II.
INTRODUCTIONS
There’s a boy staring at me.
We’re in the courtyard, waiting for the lunch period to end. Everyone devours their food so quickly here, sometimes not even bothering to sit down. They text and study and walk and drive while they eat food that’s been processed, portioned, and plastic-wrapped. It’s a sterile, cheerless efficiency that makes me yearn for the leisurely meals from my past, each course lasting longer than an entire dinnertime here. Endless cups of hot, sweetened tea are a fading memory, replaced here by fizzy liquids gulped from Styrofoam containers the size of sand pails. I have to force myself to hurry or else find myself self-consciously eating long after everyone else has finished.
I nudge Emmy. “Why is he staring at me?” I’ve been relying on her more and more. It seems that the deeper I sink into my new life, the more questions I have. For weeks now, she has been my patient guide.
“Oh my god, I can’t believe I forgot to tell you!” Her hands fly up to her face. “That’s Ian. He’s been asking about you. He claims it’s for an article he’s writing for the school newspaper, but he’s so obviously lying.” She leans forward as if she’s telling a secret, although no one but me is listening. “He’s kind of geeky, but in a good way. He’s like a cute hipster dork. Not my type, but a lot of girls think he’s hot.”
I freeze at the mention of a newspaper. “What does he want?”
Emmy laughs at me. “Duh, he thinks you’re cute. He wants to meet you. Here, I’ll introduce you.”
Before I can do anything to stop her, Emmy stands up and waves Ian over. His face reddens slightly when he realizes that he’s been caught staring. Good. I’m pleased that he feels ashamed. I haven’t yet grown comfortable with how boys and girls interact here. There’s something crude and carnal about the way they mingle and touch and talk to one another so casually. It makes me nervous.
Sure enough, Ian sits on the bench next to me, sliding closer than I’m used to. I know it doesn’t mean anything here, but when his elbow brushes against mine as he leans over to talk to Emmy, I yank my arm and lean away automatically.
He notices. “Sorry,” he says, and jumps to his feet. He looks mortified. “Sorry,” he repeats.
Good, I think again, not entirely sure why his discomfort pleases me. He’s more aware of the space between us than most of the other boys I’ve encountered here—bucket-fed giants, bigger than most grown men in my country, who jostle me in the hallways or brush against me in doorways without even noticing.
Emmy is gleeful. She introduces us with a teasing note to her voice that doesn’t vanish even when I glare daggers at her. “Ian, Laila. Laila, Ian. You two have a lot in common. Or maybe you don’t. I really have no idea. Why don’t you talk and figure it out?” She leaps off the bench and skips away, turning back just long enough to wink at me.
Now I am the one who is mortified.
Ian rolls his eyes at Emmy’s back. “Subtlety is not her strong point,” he says.
He shifts from foot to foot. I fidget on the bench. We at least have our awkwardness in common.
He finally speaks. “So, um, I’ve heard a lot about you. Well, I’ve heard about you a lot, anyway. I guess that’s different, isn’t it?”
He’s rambling. I let him—perhaps a cruel thing to do, but I don’t know the rules here. I feel vulnerable without Emmy to translate his shifting weight, his lopsided smile, and his habit of pushing his hair back out of his eyes more often than necessary.
“I know how hard it is to move to a new country,” he’s saying.
Now I’m interested. “How do you know?”
“We moved around a lot when I was a kid,” he says, looking grateful for the foothold my question gives him. “My family, I mean. Sometimes here in the States, but we also spent a couple of years traveling around South America. A few months in Ecuador, almost a year in Paraguay. All over, really.”
“Why?” I don’t mean to be abrupt, but this question feels somehow important to me.
“My parents were working as missionaries.” He holds his hands up quickly, palms out. “But wait. Don’t be freaked out by that. I’m not trying to convert you or proselytize or anything. I’m not like that. At all. They’re not either, really. It was just a thing they did.”
I keep my face neutral, but in my mind I put up an invisible barrier between us. Newspapers. Religion. Two things that have torn apart my family. Ian has two strikes against him, even if he does seem sweet. “It’s nice to meet you,” I say, standing up from the bench. I pick up my backpack and start to edge away. I know I’m being rude, and I hope he doesn’t take it personally. It’s not him. It’s what he represents.
Ian, perceptive once again, hears the stiffness in my voice and doesn’t try to prolong the conversation. His half wave goodbye shows his confusion, though. “See you around?”
