Love, Hate and Other Filters Read online

  “I’m sure we’re fine,” she interrupts in a rush. “They’re probably going crazy overboard with security. I doubt Batavia is high on the terrorist target list.”

  “There is Fermilab.”

  Violet stares at me, her eyes wide. “Oh. My. God. I didn’t even think of that. But they don’t store weapons. It’s physics research.”

  “It’s a government facility. I’m guessing terrorists don’t sweat the details.”

  “I’m calling my dad,” she says.

  As I watch Violet dial, I’m painfully aware that I haven’t thought of calling my own parents. I look at my phone and see several missed calls from all their numbers. Worst-case scenarios no doubt colonize my mom’s head. I call the office. No answer. I call home. Mom picks up. She speaks before I can even say hello.

  “We’ve been calling and calling you.”

  “Sorry, Mom. My phone was on silent. The school is on lockdown.”

  “Yes, beta, we know. We called the front office. They say they will probably let you out soon. They want to make sure that everything is okay before releasing students from school.”

  “Can you believe this? It’s horrible. What are they saying on the news?”

  “They still don’t know what happened or who is responsible. But it seems that a suicide bomber blew himself up inside the Federal Building in Springfield. They don’t know much more. It’s terrible. They are still trying to get people out of the building.”

  “Do they know if the bomber is … if he was … ?” I don’t want to say it out loud.

  “No. Nothing, yet.” My mom doesn’t want to say it out loud, either. “Those poor, poor people who died. I’m going to go pray for them. Your dad is coming to get you.”

  “No. It’s okay. He doesn’t need to. They still haven’t said when they’re letting us out, and I can get a ride with Violet.”

  “Okay. Call us if you want. The school secretary said the lockdown is a precaution. Don’t be scared.”

  “I’m not scared.” I lie because my mother’s concern annoys me. I know it shouldn’t. She’s a parent. She’s my parent; worry and love are part of the package. But to me, it feels smothering.

  “Okay. We’ll see you soon, then? Let us know when they let you go.”

  “Okay. Khudafis.”

  “Khudafis.”

  Violet puts down her phone at the same time. “My dad says they evacuated all the buildings at Fermi. There’s police at all the entrances, and apparently there is going to be the Army or the National Guard, too. He’s at home already.”

  “My parents are home, too.”

  After a few more interminable minutes, there’s a loud knock at the door. The room falls silent, and we all instinctively scoot as far from the door as possible. Madame DuPont walks to the door and asks who it is, carefully lifting a free corner of the paper taped over the slim window.

  She opens the door to a security guard. He hands her a piece of paper and asks her to keep the door locked with everyone in the room until there is an announcement. The classroom is completely silent. Madame DuPont’s black heels click against the floor as she walks to the front of the classroom, paper in hand.

  “It looks like the information we were getting on the Internet was correct in part. There was a bombing at the Federal Building in Springfield. At this time, they think a suicide bomber drove a vehicle past the security gates and straight through the front doors of the building. There is no word on the number of people killed. They are still sorting through the rubble.”

  We stare at Madame DuPont. The class is completely quiet. A couple students cry. Someone finally asks, “Are we under attack?”

  “That’s all the information we have so far,” Madame DuPont says.

  “It’s a Muslim terrorist,” Brian yells. “They hate America.”

  I turn to look at Brian. He stares right back. His glare is icy and unnerving, and he mutters something under his breath.

  “I need you all to stay calm,” Madame DuPont snaps. “Like I said, it doesn’t help to speculate.”

  I turn to face forward. Madame DuPont raises an eyebrow. “Understand? All of you? I’m sure the authorities will release information when they have it. Now as far as lockdown, there should be an announcement soon to dismiss everyone. They are going to let you out by class—the freshman will be first, the sophomores next. If you take a bus home, all the buses will be lined up at the front of the building, waiting for you. If you drive, please go to your cars and leave the back parking lot immediately. No loitering.”

  It takes almost thirty minutes to get to us. We all hurry to senior hall, rushing by the grim faces of the school staff that line the corridors. Police and school security roam the halls.

