Think, think, think…
Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.
My cellphone suddenly vibrated. I stiffened in terror. It wasn’t the alarm I had set. I fought to stay calm. But the incoming text or whatever it was sounded weird, amplified. I removed my phone, placing the burner and my real phone on Kyle’s desk. On my real phone was Mariam’s face. My best friend was calling me, here, in her old bedroom. It buzzed a second time. In stereo. No, there was a third phone somewhere in the room, also buzzing. It was close, muffled, coming from inside Kyle’s desk. I opened the top drawer and found an iPhone, facedown. Hmm. Kyle was a “Samsung guy,” wasn’t he? This whole ordeal was threatening to turn me into a lunatic. When I flopped the third phone over and saw Mariam’s face, my lunacy seemed to be confirmed.
Here, in Kyle’s desk, was my phone. And somehow I still had my phone.
Salma, you dumbass…look at it. Closely.
I reached into the desk and flipped the phone over. The trim was black. My actual phone—the one I came with—was silver. I compared the two even more closely, flipping the phone in the desk back over so I could analyze the fronts. The screen savers were identical. The one in Kyle’s desk was exactly the same as the one on my phone: an old photo of me, Vanessa, and Mariam. An iconic image of the three of us as tweens.
What was going on? Was I seeing double? I put my phone down and grabbed the one from the desk. I tapped the screen. I punched in my passcode. Access denied.
And then it dawned on me. This was the “clone.” The one Amir had heard Kyle mention to his father. He thought Kyle had said “clown.” But he’d said “clone.” Kyle had cloned my phone.
I held the clone in my hand, staring in disbelief. How far back did this go? How many private moments was Kyle privy to? Had he been watching as I frantically texted Amir this weekend, searching for him, imploring him to hang on, confiding my deepest love?
I dropped the phone.
It felt dirty. My soul felt dirty. Ruined. Hacked to bits…one private moment at a time.
The phone landed on the floor, unbroken. Pulaski88 had taken advantage of my do-gooder impulse to save Dr. Muhammad’s practice and to keep my best friend in Mason Terrace. He wormed his way into my life under an alter ego, somehow cloned my phone, then straight up chased my boyfriend out of the country. My body burned. I wanted to violate him right back. Destroy his house, their lives—do to them what they wanted to do to my family and Amir’s family and Mariam’s family. At this point, what did I have to lose?
Nothing. Go for it, Salma. Remember what Amir said the day you were a jerk to him: “Screw them all.”
Bzzzt…Mariam’s face appeared on the clone. “What up, girl? You’re mega ignoring me.”
My eyes flashed between the two screens, to Mariam’s disappearing face. But there was my answer. I had Mariam to lose. Amir. Vanessa. My family. Everyone I’ve ever cared about. Even Mrs. DLP. And Dora and Boots.
The alarm went off. My real alarm. I nearly fell out of Kyle’s chair.
It was 7:38. No Kyle Sr. But a few seconds later a text came in—on my real phone and its clone. A message from Dad:
Apologize for the blackout. Titi’s had a spike in her vitals. May need a minor surgery soon. Was stuck w/ doc. Detective McManus at the house. Meet us at hospital. Same, same. We’ll make it work.
Make it work? Okay, Dad.
ON. MY. WAY.
What I didn’t text was that I’d be on my way after I snooped around Kyle Sr.’s office. I snatched all three phones, making sure they were on mute, then ran to the study. Unlike his son, Senior was a neat freak. Immaculate. There was a custom-made bookshelf and accent lighting. It was fancy. But the message was clear: Be smart, Salma. Kyle Sr. will notice.
I opened drawers and closets, then closed them; scanned the bookshelf, wincing at titles like The Submissive Wife; and then stopped, like a deer in headlights, at a painting. It was inside the bookshelf, a nook, like where one might put a TV, but Kyle Sr. had hung a painting. A painting of our nation’s capitol.
The dome of the U.S. Capitol was prominently displayed. Except now it had a flag protruding triumphantly from the top. With a cross on it. Church and state no longer separated.
I thought about Grandma Thiede. How she said that the cross symbolized the nafs transformed—a soul made free by sacrifice and humility and boundless love. But this was something else entirely. This wasn’t about spirituality. This was about control. Dominion. Empire. This entire room was making me mental.
