“Laila, you have to! You’ll have a great time, I swear!” Emmy lives her life in exclamation marks. Tori and Morgan, her sometimes-friends, nod in agreement.
I shake my head and try not to smile. They’ll take it as a weakness and keep pushing. We’ve formed an unlikely group lately, based, I suspect, on my novelty and Emmy’s cheerful efforts. There’s an undercurrent of tension between the others, the remnants of a nebulous summertime feud. Something involving name-calling, recanted party invitations, and other such suburban tragedies, according to Emmy’s version of events. Teenage betrayals, largely forgiven but certainly not forgotten. I seem to relieve the tension somehow; my newness and my foreignness give them an outlet, and together they fuss over me.
“Quit bugging her. She can decide whether she wants to come or not.” Morgan alone is skeptical of me, which I think makes her the smartest one of the bunch. Emmy’s unwavering determination to be my friend still makes me nervous, though I find myself letting my guard slip around her more and more.
“I can’t,” I tell them. “I would be so uncomfortable. Things like that don’t exist where I’m from. It would never be allowed.”
“But you’re here now. New place, new rules. Aren’t you even curious?” Emmy has already made up her mind that I will go to the homecoming dance. “Besides”—a sly look crosses her face—“Ian asked me if you’d be there.”
“Ooooo,” Morgan and Tori chorus, teasing me.
I have not needed their help to decipher Ian’s attention lately—some things are universal. To his credit, he has kept a respectful distance. But he hovers on the edge of my days, and I see him watching me. I sometimes watch him back.
“So?” Tori asks. She’s the one I know the least about—her pale blondness for some reason makes her forgettable to me. “Will you come with us?”
I could say that my mother won’t allow it. In another lifetime, she wouldn’t have. But here, she is newly permissive—liberated by the distance from the rules of our past, perhaps. Or, more likely, just distracted by the burdens of the present. Here, she will tell me to go.
Finally, I nod. I am curious.
RESOLVE
I don’t know why I agreed to go. All day the decision haunts me, and I sit through my afternoon classes in even more of a fog than usual. The teachers don’t notice. I’m one more foreign student in a district teeming with the children of immigrants, lesser embassy staff, and expat employees of budget-strapped NGOs who can’t afford the rent closer in to the city. We are transient students with heavy accents who show up one term and vanish the next. We are invisible in class.
“Can anyone comment on the particular importance of the first ten amendments to the Constitution?” The teacher’s eyes skim over those of us in the classroom who can speak most personally about the absence of such rights. I do not raise my hand, nor do the two other students in the room who come from elsewhere. I know very little about them—rather than bonding over our shared experiences, we repel one another, as though afraid our foreignness might metastasize if we get too close.
Only one student volunteers; she traces the words with her index finger as she reads from her textbook. “The Bill of Rights establishes fundamental personal freedoms and limits the role of central government.”
I’m angry with myself for being nervous about the prospect of an American dance. Such a silly, petty concern. But I don’t know how to act. I don’t know how to dance, at least not in the way television shows me it’s done here.
I do have a fluttery thrill at the thought of doing something that would horrify my uncle, though. He once slapped my mother hard enough to make her mouth bleed for allowing me to swim in a bathing suit while there were male visitors at the house. He tried to hit me, too, but she stepped between us and absorbed the second blow—the one meant for me. She spit a bloody spray at his feet and dragged me away, telling me to ignore him even as he hissed ugly threats at her. I waited for her to tell my father that evening, but she never did. “Your father has bigger problems to address with his brother than a little quarrel about clothing,” she’d explained.
Almost as if she had predicted what would happen.
The memory strengthens my resolve. I will go. I will dance.
“Come on, class. No one has any thoughts on this? Really?” The irritation in Mrs. Moore’s voice draws my attention back to the moment. She looks at the clock on the wall and sighs. “We’re all stuck with this topic for the next fifteen minutes, so someone might as well answer. Let’s try the question another way: Why do we even have amendments?” She looks hopefully at the front row, but no one responds.
“Is it because the Founding Fathers made so many mistakes? Is the Constitution just so screwed up that we have to keep going in to fix it?” She switches tactics: mild sarcasm now—American civics–style.
“Yeah. They did screw up.” Someone in the third row finally speaks. “Especially the part where they tried to ban alcohol. That was stupid.” He grins and twirls his pen around his fingers until someone from the other side of the room shouts back.
“That wasn’t the Founding Fathers, dumbass. That was one of the amendments.”
Both comments draw laughs, and the teacher looks ready to give up.
“It’s just … change.”
Mrs. Moore’s eyebrows go up when I speak, and then she nods. “Okay, let’s talk about that a little more. What kind of change? Are people so different now than they were back in 1787 that we need completely different laws?” She gestures for me to answer.
I don’t want to, but now everyone is staring. “No, n-not exactly,” I stammer. “It’s more an issue of—” My vocabulary fails me under the weight of the attention. “Context.”
But the teacher won’t let me stop there. “Continue,” she says.
I fray the edges of my blank notebook while I speak. “I don’t think it’s that people have changed so much. I mean, they have, obviously. But sometimes it’s more that things around us change so much that something that might have seemed unimaginable all of a sudden feels … inevitable.”
