The Tyrant's Daughter

by Carleson, J. C.

  She nods as if she already knows that.

  “Which shall it be, chocolate or french fries?” I ask her.

  Her smile is watery. Grateful. “Lots of both. Quick.”

  We leave the house in search of neutral ground and comfort food.

  ICEBREAKERS

  Two days later, the King has a birthday. He’s turning seven, and so we gather uneasily at Skateland. Why my mother chose this run-down venue I don’t know, but it’s a brilliant selection: we are all equally uncomfortable.

  Not the kids, of course. They are delighted by the activity and pay no mind to the smell of mildew in the party room or the fact that the laces on their skates are held together by chains of grungy knots. It’s the grown-ups who shift and fidget, not wanting to sit on plastic chairs dotted with hardened gum or drink from the pitcher of startlingly orange soda.

  Two groups face off in the blue-carpeted room—the parents of Bastien’s school friends on one side and Amir and his cousins on the other. Mother invited Mr. Gansler, but he claimed to be busy. As a gift, he arranged for the party to be catered by a restaurant in downtown Washington that serves food from our homeland. “They don’t normally cater,” he’d said. “But I pulled a few strings.”

  The food tips the balance—the American parents are now more uncomfortable than the rest of us. Even in this land of strip-mall tacos, falafel, and teriyaki, our food remains exotic. They eye the dishes distrustfully and circle and confer before going in for microscopically small portions.

  “Laila, there are no forks,” Emmy whispers. She was a last-minute invite, an exception to my efforts to isolate the different parts of my life. But now that she has shared her secret with me, how can I not include her?

  “You use this.” I hand her a piece of the flatbread that is served with every meal. “You tear off a piece and use it kind of like a spoon.”

  Emmy is ecstatic when she takes a bite. “This is so good!” Her blond-haired enthusiasm convinces some of the more skeptical parents to at least sample the food.

  The food is good, but I can’t enjoy it. Coming from Mr. Gansler, this taste of home is bitter with expectation.

  Before long the kids come swooping in, red-faced and sweaty and still wearing roller skates. Bastien shows them what to do, and they are thrilled to be liberated from utensils. Eating with their hands becomes the highlight of the party, and the room grows loud.

  “Who’s Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome?” Emmy points to Amir, who notices and scowls in response. “He’s very … intense. He’s got that whole brooding thing working for him. It’s kind of sexy.”

  I laugh so forcefully that it comes out as a snort. “Don’t let him hear you say that. He’d be mortified.”

  I sneak a glance at him. Sexy? Amir? To me he just looks sullen, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed high on his chest, wordlessly announcing his stubborn refusal to enjoy himself. But that’s nothing new. His cousins have agreed to start working with my mother again—whatever that means—but he’s kept his distance. The only sign of improvement is that he looks at me with slightly less hatred than before.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Emmy presses.

  It’s a terrible idea, but I don’t want to refuse her request. Besides, it’s an excuse to talk to him. Something about Amir turns me maddeningly timid, and I’m aware that I have made little progress gaining his confidence.

  When he sees us heading toward him, Amir pushes off the wall and takes several quick steps to meet us halfway. It isn’t a friendly or chivalrous gesture—I suspect he just doesn’t want the other men to eavesdrop while he talks to us.

  I make the introductions, and Emmy shoves her hand at Amir. “So nice to meet you!” she chirps. Amir stares at her outstretched arm as if it belonged to a leper, but Emmy is undeterred and leaves her hand out until it becomes awkward. Amir shakes it reluctantly.

  “Did you guys know each other back home?” she asks.

  Amir raises his eyebrows at me. Really? his expression seems to ask. “Laila and I were in very different social circles,” he answers stiffly.

  I nearly giggle out loud at the understatement, and he looks sideways at me. The corner of his mouth is twitching, and I realize that he is my coconspirator here. We are allies, if only for this strange clash of cultures.