  Senior hall hums, the air thick with anxiety. We gather up our books and follow the stream of seniors exiting the hallway. I see Lisa at Phil’s locker, sobbing, her head buried in his chest. Phil has one arm against her upper back and his other stiff at his side. Our eyes meet. He holds my gaze.

  A vise clamps its jaws around my heart. The scene is a perfect metaphor. Phil stands at the edge of the frame in the film of my life, slightly out of focus. There’s a girl in his foreground, but it’s not me. The distance between us ever widening.

  I hook my arm through Violet’s.

  As we walk down the hall, I have the distinct sense that we’re leaving a tiny, crumbling world behind us. We step outside into the brash light of another world I can’t possibly understand.

  The Special Agent in charge, the man in a dark blue windbreaker with fbi emblazoned along the sleeve and back of the jacket, steps up to the podium. Now I’ll take any questions.

  Q: Do you have any more information on the white truck that was at the scene before the bombing?

  A: We have a partial on the license plate from a security camera across the street. It appears that the truck drove through the security gate at 13:10 hours and directly into the building before exploding.

  Q: Can you confirm that an Egyptian passport was found at the scene?

  A: Yes, it appears to belong to one Kamal Aziz.

  Q: Is he a suspect?

  A: He is currently under investigation as a person of interest. We are working to positively ID his body and determine if he was indeed the driver of the vehicle.

  Q: Has any terrorist group taken credit for the bombing?

  A: At this time, there are no claims of responsibility. We are still looking into any possible ties between Aziz and known terrorist organizations or splinter groups. We are also working to determine any accomplices or known associates who may still be at large. We urge the public to contact us at the investigation hotline with any relevant tips or information.

  Finally, let me assure the public that we will leave no stone unturned in our search for those who committed this heinous act.

  Chapter 13

  Carnage leaps, bleeding, from the television screen. Over and over on the news, it’s the same image: the massive neoclassical building that used to take up an entire city block. One-third of it has been sheared off by the strength of the bomb. It looks like a giant meteor crashed through the roof, obliterating stone into dust. Bent steel beams and the pulpy ends of impossibly twisted floors are all that remain.

  I sit on the edge of the sofa, my fingers digging into the fabric. Waves of nausea prevent me from eating anything but saltines and ginger ale. Death is everywhere. And the pit in my stomach grows and grows.

  The ten o’clock nightly news confirms my quiet worry. The FBI holds a press conference at the site, corroborating hearsay that a passport found at the crater belonged to Kamal Aziz, an Egyptian national. They believe he is the suicide bomber.

  It’s selfish and horrible, but in this terrible moment, all I want is to be a plain old American teenager. Who can simply mourn without fear. Who doesn’t share last names with a suicide bomber. Who goes to dances and can talk to her parents about anything and can walk around without always being anxious. And who isn’t a p
resumed terrorist first and an American second.

  I sleep deeply, without dreams, but when I wake up, I feel like I haven’t rested at all. There is a dull ache in the marrow of my bones.

  I trudge down the stairs for breakfast, trying to stomp out the self-hate and the doubt. I do not want to go to school.

  “I made pancakes,” my mom says, lifting a lid from a plate on the table. “They’re still warm.” Her face shows her hope that food will snap me out my mood. But it’s not a mood. It’s my life.

  “Oh. Uh … I’m not hungry,” I say, trying to sound as diplomatic as possible.

  “But you have to eat,” she pleads.

  She looks so crushed, I plop down in the chair and consent to eat one pancake.

  “Are you okay, beta?” my mom asks, never able to provide silence when I need it.

  “I’m fine, why?” Even my syllables sound worn out.

  “Your face looks so … tired.”

  “I apologize for offending your aesthetic sensibilities. Maybe I should’ve put makeup on before coming down to breakfast.”

  “No reason to take it that way, Maya.” My father’s voice edges into impatience. “We’re worried about you.”