Just then, Drexler barked.
I peeked through the window. It was the Turners’ truck. It slowed as the wheels hit the driveway. My heart pounded against my ribs. I scanned the room one last time. Wait…on the top of the bookshelf was a small box. A very pretty box. It looked important, given the metallic black lock.
On instinct, I swiped it. Shoved it into my now-bulging cargo pockets. I flew down the stairs, past the front door. Outside, Kyle Sr. cast a brief shadow across the morning sun. I nearly tumbled down the basement stairs once I reached them. Drexler stopped barking when he saw me, tail wagging.
I’m so sorry, buddy.
Down in the basement, I forced myself to breathe. My arms and legs sang with the sour alarm of EDS. I was not made for rushing or playing spy. I stopped and took a deep breath. I needed to slow things down. I needed to be quiet. The front door slammed, and I froze. Kyle Sr. was inside the house.
I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the barking that never came. Was Drexler being quiet for me? Did he somehow sense that I needed help? Or maybe he just knew me now, since I’d walked him and brought him into my home. But there was no time to think or dissect. I forced my eyes open and tiptoed across the basement and reached for the tiny window. There was no way I could hoist myself up and through it without Mariam’s old couch for leverage. I wasn’t Spider-Man; I wasn’t a comic book hero on a poster in Mrs. DLP’s office. I needed a lift.
The boxes.
Right.
I grabbed my shoes and tossed them through the window. Next, me. I needed a box. I grabbed the nearest one, but it was too heavy. What was in them? Was it safe to touch them? A second box was lighter. Next I had to fit through the small window at an awkward angle. It would hurt. But at this point, what wouldn’t? Summoning my resolve, I sucked in a breath and shoved my right shoulder out of joint—using every ounce of strength in my left side to pull myself through the window and out of the basement….
A cold sweat broke on my face. As I scrambled to my feet, I bit my lip to keep from screaming in pain as I shoved my shoulder back in place. After that, I saw stars. I closed my eyes. I couldn’t afford to pass out. I pressed my back against their house, cradling my arm. I had two options: run to the car and get to the hospital, or run to the house, find something to open the lockbox, and then get to the hospital. I chose the latter. But my body was still pressed to the Turner house.
I could hear Kyle Sr. shouting in the kitchen. The kitchen windows looked out to the woods. Now was my chance. I counted to three, then sprinted across the street, praying I wouldn’t be seen.
I ran to our side door to grab the spare key, but Mom had left in such a hurry, she didn’t lock anything. Did she take a cab? Did McManus force her to leave? Was that even legal? Stupid question…cops can do whatever the hell they want.
Shuddering at the thought of my sisters riding in the back of a paddy wagon, clueless and afraid, I stepped inside the kitchen. I had to open this damn lockbox. The cereal in the girls’ breakfast bowls was bloated and soggy; dirty dishes were stacked beside the sink, and coffee was still dripping. I poured myself a glass of water and rummaged through the medicine cabinet. I needed prescription-strength ibuprofen. Leftovers from my last injury. My shoulder pulsated with a twitchy pain. I grabbed Mom’s nearby scarf, assembling a makeshift sling.
My master
of calm, Thomas, came padding into the kitchen, begging to be fed. I opened the fridge and dropped last night’s can on the tiled floor. He gobbled it up, then brushed against my legs. Happy. I wanted to trade places with him. Scratch that…I wanted to be him. For now I had to be content with shoving a piece of Mom’s burnt toast into my mouth, then rummaging around for some sort of large destructive tool. An ax, preferably. Anything, really, to crack open the lockbox…a hammer. Perfect. I wedged the lockbox between the metal edge of the sink and the cutting board and began smashing the box again and again until pieces of metal flew upward and finally—
Pop.
The lock gave.
With a sigh, I set down the hammer and flipped open the lid. The cold sweat returned, a deluge now with the pain and stress, dripping from my forehead onto my wrist, into the box…and onto its only contents: a wooden signet ring. Garish. Bulky. Crappy-looking. Nothing particularly distinctive about it but the dots stamped on the top. There were several, maybe a dozen. Even so, it looked like a cheap souvenir. Not something worth protecting. Despair crept in.
