“It’s your mom, right?” He drops his eyes. He knows it is.
See? Can you blame me for getting distracted? My mother and another girl smile back at me radiantly. They are young, in school uniforms, with their arms twined around each other’s waists. Flowers bloom behind them. I have no memory of my mother ever smiling like that. The other girl looks mischievous, like she’s flirting with whoever is taking the photo. An ache wells in my throat. Other than her old refugee ID, I have no photos of Mama.
“I tried to see what else was on the hard drive, but everything was password protected.” Michael waits. “Who’s the girl with her?”
I finally look up. “Everything on the hard drive is encrypted,” I say briskly. “My business partner is working on it.” I carefully fold the paper in half and then quarters and tuck it inside my bra.
“Hey, that was for the case!”
“I’m not throwing it away, Michael. And don’t call it the case.”
“You don’t know who the other girl is?”
“No.”
“But—”
“I said I don’t know.” I feel the paper burning against my chest. It sounds like I’m lying, but I really don’t know. A friend? A relative? “What else do you have in that folder?” I ask.
Michael hesitates, but eventually picks the papers back up. “Not enough. I was trying to find someone to bribe so I can get your mom’s police file, but it sounds like you’ve already got it.”
“Nothing useful in there.”
“I still want to see it.” He flips through the folder, stopping on a thick bundle. “Do you have your immigration file?”
It takes me a second to figure out what he means. “Our refugee file? You have it? How did you get that so fast?”
He avoids my eye. “I’ve had it.”
I frown. “Why?”
“A year ago I tried looking for you and Kiki,” Michael says. “I tried to find your family, where you might have gone . . .”
“How did you get our file?”
“Being a spoiled rich kid has its perks. You can buy things.” He glances at me from the corner of his eye. “Couldn’t find anything other than this, though. No one here, no one in your village in Congo, nothing.”
“You know what village I come from?”
“It’s in the file.”
“What else is in there?” I demand, reaching for it.
He keeps it above his head. “Dates of birth, photos, stuff like that. And all the notes from your mother’s hearing to get legal status. She had to tell them why she left Congo to prove she was a refugee.”
“It’s all there? Why she left?” I try not to look surprised. I don’t know why, but it never occurred to me that my file at the United Nations’ refugee office might have useful information. Mainly because they always seem so useless there. I’ve had to go and get Kiki’s and my refugee documents renewed a couple of times since Mom died, but they just ask me questions about where we live and if we’re in school. When we go, I comb my hair and wear clothes that cover my tattoos, and tell them Kiki goes to private boarding school on scholarship, and that I stay with a nice family and go to a public school because I’m not as clever as my little sis, but otherwise I am just fantastic. And I smile and they smile, and when they ask, I tell them no, I’m sure I’m not “engaging in survival sex” or “resorting to negative coping strategies” or doing whatever else they call prostitution and selling drugs to make them sound nicer.
Since they never have to actually do any work on my case, they like me. We get our papers stamped, and we’re on our way. I wouldn’t even bother with the whole thing if Kiki didn’t need the documents for school. My Goonda tattoos are usually good enough ID for anyone who matters.
But I had no idea that Mama told them what happened to her. No one at the UN has ever asked me why we left Congo.
“You have the whole file?” I lean over, trying to pluck it from his hands. His arm is longer, though. I reach higher, coming closer to his chest than I’d really prefer. He is warm and smells spicy and boyish. Good boyish, not bad boyish.
Pull yourself together, Tina.
“The schools it says you go to—they’re wrong, aren’t they?” Michael asks. Our faces are very close.
I give up on the folder and pull back. “So? How do you know they’re wrong?”
Anger finally sparks in Michael’s green eyes. “Look, you’re the one who left without saying anything to any of us, Tina. I’ve been wondering about you guys for five years.”
We glare at each other. He suddenly doesn’t seem cute at all.
“Where is Kiki?”
“She’s fine,” I say stiffly.
“But where is she?”
“It’s not important.”
“Come on, Tina, she’s my sister as much as she is yours.”
“She is not!” I say.