by Varsha Bajaj
When we’re almost at the door, a man by the van points to us and says, “Hey, isn’t that the kid we’re after?”
Mom literally shoves Karina into the house and bangs the door shut.
After calling Karina’s parents, we go back to looking at all the #CountMeIn posts on our phones. We’re like moths attracted to the light of the screen.
While the majority of the comments are supportive, I’m reminded again that there are other Quinns in the world.
There are some comments that say America is for Americans. I agree with that. I just don’t understand why all the Americans must look alike.
There are people who echo all the things the monster hurled at Mr. Chopra.
There are comments that suggest that Karina and Mr. Chopra made it all up.
Karina is now sitting on the couch in our living room with big tears rolling down her face. She’s overwhelmed by it all, the positive and the negative, and there’s nothing I can do.
CHAPTER 25
KARINA
THE REPORTERS WILL not go away. When I looked out my window in the morning at all their vans and cars, I thought of Chris’s dad a million years ago. How he was so upset at the car blocking his driveway when we had the party to celebrate Papa moving here. He must be hopping mad today, and I wouldn’t blame him. I want them all to leave us alone too. Having my post go viral was cool—but being hounded by the media is not cool at all.
Yesterday, one of the local TV stations did a story on Mrs. Maxwell sharing my post and how it went viral. They reported on what happened to Papa and showed the memorial. They said my question has made others think and ask, Who is an American? What does an American look like?
When they called and asked if they could interview me, Dad refused. I am just a kid, he said. He does not want me on TV.
Since that segment, though, reporters continue to exhaust us with requests. Today, Dad picked me up after school and took me to work. Still, a few reporters showed up at our family’s sandwich store looking for a statement.
The situation has been a help and a curse. It has brought in new customers who are curious, but has kept away some regulars who don’t want to deal with the crowd.
And it is so weird to feel like prisoners in our own home.
In the evening, Dad calls lots of aunties and uncles to get advice. Then Sanjay Uncle, who is a lawyer, comes over to talk.
“This can’t go on,” Dad tells him.
I agree with that. I miss my anonymous life. Before all of this happened, I was a nobody. I could have worn mismatched socks every day and no one would have noticed, except Ashley. I was not someone who mattered in school. Now everyone wants to talk to me, and yesterday Ashley helped me choose outfits for the week.
I text Chris to tell him, Sanjay Uncle says Dad should make a statement on behalf of the family.
Dad and Mom sit at the dining room table with Sanjay Uncle, carefully picking and choosing their words.
After an hour, they have written a few sentences that say nothing about our pain and fears but put on a brave facade.
Sanjay Uncle reads them and makes a few changes. Then they step outside and face the reporters at our door.
Dad reads his statement:
“We appreciate the concern and good wishes expressed by the community since the attack involving my father, Shiv Chopra. He continues to recover in a rehabilitation facility, where we are grateful that he is under the care of an excellent medical team. We hope and pray for his recovery.
“We are also heartened by all the support from across the country that has been extended to our daughter and her friend, who were with my father that day.
“At this difficult time, we ask that the press give us the privacy to heal and carry on with our lives. Thank you all for all your support and interest in our well-being. We believe in this country!”
* * *
The statement makes no difference.
The phone continues to ring with requests for interviews as our story continues to spread.
Dad paces in the living room. Mom throws up, and I’m not sure if it’s because she is pregnant or because she is stressed-out.
Sanjay Uncle and Dad’s hope that the story will go away and be forgotten has not happened. The president of the Indian American Association calls Dad to suggest this is an opportunity to bring attention to the rising number of hate crimes against South Asians.
After a long discussion, they decide that they’ll allow me to be interviewed, and hopefully when people’s curiosity is satisfied, the attention will drop off.
Even Papa is now aware of the situation. “Is there someone that we could trust to tell our story?” he says.
I think back to that day when Papa was assaulted. In my mind’s eye, I see Papa fallen on the street and I see me and Chris. Then I hear that scream from Mrs. Maxwell, urgent and loud. “Henry!” she shouted before she rushed to help.
The choice is obvious.
We all agree we can count on Mrs. Maxwell.
“Yes, I like her,” I say. “She understands, because she was there. She came to school to check on Chris and me. She is a reporter and she cares.”
Dad calls her and puts her on speaker so we can all hear her. She says she will come over to our house later.
* * *
When Mrs. Maxwell arrives, she has a man with her who will record our interview on video.
Mom and Dad have both coached me to take my time, think before I say anything, and not feel pressured to answer anything I don’t want to.
Mrs. Maxwell wears a soft mauve-colored dress. It’s loose and swirly and pretty. “Relax,” she says. “I’m on your side.”
I nod and say, “Thank you!”
When the camera rolls, she does a brief introduction about what happened that day and how she happened to be on the scene.
Then she turns to me to start the interview.
“Karina,” she says, “how did the events of that day change you?”