I nod once and he looks encouraged. As I walk away, I realize that I’m smiling. It was purely an accident, that smile, and I hope that Ian didn’t see it.
RECOGNITION
More visitors.
This time I come home to a group. Five men, a boy my age, and my mother. They’re squeezed three to the couch, and the rest on the rickety seats that usually circle the table where we eat. Mother holds court from the one and only chair in our apartment that doesn’t fold up for storage.
This is no social call, I see immediately. There’s tension in the air, and everyone except my mother seems edgy and cheerless. She alone looks poised and controlled—she is a woman whose face gives away nothing. She is also accustomed to hosting cheerless gatherings—a souvenir from her old life. She and my father used to plot out her role in advance of important meetings—where to sit, what to say, who to charm and who to snub. She was very good at this.
Even so, she looks relieved to see me. “Laila, there you are. You’re late. There’s someone here I want you to meet.” Her voice is artificially merry, and I wonder if the others in the room can hear her nervousness, even if they can’t see it. Probably not. She hides it well. “Laila, this is Amir. He goes to your school!” She says this as if it were an incredible coincidence worthy of exclamation.
Amir does not move from his chair. He just sits there, still as a statue. Only his eyes give any hint that he has heard my mother’s introduction.
His eyes are full of hate.
It’s hard to describe what hate looks like, but so easy to spot it. To feel its heat. His eyes are narrowed and locked onto my own—the trajectory of his hatred unmistakable.
I reflexively take a step backward and nearly stumble over Bastien’s new backpack, which is lying on the floor. I catch myself just in time to keep from falling, but I still feel off balance.
I don’t recognize Amir or any of the other men, but I do recognize their features. They have the burnt-almond eyes, deep olive skin, and high cheekbones of the northwest region of my country. The Trouble Spot, my father used to call it. What little I know about the region, or its people, comes from overheard bits of hushed conversations and brief mentions in my library readings. What little I know all points to these people being enemies. Of my father, at least, which I think means of the rest of my family as well.
And yet my mother now welcomes them into her home.
She pauses a moment, giving Amir a second chance to respond. When he doesn’t, she pushes harder. “Laila, won’t you please ask Amir to help you in the kitchen? There’s a tray of food ready, but it’s quite heavy.”
I don’t often disobey my mother, but this time I do. I take my cue from Amir and remain silent. One of the men snickers, but everyone else is quiet. I feel the weight of their collective scorn—it’s not just coming from Amir—and I am nearly overcome with the need to flee.
“Bastien!” I call out. My voice is too loud in the quiet, tense room. “Bastien, are you in there?” I know that he must be. His backpack on the floor and the closed bedroom door are proof. “Come on, I’ll take you to the playground.”
Now my mother is glaring at me too.
Fortunately, Bastien bursts out of the door almost immediately. He must have been pressing his ear against it, listening. I grab his hand, even though I know he hates it when I do that, and pull him out of the apartment.
“What are they doing here?” I hiss as soon as we’re outside. “What do they want?”
Bastien shrugs and then points to someone on the far side of the playground. “He told Mother to invite them.”
“He” is the man from the other day. The one with the gift basket.
“Go play,” I command Bastien, and he runs to the basketball court to watch the older boys practicing jump shots.
The man is leaning against the building, smoking, but he’s doing it in a way that makes it obvious he’s not a smoker. He’s holding the cigarette strangely, like a pencil, and he never lifts it to his mouth to inhale. It burns away, forgotten between his fingers. He’s using it as a prop—a reason to linger, I think.
“Hello, Laila.” He does not seem surprised to see me.
“I don’t know your name,” I respond.
“Darren. Darren Gansler.” He drops his cigarette to the ground without having taken a single puff that I could see, as if its purpose had already been accomplished. Was he waiting for me?
“You don’t look like a Darren.” I realize this is ridiculous as soon as it’s out of my mouth. I know nothing about what a Darren does or doesn’t look like. I do, however, know what a liar looks like. He looks like a liar, this man who has followed us from the worst day of my life to here.
He shrugs. “You’re probably right.”
He is utterly indifferent to my challenge. He knows that I know he’s a liar. But he doesn’t care. “What are you doing here?” I ask, even though I suspect he’ll just lie to me in response.
“Waiting to talk to your mother,” he says, then ducks away to answer the cell phone that begins to ring from his pocket.
Frustrated, I walk off. I’m not going to get any answers from this Darren who isn’t Darren anyway, and I’m offended to have been so easily dismissed. But I am certain that neither his presence nor the men in my apartment can possibly mean anything good.