  “Sorry I’m not Miss Mary Sunshine, but a so-called Muslim sociopath attacked us. Again. If these jerks hate America so much, why don’t they stay in their own countries? He killed little kids.” My voice breaks. “I don’t understand that kind of hate.”

  “It’s a terrible tragedy. It’s a sin. You know the Quran says that whoever takes a life of an innocent, it’s as if he has killed all of mankind—”

  “And if anyone saves a life, it’s as if he’s saved all of mankind. I know. But how is that supposed to change anything? How are we supposed to change anything?” My hands shake.

  My father picks up where my mother leaves off. “These terrorists are the antithesis of Islam. They’re not Muslim. Violence has no place in religion, and the terrorists are responsible for their own crimes, not the religion and not us.”

  “Then why is there so much fighting in the Middle East, and why are so many suicide bombers Muslim?”

  “Terrorism has no religion. Think about Dylann Roof and that church in Charleston or the attack at the Sikh gurdwara in Wisconsin. Terrorists have their own ideology. Who knows what hatred compels them? They’re desperate and unthinking and ignorant followers—”

  I interrupt my mother. “Too bad none of that matters. We all get painted like we’re un-American and terrorist sympathizers, no matter how loudly we condemn terrorism and say it’s un-Islamic. It’s guilt by association.”

  “Yes, beta. But our friends, the community, they know we are good people.” My father explains what I already know, but in my rage against the bomber, I can’t hold onto the truth of what he says.

  “There is going to be a prayer at the mosque tonight for the victims of the bombing. We’ll also be doing a fund-raiser. We want you to come,” my mom says. “We will leave at seven.”

  “You barely make me go to the mosque, except for religious holidays or weddings.”

  My father’s face falls as he looks at my mom. “Maybe we should have been going more as a family and teaching you more.”

  “Oh, please. Don’t get all regretful because of this. I can’t deal with it.” I hear my own voice oozing sarcasm and anger. Shame and guilt pummel me, but my anger is real, too. I rise from my seat. “I have to get ready. Violet’s going to be here any second.”

  “Maya.” The earlier tender tone in my mom’s voice dissipates. “Enough of these sarcastic remarks. You can go to the mosque and pray for the poor people who lost their lives. You will go. That’s final.”

  “Fine. I’ll play the devout daughter for you.”

  “Maya,” my father yells, but I ignore him. If I don’t leave now, I’ll say things much worse than I already have. I take the stairs two at a time to get to my room.

  My bedroom door bangs shut. I grab the lamp from my desk and pull back my arm, ready to slam it into my reflection in the mirror so they can both shatter into a million pieces.

  I stop myself. Like everything else in my life right now, the act is pointless.

  The parking lot pulses with students who mill around, catching up. I’m sure they’re talking about the terrorist. The Muslim terrorist.

  As I step out of Violet’s car, I see Phil. He’s at his car, talking to his friend Tom—the one who’s pushing for the perfect post–high school future at Eastern with Megan and Lisa—and a couple other teammates. Phil’s in profile and half-hidden by one of his friends, but I see Tom laughing.

  Then Tom sees me.

  I wonder what it feels like to be so unaffected that you can laugh even when horrible things are happening. Tom points his chin in my direction and mutters to Phil, who turns his head and waves. I hold up my hand in half-hearted response. I don’t know why I bother. My lips pull down at the corners. Those three texts I got in French class were the last I’ve heard from Phil.

  Lisa and Megan bounce up to Phil and Tom. Lisa puts her arm through Phil’s. Apparently, the rumors of their breakup were greatly exaggerated. I want to turn away. I should. Evidently, I’m a glutton for punishment.

  “Let’s go,” Violet says to me as she frowns at Phil.

  We move through the parking lot and begin walking up the ramp to the school doors. From the corner of my eye, I see Brian. He’s jogging toward us. I get a queasy feeling in my stomach.

  Instinctively, I speed up.

  When he’s within earshot, he yells, “Is that terrorist your uncle?”