Don’t you see, Salma Dihya? You’re deluded. You’re suffering from the same white-savior complex as everyone else. Can you stop already? Have you learned nothing in the last few weeks? Give up and give in. You’re not in control. They are. Better get your sorry ass to the hospital. Better hope your dad’s plan will work, that you can GTFO before it’s too late. Otherwise, it’s your 25th Hour. Remember that Norton film? Would love to see you surviving jail. Or Gitmo. Hello, orange jumpsuit.
Just then, Thom jumped onto the counter. I wanted to sweep him up into a death hug, but couldn’t. Couldn’t even pick up my own damn cat because of these Turners.
“Hang on, Thom.”
I unzipped my pants pocket and grabbed what I hoped was the right phone. Bingo. The clone. With my one good arm and a wrath-infused blow, I smashed that fucker to pieces.
Thom let out an innocent meow.
“Guess it’s time to say goodbye, buddy. I’ll miss you.”
I placed my forehead against his. He sniffed my nose and licked my cheek.
Teary and numb, I got to packing: my still-intact phones, more ibuprofen, my laptop, a few basic toiletries, and valuable photos of family, friends, Amir, Thom. I swung my jean jacket over my aching shoulder and headed out the front door, trying to look as casual as possible as I made a beeline toward the next street, walking toward the minivan.
THE HOSPITAL WAS a quick drive from the house. I had ten minutes. Ten minutes of illusory freedom, ten minutes in which I was the master of my destiny.
Master of your destiny? Okay, Miss Cray-Cray, are you sure it was ibuprofen you ingested?
I shook my head. Time was precious and I wasn’t going to waste it arguing with Salma Durden. I had two important phone calls to make. Goodbye calls. Only I couldn’t actually say goodbye.
First, Vanessa.
Her phone went straight to voicemail. Of course it did. Vanessa was at school. Like every normal teen. My bottom lip quivered as I managed to spit out the sappiest message I’d ever left her. I told her that she wasn’t just my second bestie, but a first, really—tied with Mariam. I told her that I couldn’t wait to go putt-putting, but that she might have to embrace the heat. I asked her to give Dora and Boots some love. I told her that if I survived any of this, I’d really like to have one of her homemade brownies. A whole big batch of them. Actually, I could just go for a vial of pure CBD oil. Like right about now…my shoulder.
I hung up. All at once I start sobbing hardcore, gulping for air and shaking—which made my arm hurt even more. I shook my head and sniffed, willing myself to stop. There was no time for a nervous breakdown.
At the light I popped another ibuprofen, wondering how many my stomach could handle.
The light turned green and I dialed Mrs. DLP to leave her a message.
I was startled to hear her voice. Her office didn’t open till ten. She immediately recognized mine. “Hey there, Missy Miss. To what do I owe this honor?”
I wiped my nose on my arm, smearing grossness all over my jean jacket. She was like my auntie. She had me at Missy Miss.
My voice started to crack. “Hey, Mrs. DLP. I just wanted to thank you. You know, because it’s International Auntie Day.” I totally pulled that one out of my ass.
“It is?”
“Yeah, it is. It’s a thing, you know. Like Cupcake Day and spring cleaning.”
She paused. “You all right, Salma? You sound really strange.”
I tried my best to keep my eyes glued to the road. There was something about her voice that was undoing me. “Um…I need some advice. I kind of fell out of a window and did something to my shoulder. I think I tore my rotator cuff, or dislocated my arm.” I said those last words fast and low. Knowing she’d flip.
“Girl!” Yup. Here came the flipping. If I hadn’t been talking to her through the car’s Bluetooth, I would’ve had to pull the phone away from my ear. “You know you can’t self-diagnose or self-treat,” she growled. “Listen. I have walk-ins and they start in just a few minutes. Put your mom on the phone. Better yet, put your mom on the phone and get yourself to the hospital. You hear me, young lady? And what in the world were you doing falling out of a window?!”
I turned the volume down. She mumbled something imperceptible, about my stubbornness and how I needed to be more careful.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. DLP. I’m on my way to the hospital.” It was true. Mostly. But not for my own medical treatment.