  Emmy notices our exchange of glances, and a new expression takes over her face. She shoots me a sly smile and then turns back to Amir. “So, I’m curious. What do boys in your country do when they like a girl?” Her voice is flirtatious and teasing. “Group dates? Phone calls? Love letters? What’s it like there?”

  Amir’s face turns pink. He looks to me for help.

  I don’t offer any—it’s far too much fun to watch him squirm. Instead, I copy Emmy’s expression—a parody of innocence—and Amir realizes that he’s been set up. He laughs, this time without the choked sound of resentment. “Perhaps you should visit and find out. I’m sure you would be very popular there,” he teases Emmy back. “It wouldn’t take you long at all to learn all you want to know.”

  Emmy grins and begins to pepper him with questions. I’ve grown used to her trivia collecting, but Amir is quickly overwhelmed. With a sense of humor I haven’t seen before, he answers until he can’t take it anymore, and then he excuses himself with a weak story about an imaginary obligation across the room.

  “He likes you!” Emmy crows as soon as he’s gone.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I tell her. She doesn’t know how far from the truth she is.

  “He totally does. I saw the way you guys were giving each other little secret looks.” She stops abruptly. “Oh my god, Laila. Are you seeing him? Are you guys together?” She’s bouncing on her toes, giddy at the possibility.

  I shake my head. “No, no. It’s nothing like that.” But I can’t explain. I can’t tell her that our shared glances were at her expense. Or that I am trying to woo him, just not in the way she thinks. So I deflect. “Wait a minute, I thought you had me practically lined up to marry Ian. You can’t switch candidates now! Besides, you were the one flirting with Amir. Congratulations, by the way. I didn’t know he was even capable of being friendly.”

  She giggles and shakes her head. “No, that was just for fun—he’s not really my type. But you’re right about Ian. Hmmm … what should we do about him? Maybe he could have you half the week, and Amir could have you the other half.”

  I elbow her. “You’re awful!” But then I link my arm through hers as we make our way across the room to where Bastien has begun opening presents. How could I have guessed that Emmy of all people would be able to breach Amir’s fiery reserve? Perhaps I haven’t given her enough credit.

  Bastien tears through the wrapping paper with manic intensity, unveiling a steady parade of toys. Ninja action figures and Nerf guns seem to dominate. There’s an uncomfortable moment when Bastien opens the gift from Amir’s group—they bought him a fancy fountain pen in a wooden case—but Bastien recovers from his disappointment quickly and thanks them with politely feigned enthusiasm. He is the center of attention, a child’s version of king for the day, and he plays the role well.

  SPILLS

  At five o’clock the parents sweep up their children and head out en masse, as if some alarm only they could hear had sounded. Apparently parties begin and end punctually here.

  My mother and the men huddle in a corner, speaking in hushed tones that exclude the rest of us, and Amir storms out rather than be ignored. Since Bastien is inspecting his gifts, sticky-faced and happy, Emmy and I are left to clean up the mess.

  Emmy is acting normal. Too normal. She’s cheerful and chatty, rambling on about her own seventh birthday party, when I stop her.

  “You don’t have to pretend, Emmy. I know you’re upset.”

  She shrugs with one shoulder, then bends to pick up a flattened party hat. “Honestly, I don’t even want to think about it right now. Besides, you have enough of your own problems—you don’t need to listen to mine.”<
br />
  I must look offended, because she clarifies quickly. “I mean, your father is dead, Laila. I’d feel like an ass whining about how mine is going through some gross midlife crisis or whatever his problem is. Mine may be acting like an idiot, but at least he’s around. Well … sort of around.”

  I put down the wad of paper towels I’d been using to mop up spilled soda. “Emmy, please. It’s not a competition for whose life is the bigger disaster. You can talk to me about anything you want.” Even as I say this, I know it’s only true as of this moment. I’ve hardly been returning Emmy’s friendship in equal doses. My old life was not exactly filled with friends.

  She blows her hair out of her eyes as she gathers up an armload of discarded wrapping paper. “I just want you to be happy here.”