  He sounds gleeful and disgusted at the same time. There’s a viscous, dreamlike quality to all of this. I turn to him. For a split second, I think maybe he didn’t say what I thought he said. Maybe he’s not talking to me. But who else could he be talking to? My mouth is wide open. My mind races to find a retort, but it’s muddled. I’ve heard the words before. The taunts. I should know to expect them now. But the words still cut.

  “Shut up, Brian,” is all I manage to get out.

  Brilliant. I wish I were better under fire with scalding barbs. Not my strong suit. There is so much more to say. So much more I want to scream. I want to get in his face, to tower over him. But I’m a foot too short for that.

  “Go to hell, Brian,” Violet yells. “You fucking jerk.”

  “Oooh, so touchy. Well, the terrorist has the same last name as Maya, doesn’t he?”

  “Yeah, and he’s a sick asshole,” Violet responds. “That’s a thing you have in common.”

  He grins. I can see how our words are like fuel that incites him further. “Why don’t you people leave America if you hate it so much?”

  I wince, remembering the conversation I had with my parents. My own words spat back at me. “I was born here, you racist! And that guy was Egyptian. My family’s Indian.” My temples throb. Why am I even explaining? I shouldn’t need to explain, and it shouldn’t matter where my family is from. But I do. And it does.

  A small crowd gathers around us, watching.

  “Let’s go, Maya. Ignore him.” Violet takes my elbow. But the anger courses through me; my feet are cemented in place.

  “Egyptian? Indian? What’s the difference? You’re both ragheads.” Spit comes out of Brian’s mouth as he yells.

  I want to slap him. I want him to hurt.

  A smile spreads across his lips as he turns away.

  For the first time, I’m aware of the tension in my body, a rubber band stretched to its limit. I let my shoulders relax from my ears. I blink back tears. I won’t let myself cry. Not over this.

  Violet moves in to hug me. “I’m so sorry,” she breathes.

  “Please, you don’t need to be sorry.”

  “You’re right. Enough of the Hallmark moment,” she says, taking my elbow. She knows I want to move on. “Let’s get to class. I doubt Brian will bother you again.”

  The first half of the school day passes routinely. I don’t see Brian anywhere, but clearly, w
ord’s gotten around. That’s one of the things I hate most about a small high school. Everyone knows everything immediately. There’s not even a semblance of anonymity. Or privacy.

  At lunch, I want to grab a salad and keep my head down, but Phil walks up to me at the salad bar. It’s the first time we’ve been in any sort of proximity since the painfully awkward crying moment in his car.

  “I heard about what Brian said to you,” he says, staring down at his tray. “I’m sorry. He’s an ass. I’m going to talk to him. I should’ve said something to him before …” His voice trails off, like his mind has wandered away.

  I give Phil a quizzical look. “Don’t worry about it. It’s no one else’s fault. Besides, I’m over it. You kinda have to have a thick skin if you happen to be Muslim and live in America.”

  I want to talk to Phil. I want to snare his attention. But not for this. And I definitely don’t want to open myself up to being hurt. Again.

  “So … ummm … whatever happened with NYU?” he asks.

  “I’m going. My parents gave in.”

  He finally looks up, his face bright. “That’s amazing. Congratulations. I’m really happy for you.”

  I look into Phil’s smiling eyes. For a second, my defenses come down. My heart leaps from my chest. I smile in thanks.

  “Listen, Maya, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” Phil takes a hesitant half-step closer to me. “I’m sorry. Things got complicated.”

  “You mean with Lisa?” And the defenses are up again. Fully reinforced.

  His mouth opens, but his words take their time coming out. “Well … no … I mean … I guess … but why—?”

  “Maya.”

  I jump.

  Dean Anderson has said my name. His voice is impossible to miss, the one no student ever wants to hear in the cafeteria, or anywhere else, really: grizzly, smoked too much over the years, always a few decibels louder than necessary.

  Only this time, a police officer, who looks barely older than me, stands a couple feet behind him. The entire cafeteria tunes into the show. My chest tightens.

  “Yes?” I ask and rub my forehead.

  “I need to speak with you. Do you mind if we step outside?”