“In every way,” I say. “I had read about people being attacked before, but till it happens to someone you love, it’s just another news story.”
There is an ocean of feelings and thoughts that I am not able to communicate, like how vulnerable all this has made me feel. How I have often thought that Mrs. Maxwell was an angel sent to watch out for us.
“Tell us about your grandfather,” she says.
I search for the words that will convey that he is the most important person in my life, and I say what I come up with: “He came to this country fifty years ago. He loves math, and he volunteers in my school. He tutors my friend Chris, and that is why Chris was with us that day. Papa loves watching basketball. He used to live in California, and loves the Lakers. Now he is learning to love the Rockets.”
“He sounds wonderful,” Mrs. Maxwell says.
I feel more relaxed, and I start to forget that there is a camera in the room.
“He is,” I say. “And he is going to get better, because he wants to be there when I have my new brother or sister.”
Then I see Mom and Dad’s startled faces. They have not shared the news with anyone except Papa, and here I am blurting it out to the world.
Oops!
I wish I could take back my words. But then Mom nods at me and gives me a thumbs-up.
Mrs. Maxwell sees all the surprised faces in the room and says, “Well! Congratulations on the upcoming addition to your family!
“What made you share your pictures of what happened on your photo feed?” Mrs. Maxwell asks.
“I wanted people to be as outraged as me at the way Papa was treated,” I say. “The story needed to be told. It’s important because I love my country, but I don’t like this hateful side of it. And for me, I feel I tell stories better with my pictures than with words.”
“You’re pretty good wit
h words too.” Mrs. Maxwell smiles wide. “What did you mean when you used the hashtag ‘Count Me In’?”
I see Dad, Mom, Sanjay Uncle, and the others looking at me, waiting to hear my answer. Mrs. Maxwell’s encouraging look says, You can do this.
I take a minute and breathe. “It means that I cannot be quiet anymore. Count on me to speak up.”
My voice surprises me. It is firm.
Mrs. Maxwell grins wider. She says to me, “So you have become an accidental activist?”
Seeing my puzzled expression, Mrs. Maxwell explains. “You have become an activist, someone who speaks up, even if you didn’t expect anyone outside your community to hear what you had to say.”
Have I? Is this what an activist does? Do I know anyone who is an activist?
“I guess so,” I say.
“Lastly,” Mrs. Maxwell says, “what do you think of the memorial?”
“I love it,” I say. “My friends Ashley, Diego, and Trevor started it. I’ve been showing my grandfather pictures of it, and I think it’s helped us all.”
“I thank you for sharing your story,” Mrs. Maxwell says, “and I wish you and your family the best. So many of us are praying for your grandfather’s recovery.”
Then the man turns the camera off.
* * *
Chris rushes over after seeing me on the news. “Wow,” he says. “You did a great job. And how cool you’re gonna have a kid brother or sister. I can’t believe I had to find that out on TV, though.”
“Me and my big mouth. I can’t believe I blurted that out before Mom gave me the green light,” I say. “It’s fine, though—Mom is happy, and everyone is so excited.”
“Yeah,” Chris says. “It’s awesome to have good news. I can’t wait to say, ‘Welcome to the world, Baby C. You’ve got the most awesome big sister ever!’”
CHAPTER 26
CHRIS
SO IT’S BEEN a day since Karina’s interview with Mrs. Maxwell was in the paper and all over the local news. Now it seems like everyone—and their parents—knows her name and the story of what happened to us. It feels weird, but I’m glad Karina spoke out, and so’s she.
“People need to know how badly Papa was treated, so they understand,” she says. “It’s worth dealing with the attention that brings, if it helps.”
Lots of neighbors wave when they see us on our bikes after school riding to Ashley’s house.
But when we pass a gray Ford Taurus, the same kind of car that the monster drove, my foot stops pedaling and I almost fall over.
Will this feeling ever go away?
It’s just a mom and a kid from school who’ve slowed down to give us a thumbs-up.
“Karina,” I say, and I blurt out the question that has been bothering me for days. “Do you think I should have done more that day?”
She screeches to a halt, and I stop too.
Karina gets off that bike that’s too small for her. She leans it against a tree.
“Chris Daniels,” she says. “Do you remember that he had a knife?”
“I do,” I say. That knife still glints in my nightmares. “Maybe I could have kicked it out of his hand?”
“Chris, come on, now. It was not a video game.”
“I know, but still, I wonder what I could have done,” I tell her.
“Nothing. We were all shocked, stunned. We were on a safe street. It should not have happened. But Papa told me that sometimes bad things happen to good people.”
“Are you saying that to make me feel better?”
“I would never do that,” she says, and puts her hand on her heart. “You have been there for me every day since then. You could have gone your own way.”
“I’d never do that to people I care about,” I say. “Never.” I place my hand on my heart.
“I know,” she says, “and that’s what makes you such a great friend.”
