Love, Hate and Other Filters

by Samira Ahmed

  “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-camcorder. 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. Blue-and-red 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 gesture
s 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.

  Dammit. 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.

  Chapter 19

  “Maya, beta!” I hear my mother’s voice before my parents even enter the curtained-off examination area. My father looks grim. My mother immediately bursts into tears upon seeing me. She clutches me in a death grip.

  “Mom, I’m okay … but … you’re hurting me,” I say, trying to nudge her away.

  I study my parents. They look beleaguered. It’s like they’ve aged another decade since this morning. My mom’s face is completely ashen. I have a strong urge to move and let her lie down in my place.

  My doctor walks back in, saving me from a parental conversation that might be even more painful than my elbow. He details my various injuries: hairline fracture in my left elbow, a deep contusion in my thigh, and various other minor bruises and scrapes.

  My mother rubs her temples, and while the doctor outlines what he expects to be a quick recovery process, Dean Anderson enters—along with one of the police officers that I saw talking to Phil. Chief Wickham from the Batavia PD follows. They shake hands with my dad and nod at my mother. We all stare at one another.

  Chief Wickham disrupts the charged silence. “Maya, this is Officer Russell. He’s with the county sheriff’s office. He wants to ask you a few questions. The amusement park is in his jurisdiction, but he’s letting me sit in because of the ongoing investigation with the incident at your parents’ office. Are you up to it?”

  I nod, my throat too dry to speak.

  Officer Russell steps forward. He’s shorter than Chief Wickham, more barrel-chested. When he smiles, it’s natural. Friendly. Not like the chief, whose smile feels like he watched a YouTube tutorial on how to seem friendly. I answer Officer Russell’s questions. The memory feels fuzzy, like I’m looking through a soft-focus filter, but I give him every detail I can remember about what Brian did.

  But then Officer Russell starts asking me about Phil. When he arrived, what he said, how many times he hit Brian. Then he uses the word assault. And it’s not Brian he’s accusing.

  “Phil didn’t assault anyone. He prevented Brian from hurting me … more.” I shouldn’t have to say this. And it makes me feel sick that I have to.

  “Unfortunately, Brian has a different story.” Officer Russell looks at me. “He claims you two simply exchanged words and that you were injured in the scuffle with Phil. So we’re looking at two possible assaults.”

  “He’s lying.” I want to scream, but my voice is a scratch.

  “We’ll sort it out, but for now it’s your word and Phil’s word against his.”

  “Wait. My camera. I almost forgot. I had it recording the whole time. There’s probably no decent picture, but I’m sure I got audio.”

  Officer Russell nods. “That could help us get all of this straightened out.”

  “And my daughter’s safety?” my mom asks. “When she goes to school? Who is going to be protecting her from this … this … ?”

  “Both of the young men will be suspended from school and—”

  “Both? Why is Phil suspended? That’s not fair.” I start rising out of my bed, but my father places a gentle hand on my shoulder.

  “Fighting has consequences. It’s school policy.”

  “But Phil didn’t pick the fight—”

  “Maya, let the dean decide what is or isn’t fair,” my father says.

  I collapse back against the pillows.

  “We’ll take a look at any footage you might have caught, miss, and share it with the DA’s office,” Officer Russell says.

  I motion at my mom, and she pulls the camera out of my bag and hands it over.

  “The county will be working with Batavia on this, so I’ll make sure it’s returned to you, Maya,” Chief Wickham promises.

  The policemen leave, but Dean Anderson hesitates at the door. “I don’t expect to see you at school tomorrow, either, Maya. Take as much time as you need. Stay at home and rest up. Get a little TLC from your parents. Dr. and Dr. Aziz, I know how frightening this must be for you. You have my assurances that we will do everything in our power to ensure that Maya is safe at school.”

  Tears well in my eyes. My head pounds. I barely hear the doctor give my parents my at-home care instructions—a sling, a prescription, and physical therapy starting next week.

  Back home, I half-hug my mom and then shut my door. I pull down the blinds and draw the curtains. Using only my right hand, I brush, splash water on my face, and fumble-strip down to my underwear, leave my clothes in a pile on the floor, and climb into bed, cell phone in hand. I dial Phil’s number. I don’t want to text. I want to talk to him. I get his voicemail.

  “Phil … it’s me … Maya.” My voice is raspy. “I wanted to make sure … are you … okay? I’m so sorry. I gave the police my camera … I got footage of Brian cornering me. It should help explain how you helped me. I don’t know what else to say. Except … thanks.”

  I let my phone drop to the floor and curl up under the duvet on my bed.

  It’s warm outside, but I’m cold and numb. Even under the covers, I shiver. Sleep pulls at me. I’m fatigued to my bones, but I fight my heavy eyelids for one second more. Images from the day animate themselves, jumbling in my vision. The shrieks and sharp turns of a roller coaster. The slits of Brian’s eyes as he glowers over me. Phil punching Brian. Bright red drops of Brian’s blood falling to the pavement. The purple and black of my swelling arm. The barely there sensation of Phil’s fingertips on my leg. The dimple in his smiling cheek. Phil holding me in his arms, stroking my hair.

  “Beta, wake up. You’re dreaming.”

  My eyes flicker open to my mother’s face leaning over the bed. The curtains are drawn, and light streams into my room.

  “Wh—what happened?” To my ears, my voice sounds gravelly and low. I clear my throat.

  “A nightmare? You were screaming,” my mother says, her face as gray and voice as unnerved as it was last night. Maybe more. She hasn’t slept at a
ll. “Was it about that boy who did this to you?”

  I blink the sleep out of my eyes and look at my mother. “N-n-o. It was … one of those jinn stories that I heard in India.”

  My mom nods, willing to accept the fib, if only to lessen her own worry.

  “What time is it?” I rub my face with my palms, still groggy.

  “It’s almost twelve-thirty,” my mom says, coming to stand at the foot of my bed.

  “What? I’ve been asleep … since … how can I still be tired?”

  “It’s from the pain medication. Do your arm and leg hurt very much?” A fresh wave of panic crosses her face as she asks me.

  “Not really,” I lie again. “Where’s Dad?”

  “He went to the office on his own. The patient load isn’t too big today.”

  “Mom, you could’ve gone.”

  “How can I leave you like this? Alone in the house?”

  “I’m not a baby.”

  “You are still our daughter, and after yesterday … oh, my beta, if anything would have happened …”

  She starts crying. Again. A part of me feels like I should console her, tell her it will be okay. That I’ll be okay. But I’m not even sure I can convince myself of that right now. And honestly, I just want to be alone.

  “Mom. Mom. I’m hungry. Can you make me something to eat, please?”

  With the mention of food, my mom perks up. She hurries out and downstairs to the kitchen.

  I almost manage to get through the omelet she prepares without a word. Almost.

  “Violet called this morning while you were asleep. She was so worried about you. She said she will check on you after school.”

  I nod, shoving the rest of the food into my mouth and dropping my fork on my plate. I wince with the pain. The medicine dulled the ache, but it’s still there, and my elbow screams at me whenever I forget.

  I’m not in a chatty mood. I’m not much in the mood for anything.

  My mom doesn’t get the hint. “I want to talk to you … Your father and I were discussing this last night, and we want to drive you to school and pick you up. We’ll adjust our patient schedules so it won’t be a problem, and you can study in the back office of the clinic until we finish for the day.”