“Oh,” she said, her voice relieved. “Good. Then—”
“Wait.” I cut her off. “But hypothetically speaking, if this was just a tear, and not a dislocation, could it go untreated for a while and, you know, not do any permanent damage—”
“Good Lord. If it were a full dislocation your arm would be dangling from your side, totally useless. And the pain would be increasing, every minute. You probably have a tear. But you are on your way to the ER? Aren’t you?”
“Yeah, absolutely. Mom’s here in the car with me.” I fake-voiced an adult “Hi.”
Mrs. DLP was quiet. She had a finely tuned bullshit detector.
“Salma, cookie, is there something you’re not telling me? I can feel it in my bones.”
Another red light. I sighed.
“I promise on everything that’s holy that I will answer you one day. Which is a lot because in a sense all things and all people are holy. But I can’t right now. You wouldn’t believe it. I hardly believe it. It’s that complicated.”
There was a beep. Mrs. DLP sounded flustered. “Damn it,” she said. “I don’t know how to switch the lines. Hang on, I’m going to put the other line on hold.”
The call suddenly ended as I approached my exit and turned off George Mason Driveway and onto the hospital complex. Guess Mrs. DLP hit the wrong button.
* * *
—
Dead teen walking. That’s what I felt like as I parked the car and nervously walked into the hospital, riding the elevator up to the ICU.
My phone buzzed. Another text from Dad. Actually, a voice memo. I hit play. Three attempts later I finally deciphered his polyglot jumble of international languages and Moroccan dialects. The result? McManus was here. At the hospital. Waiting in Titi’s room. I had five to ten minutes max.
My stomach dropped. I pictured Mom and my sisters, watching the detective’s every move. None of this would work. I was certain of it—certain that Dad was in way over his head, that McManus would call Dad’s bluff, that Mom wouldn’t be able to keep a poker face. I probably would have missed my floor had two staff members not joined me in the elevator, talking among themselves about their busy night and what they were going to do once their shifts had ended.
“Remind me,” said the older one, “to finally put those tread rugs on my old hardwood stairs.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said the younger nurse, flicking some crumbs off her scrubs. “It’s a miracle I’ve never tripped, flying up and down the stairs doing laundry for four. My goodness, that poor woman. Such a nasty head injury.”
“Damn shame,” the older one said. “And did you see that tattoo she had? At her age? What was that? A barcode?”
The elevator dinged, and the door to the ICU slowly opened. I considered exiting, but my ten minutes weren’t yet up…and I had to hear more. Had to eavesdrop on this conversation of theirs. I mean…could they be talking about Mrs. Turner?
“It’s the latest fad,” said the younger nurse. “Talking tattoos. My nephew has one.”
“Stop pulling my leg, Darcy,” said the older nurse. “There’s no such thing as talking tattoos.”
We rose to the next floor, and when the door opened, the two nurses stepped out, the older one babbling on about this crazy world and how she was born in the wrong age. I jabbed the button to return to the ICU floor, where I guessed this woman, possibly Mrs. Turner, must be. My heart rate soared.
Chill out, Salma. The ICU floor is the same as Titi’s. The cops are somewhere nearby, waiting for you. Better to exit slowly, go in stealth.
As the door pulled open I popped my head out and scanned the hall. Coast was clear.
I started with the nearest door and worked my way down the hall toward Titi’s room, ducking in and out of rooms, trying my best to avoid an awkward conversation.
“Excuse me, miss. You can’t be in here.”
By my seventh or so room, I found her. At least, I hoped I had.
I approached this person who was hooked up to a gazillion machines, a breathing tube cut into her throat, skull wrapped up like a mummy…covering everything except the face. I moved closer to the bedside and studied it. Though swollen and bruised, her face was still dove-like and sweet, except for her eyes. They were wide open and lifeless. She was alive. But barely so. I heard voices outside the room. Feeling like a total asshole, like I was violating her space, her body, her privacy, I lifted up the hospital sheet that covered her body. Her lower arm was exposed. I snapped a single picture and left the room, offering a pathetic “Sorry, I’m lost. I thought this was my grandmother’s room” to the incoming doctor.
No True Believers Page 20