“In-ev-i-ta-ble.” I hear someone imitate my voice, high-pitched and haughty, and I wish I hadn’t said anything at all.
“Well put,” Mrs. Moore says, which makes it even worse. I feel my face flush and I clutch unconsciously at the veil I no longer wear, then sink deep into my seat until the bell rings.
But even as I hurry out, regretting the loss of my classroom invisibility, my mouth forms the liberating word again: context. This new world of mine is neither my then nor my there. If I am to be forced to live in exile from my past, I might as well take advantage of the freedoms my new context offers.
I might as well dance.
OBLIGATIONS
Before homecoming comes another, less celebratory type of dance.
I take the long way home most days, shuffling more than walking. I’ve been learning new streets—every block that becomes familiar expands my world by a fraction. Already I feel more comfortable walking alone here; the space and the freedom are no longer intimidating. My circuitous routes also give me a reason to come home later and later.
Today I should be hurrying, but I’m not. Today Amir and his cousins will be at our apartment. I’m expected to chip through his hatred and make him my friend—a task that feels impossible.
I’ve already decided that I will make only the smallest effort, just enough to appease my mother without actually succeeding, when I see Mr. Gansler once again leaning against our building.
“Laila.” He calls me over. He’s not bothering with the cigarette this time.
I consider ignoring him, but it seems pointless. I have a feeling that “Darren Gansler,” true name unknown, will follow me with his bad luck wherever I go.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here today.”
He raises an eyebrow and studies me for a moment before speaking. “You strike me as an intelligent young woman, Laila. So I probably don’t have to tell you
just how important these meetings are for your family.”
There’s a question hiding behind his statement. He wants to find out how much I know. The answer, of course, is not much at all, but I don’t want him to realize that.
His mouth pinches up on one side—not quite a smile—and he crosses his arms over his chest. He’s guessed.
“It looks like I do have to tell you.” He says it in a way that sounds like he wishes he didn’t, and his smirk wilts into a frown. “Laila, I didn’t bring your family here out of the goodness of my heart. You’re here, or at least your mother is here, for a reason. Your mother made a deal the day you all got on the plane. We—the United States government, that is—went to considerable risk to get your family out of your country safely. I offered your mother a way out and guaranteed political refugee status here if she agreed to cooperate.”
I know exactly what he is going to say next before it even comes out of his mouth.
“Her cooperation hasn’t been exactly … perfect.”
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. That my mother would not do his bidding should surprise no one. You are more conniving than the devil himself, dearest Yasmin, my father used to tell her. You are truly my secret weapon. His words were always delivered with a kiss—he admired her cunning.
Mr. Gansler does not.
“As I said, Laila, you seem like an intelligent girl.” He speaks quietly, as if he doesn’t want anyone to overhear. “So I’m sure you understand just how important it is that your family remain here in the U.S. Obviously I can’t guarantee your safety if you go back home. No one can. I’d hate to see that happen.”
I manage to keep my expression neutral, but I can’t breathe. The threat is clear. Do what he wants, or he’ll send us back. We all know that can’t happen. It just can’t.
Slowly, my breath returns, but I can still hear my heart thudding in my ears like a war drum. I study him before responding—this bland, ill-pressed-trouser-wearing man. His expression is mild and open, almost friendly. As if he’d just asked me about the weather, or how I liked school.
I hate him, if only for his proximity to our suffering.
I pull my shoulders back and stand as tall as I can, wishing that for once I could tower over someone. I make no effort to conceal my disgust. “Whatever agreement my mother made, she made it on the day she watched my father die. You were there. You heard the mob chanting outside the gates. What wouldn’t she have agreed to? What choice did she have?”
Mr. Gansler doesn’t answer. He has said enough, and he sees that I understand him. He offers only a small apologetic nod and then walks away.
I’m motionless as I watch him leave, afraid to test my wobbly, weak knees. I don’t know exactly what my mother agreed to, but for now it doesn’t matter. I saw in his eyes that he means to carry out the threat. Mr. Gansler has transferred the burden of her agreement to me, and I have no choice but to comply.
FRIENDSHIP
I’m rattled by the encounter. So rattled that I don’t notice Amir sitting on my doorstep until I almost trip over him. I curse my luck—today seems to be the day for surprise encounters with unwelcome men.
“Do you want to come inside?” I don’t know why he’s alone out here, but my mother would be furious if I didn’t at least invite him in.
“I’m not exactly welcome in there.” He’s angry, sulking.
A small surge of hope rises in my chest. Had I been relieved of my duty? “Did my mother say that?”
He makes a snorting sound. “Your mother has a way of making herself perfectly clear without saying anything at all.”
I can’t help but smile at that.
“She told me she was worried that you were so late and asked me to go out and find you.”
“So you just sat down out here?” It shouldn’t matter, but I feel offended. That he hasn’t even bothered to stand up to speak with me doubles the insult.
His jaw muscles clench. “No. Actually I did exactly as I was told. I went out to find you, but I didn’t get far before I saw that you were busy talking to someone else.” He tilts his head to the side and his tone turns challenging. “Is he a friend of yours?”
