mom to my dad and realize they are not going to bring up yesterday. They’re not going to talk about the violence or the bravery.
“Maybe working in the garden will make some people smile. We have to try to get along the best we can,” my mom says, her voice uncharacteristically meek. “Be happy we have each other.” Her voice falters. “Be happy we’re alive.”
“Why? Why do we have to sit around and take it like it’s all okay? Did you not see what I saw last night? I wish everyone would stop acting like this is all normal. It’s not normal.” I raise my voice more than I should.
“Layla.” My dad’s voice is even as ever, cognizant of the camera and of being watched. “Your mother is simply saying that we should do our best to make a community here. Before you know it, we’ll be back at home.”
I understand why my parents put on a show for the cameras, but I can’t stand it anymore. I’m scared they’ll start believing what they’re saying.
“What if we never get out of here? What if we die in here? People died in American internment camps during World War Two, and I’d rather die fighting back than going along with everything.” I’m so weary of the ever-present gaze. Fury courses through my veins. But I’m being reckless, and that’s dangerous for my parents—and for me.
There’s a fire raging inside me, and I feel like I could burst into a million tiny embers. I look at my mom’s face; her fatigue is painful to witness. I know I’m part of the reason she looks that way. I dig my fingernails into my palms and press until it hurts. I look at the deep red crescents my nails made in my skin.
I sigh and take a shaky breath.
I promised Ayesha that I’d be careful. And that I wouldn’t do something stupid and rash. It’s a show. I can’t forget that.
I bite my lip. “Sorry, Mom and Dad. You’re right. I was being stupid. I didn’t mean it.”
My mom clasps my hands, and my dad’s hands rest on top of hers. It strikes me that the look in their eyes—the one I don’t remember existing until we got to this place—is a unique kind of fear: You wonder if you’ll ever see your kid again when they step out the door. There are layers to fear, and complexities, and being trapped here brings that to light.
I tell my parents I’m meeting Ayesha, but it’s a lie, and it’s for their own good. I kiss them good-bye, giving them a little wave at the door.
Stepping outside, I nearly trip down the stairs because Jake is standing by my front door and totally startles me.
“Sorry,” he says, catching me by the elbow before I fall to the ground. I look up at him. He pulls his hands away immediately. “I’ve been waiting for you to come out.”
We planned to see each other so I could give Jake the note, but I didn’t realize he meant that he was going to be stalking my front doorstep. Also, he seems anxious, which is unusual.
&n
bsp; I adjust the hem of my T-shirt and straighten my hair. “Awkward” is the first word that comes to mind right now. I look around and reach into my back pocket. Jake puts his palm up, stopping me.
“Come with me. Don’t ask questions.”
I hesitate, thinking of my conversation with Ayesha and Soheil. Maybe I really have read everything wrong. Why does he seem so nervous? I keep telling Ayesha and Soheil that I trust my gut about Jake. I told David, too. But what if my gut is totally wrong? What if Ayesha was right the first time she warned me about him? I hate doubting myself. A part of me wonders if maybe I am foolish for trusting him; I follow Jake anyway. If my instinct is wrong, and he has only been gaining my trust to bust me, then he can drag me away anytime he wants to.
Jake marches me right through the middle of camp. Greeting and saluting the other guards. Nonchalant. Like he has orders to take me somewhere. Maybe he does. We walk past the Hub and head straight for the Mess.
The Mess is only open for dinner. We do our other meals on our own with whatever rations they give us, which are usually ridiculous. The other day there was a bottle of ketchup in our food box, and on the itemized list it was marked as a vegetable. A vegetable. First of all, tomatoes are fruit, but anyway, ketchup is a condiment with, like, zero nutritional value. But I guess that is not their big concern here.
“Why are we going to the Mess? Are you going to let me steal some extra mayonnaise packets? Mayo counts as, like, what? Eggs?”
Jake gives me the side-eye but doesn’t respond to my snark, which I’ve been trying to suppress, in large part for my parents’ peace of mind. But it’s impossible to keep all of myself totally hidden, even inside Mobius, where showing too much of yourself can get you hurt, or disappeared.
The lights are off in the Mess. It’s echoey and eerie, like it’s haunted. Why does he want me in here? Goose bumps rise on my skin. He’s quiet. Too quiet.