  An uncomfortable feeling spreads over me like an itchy blanket. Emmy has been sheltering me, and I’ve judged her unfairly for it. She’s not without substance—she’s just self-censored. She’s been my tour guide, social director, interpreter, and emotional bodyguard. I’ve been her … what exactly? The realization makes me feel ugly and defensive. “Why do you care? I mean, why were you so determined that we should be friends from the first time we met? You could have walked me to class once and then gone on with your life—I never asked you to babysit me.” My outburst gains momentum. “I know I’m a convenient prop for your identity du jour, though. Perhaps you’ll wait until spring to drop me, when you decide to join the drama club instead?”

  Red blotches bloom on Emmy’s neck, and she won’t meet my eyes. I can tell I’ve offended her, but I don’t apologize. I want to hear her answer first, and then I’ll make amends.

  “I don’t know.… I just thought you were interesting. And maybe kind of glamorous too, especially when I found out who your father was.” She looks up, and her eyes are brimming with tears. “And you were so jumpy that first day. You walked around with this terrified look on your face like there might be an assassin around every corner. Aargh!” She winces and then slaps her forehead. “Bad choice of words. I’m sorry, Laila, I wasn’t even thinking. I didn’t mean literally—”

  I can’t stand to watch her crumpling before my eyes. She deserves better. “It’s okay. Please don’t apologize. I’m the one who should be sorry. I think I’ve been taking advantage of your friendship. I don’t have much practice at it. Being a friend, I mean.”

  Emmy’s tears spill over. “Oh, just shut up and give me a hug. I’m the one having a crappy day, remember?” She manages to laugh through her tears—a show of strength I immediately admire. “And by the way, I did drama club in junior high, you big jerk. So you have me as a friend for as long as you can stand it.”

  I hug her. It’s a graceless, stiff embrace—my fault, I’m sure. But it also feels genuine, and genuine is a quality I’m coming to appreciate more and more. I shove a paper towel at her. “Here, wipe your eyes.” She takes the towel, and I can’t help but smile.

  I have a genuine friend.

  DEBTS

  There used to be someone for everything. We had people to cook, to clean, to serve, to drive, to garden, to protect, to advise. There were people to manage the other people, and someone else to manage those who were managing. Our household was a busy human pyramid.

  I suppose it’s only natural, then, that none of us remembered to pay the rent.

  Mother and I are equally surprised to see the eviction notice on the door when we return home from Bastien’s party. It isn’t really an eviction notice. Technically. It’s a warning that we will receive an eviction notice if we fail to pay the overdue rent within fifteen days, though. Since that’s impossible, the terse note on the door might as well say it’s time to pack our bags.

  Where will we go? I see my own anxious thoughts mirrored on Mother’s face. She’s wide-eyed and pinch-lipped—this is not a problem she can outcharm or outwait, and she knows it.

  I don’t have to say it, since we’re obviously both thinking it: we would have enough money if she hadn’t bought the car.

  She’d awoken one day, determined. She scanned the classified ads, then called a number. Hindered by the language and confused by the currency, her negotiations were brief and ineffective. I was hovering nearby, ready to help, but she surprised me by testily agreeing to pay cash as long as the owner would bring the vehicle to us. “But it had better be clean. I’m not paying that much money for a filthy car.” She ended the call with a face-saving demand, looking pleased with herself as she hung up.

  And so it was that a mostly shiny, presumably functional ten-year-old Audi was delivered to us within the hour, like a very expensive pizza. I say presumably functional because my mother does not know how to drive. The car has been sitting, untouched, in the parking lot for a week now, waiting until one of us has the ambition to do something with it.

  So the money is gone. We could call Mr. Gansler to ask for yet another advance, but by now our credit is surely strained to its limits. He’s unlikely to sympathize anyway, since Mother has been avoiding his phone calls for the last few days.

  “What will we do?” I ask, even though I know she has no answers. I’m speaking more to the universe at large than I am to her.

  She ignores me and heads for the cabinet to pull out an unopened bottle—gin, I think. My father’s favorite brand. There’d been a mostly full bottle of it sitting on the table just yesterday. And an empty bottle in the trash two days before that. My mother has become a magician—bottles appear and vanish with a wave of her hand and a tip of her glass.