I break eye contact with him. I don’t want to answer this question. I don’t know what the answer should be. Darren Gansler is certainly no friend, but for some reason I don’t want Amir to know that. I know how poorly-chosen alliances can end. Finally, I shrug. Let him decipher this nonanswer however he wants.
“You know who he is, right?” Amir won’t drop it.
“Does it matter?” Another nonanswer. I want to keep him talking.
“He’s CIA. If he’s talking to you, it’s only because he thinks you’re a weak link. That you’ll give him something the rest of us refuse to.”
Another insult. I rein in my anger. I still need answers. “How do you know?”
He makes that humorless laugh sound again, too joyless and dry for someone his age. My age. “We’ve had a few go-rounds with him. They didn’t end well. Now he gets other people to do his dirty work.” He jerks his head toward my door. Toward my family.
My mouth is opening, I’m ready to lash out, when it suddenly occurs to me that we’re speaking my language. The sound of home. I’d slipped into it without even noticing, drawn in by the comfort of its familiarity. Although Amir’s coarse accent is a strong reminder that he comes from the mountainous border region, it’s the first time in weeks that I’ve heard my language from anyone other than Bastien or my mother. And even Bastien is always speaking in English now—his accent sounding more American every day.
I switch back to English. It makes me feel less vulnerable. “I never see you at school,” I say, changing the subject. “Do you really even go there?”
He tenses at the new sound. Boys from his region don’t study English with private tutors. Boys from his region often don’t go to school at all. From his reaction I can tell that my English is better than his, even though he’s surely lived here for longer than I have. Good, I think. Let him be the vulnerable one.
“I’ve seen you.” His answer, in English, is even more heavily accented than I thought it would be. “You certainly make friends quickly.” Even through the language barrier, his words sound like an accusation, although it’s one I don’t understand.
“You mean Emmy?” It bothers me that he’s seen me at school while I haven’t seen him. It makes me feel watched. Exposed. “Yes, I suppose I do make friends quickly. With the right people, at least. Unlike you, she’s been nothing but kind.” I find that I mean the words as I say them. As hard as I’ve tried to find faults in her attention, Emmy has been nothing but kind.
His face twists into a smirk, and I know he’s about to say something cruel.
He doesn’t have a chance, though. The door bursts open and the men—Amir’s relatives, I assume—stomp out in a flood of indignant words. “Let’s go,” one of them says roughly to Amir, who jumps to his feet immediately. “She’s wasting our time in there.”
Amir follows the muttering wave of angry men to the stairwell, then pauses to turn back. “Just be careful around people who try too hard to be your friend here. They may have harmful intentions.”
There is no concern in his voice. His words sound more like a threat than a well-meant warning.
I dismiss him like a servant with a flick of my wrist—a gesture that causes the hate in his eyes to flare again before he spins around and follows the men.
He’s long gone before it occurs to me that he may not have been talking about Emmy. Did he instead mean Mr. Gansler, with his overstuffed gift baskets and conditional paychecks? I feel foolish for missing the reference, and I suddenly hope that Amir returns soon.
He may hate me, but he also knows something. I’m willing to suffer his scorn in exchange for answers.
TRANSFORMATION
I feel ridiculous.
Emmy, Morgan, and Tori have dressed me up as one of them. I am an American package
. Or perhaps I should say a packaged American—an imitation of something wholesome, like processed cheese, another food Bastien has come to adore here.
They don’t notice that I’m distracted as they fluff and paint and wrap me. But I am. I can’t focus on their debates about my hair—up or down?—or my shoe choice, or even their gentle teasing about Ian, who they’ve chosen for me as firmly as they’ve decided upon my dress. My very, very short dress.
It occurs to me to object to the dress, but I don’t. I have a hard time caring about the exposure of a few inches of my thighs when my mind is focused on whether or not Mr. Gansler will soon be putting my family on an airplane for the second time.
The rapid, angry departure of the men from our apartment had not disturbed my mother at all. No matter how I pleaded with her to call them, visit them, to make whatever was wrong right again, she just shushed me or patted my head like a child. “Everything is fine, Laila,” she’d said in her infuriatingly vague way. “Everyone appreciates what they struggle for more than what they are given. Trust me.”
Trust is something I’m finding in short supply, though.
“Trust me, you look amazing!” Emmy, too, wants my faith.
“You really do, Laila,” Tori echoes. “You look good in red.”
Morgan scavenges through Emmy’s jewelry box, still unsatisfied with the details of my transformation. “Don’t you have any other earrings, Emmy?” She pulls out a pair she finds suitable and holds them up, triumphant, before Emmy can answer. “Perfect!” They’re costume pieces, garish and cheap; the painted metal is already peeling.
Still, I don’t argue, and when she hands them to me, I put them on dutifully. I might as well—the disguise my friends have chosen for me is a small price to pay for this excursion into American life. Without meaning to, I have grown excited about the evening. The shiny, lipsticked chaos in Emmy’s dress-strewn bedroom breaks through my worries in short, welcome bursts. I accept Tori’s offer of a spritz of perfume and will myself into the moment.
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