“Karina, I’m sorry about sixth grade,” I confess. “I didn’t stand up for you then.”
“I’m sorry about sixth grade too. I used to call you and your friends ‘a pack of hyenas.’”
“You did?” I say.
“Yes, but you know I don’t think you are one anymore!”
“I don’t know why I ever thought hanging with those guys would make me cool, help me survive,” I tell her. “But I’m glad there’s a world of kids not like them.”
Karina laughs. “Me too. And that was such a long time ago, Chris.”
“Almost so long ago that your blinged-up bike was styling, right?”
She sticks her tongue out, and I feel lighter as we get back on our bikes.
“Hey,” I say as we ride off. “Which picture did you choose to submit for the contest?”
I’m surprised when she ignores my question—and she rides faster when I repeat it.
“You know you can’t lose me on your bike!” I yell.
“Isn’t that a shame!” she says.
When we’re in front of Ashley’s house, she finally answers. “I didn’t choose a picture, okay?”
I raise my brows as high as they can get.
“It all seemed like too much, to choose a picture and a frame and a caption. With everything that happened, it just felt like more than I could do.”
“Ashley or I could help.”
She parks her bike and starts to walk up to the house.
“I thought you wanted to be in that art gallery more than anything, Karina.”
She turns around. “You want the truth? I missed the deadline.”
I get off my bike and park it. Karina looks miserable. Then it occurs to me. “Hey, Karina,” I say, “why don’t you go to the gallery and beg? Tell them what happened. They’ll understand.”
She looks at me like I’m nuts. “They’re not going to listen to some kid whine.”
“But they might listen to a kid who is an accidental activist, right?” I grin.
“Hmm, I don’t know, Chris,” she says, and I can hear hope creeping into her voice. “I guess it’s worth a try, and if I succeed, I won’t have to tell Papa that I missed the deadline, despite him reminding me.”
When Ashley comes to the door, Karina tells her our plan. Then she looks at me. “Chris, you’re coming with me, right?”
“Of course,” I say.
“Good luck,” Ashley shouts as we get back on our bikes. “And knock ’em dead!”
The gallery is a little over a mile from my house. This time we pedal in sync down the winding tree-lined streets. I have no idea if this plan will work, but I am praying for Karina, and I’m sure that she’s doing the same. With her help, I’ve managed to hang in there with my math grades so that I don’t disappoint Mr. Chopra. Karina cannot fail him either.
We arrive at the gallery and park our bikes. The silver sign at the entrance reads CONTEMPORARY ARTS AND CRAFTS.
I rush up to the door and see that they close at five thirty. It is just five thirty now. Karina and I push the front door, and nothing happens. We knock; nothing happens. Desperate, I shake it, as if that will somehow open it.
We are about to give up and leave when an older girl in overalls opens the big glass door and a gust of cold air greets us. “Did you need something?” she asks.
“Yes!” Karina says eagerly. “We’re so glad you are still here.”
“I’m Riley, the assistant,” the girl tells us. “The owner—my boss—has gone home.”
Karina extends her hand and introduces herself, and I do the same.
“Well, come on in,” Riley says, and we follow her into a large room with polished wood floors. Our footsteps echo. The room is empty except for the huge paintings on the walls.
Riley sits down, and tells us to as well. “How can I help you?” she asks.
Karina takes a deep breath and says, “I am a photographer, and I ha
ve always wanted to enter your competition.”
“The deadline was two days ago,” Riley says.
“I know,” Karina says, and takes another deep breath.
I jump in. “Karina’s been talking about this forever, and if her grandfather hadn’t been in the hospital, she would have been the first one to send in her pictures.”
“Oh!” Riley says. “Is that true?”
Karina stands up. “I shouldn’t have come. I knew the deadline was the day before yesterday. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“I hope you enter next year,” Riley says. She keeps staring at Karina. “You look familiar. Have you taken a class with us before?”
“No, I haven’t.”
Riley stares some more and snaps her fingers. “I’ve got it! I read about you in the paper, didn’t I? You were the kids who were attacked with your grandfather.”
“We were,” Karina says.
“Mr. Chopra was in the hospital, and now he’s in rehab. He had a fractured femur,” I say. “That’s the bone in his thigh.”
Riley’s eyes are wide. “Ouch!”
“He’s learning to walk all over again,” Karina says. “If it wasn’t for that, I would never have missed the deadline.”
“I’m so sorry,” Riley says. “I’d like to help you. I’ll talk to my boss. Why don’t you come back tomorrow? Bring your photograph, and maybe that will sway Margaret’s mind.”
Karina and I leave with the biggest smiles.
“There’s no way that her boss will say no,” I tell Karina. “She’d have to have no heart if she refused.”
* * *
In the evening, I read Mrs. Maxwell’s article again online. Then I make the mistake of reading the comments. Matt’s told me so many times not to read people’s dumb comments on stuff. That’s like poking through the garbage, he’s said.