  I think it’s a lot. I think she is drinking too much. But I can’t be sure. That’s the problem with forbidden things—it’s impossible to recognize warning signs when you’re always looking the other direction. Besides, she’s never sloppy or loud the way drunks are on TV. She’s just a blurry version of herself. And that, I suppose, is precisely why she drinks. To blur. To make the past and the future go out of focus.

  She takes a sip, and I feel myself blur before her eyes.

  “Mother?” I whisper it, but she cringes as if I’d screamed in her ear.

  “Please, Laila. Just let me think for a while. Please.” She pulls her legs up on the couch and curls into a ball. She looks small and defeated, something I know she doesn’t want anyone to witness, so I turn to leave the room. The sound of ice cubes rattling in her glass follows me down the hall.

  CONTACT

  Bastien has already taken refuge in our bedroom. He’s pretending to be engrossed in putting together a plastic model of some sort, but his little shoulders are tensed practically up to his ears and he’s gnawing on his thumbnail as he reads the instructions. I kiss him on the top of his head, and he acknowledges me with a one-sided shadow of a smile.

  Money. Where will it come from? Who will it come from? My options are depressingly limited—grim evidence of my untethered life. Emmy has her own problems, and for once our roles are reversed: I will protect her by refusing to bring her into my family’s mess. I’m sure that Ian would want to help me, but I don’t know him nearly well enough to ask. Morgan and Tori are also off-limits. Their friendship is technical, impersonal, and asking them would be almost as bad as asking for rent money from strangers—humiliating and too easily denied.

  I’m left with only the unlikeliest of heroes. Amir.

  I have no idea how to contact him, though.

  “Bastien?” I call across the room. “Do you know where Mother keeps phone numbers? Does she have an address book, maybe?”

  “I don’t know.” He’s still focused on the plastic pieces in front of him. I’ve already given up on him when his head snaps up. “Why? Who do you want to call?”

  “Amir.”

  Bastien’s face lights up. “I know how you can call him.” I wait for an explanation, but he wants to draw out the mystery.

  “How, Bastien?” I indulge him with exaggerated curiosity.

  He’s grinning, feeling clever. “Redial. Mother called Amir’s house right before we left for my party. No o
ne has used the phone since then, so just hit Redial.”

  I kiss him again. “Smart boy,” I say as I ruffle his hair.

  I dart through the living room to grab the cordless phone. Mother doesn’t even glance in my direction. I head back to the bedroom and then stop. Bastien doesn’t need to hear this conversation. He already has more worries than any seven-year-old ought to. I step into the bathroom and shut the door. The harsh overhead light makes my face look sharp and weasel-like in the mirror, so I turn my back on my reflection and hit the button before I can come up with an excuse not to.

  My stomach lurches as the call goes through. I haven’t even thought about what I’m going to say. Do I make small talk? Get right to the point? I’m about to hang up when someone finally answers. There’s a clatter and then muted background voices—it sounds as if a hand is being pressed over the receiver. After one more loud crack—was the phone just dropped?—a voice deep with suspicion and fear says hello. I instantly feel sympathy for anyone who finds something as ordinary as a phone call threatening—the person on the other end has received bad news more than once by telephone, I suspect.

  I ask for Amir in my native language, and I can practically feel the man relax. His voice is calmer as he yells for Amir. There are more clatters, muffled rustlings, and even a shrill beep as someone hits a button on the phone, and then Amir comes on the line. “Hello?” His voice is so hard I almost hang up for the second time. How can I even think of asking for help from someone who openly despises me?

  But I’m out of options, so I begin to speak. I’ve hardly stammered my way through an awkward greeting when he interrupts. “Laila, we’re waiting for an important phone call here. An international call. So I can’t stay on the line. What do you want?”

  I go mute with embarrassment, and Amir softens his tone. “I’m sorry. But I really do have to go. You can come here if you need to talk.” He rattles off an address and then hangs up without saying goodbye.