The Tyrant's Daughter (20 page)

I walk Bastien to his school. It’s out of my way, but late as I am already, another twenty minutes doesn’t matter.

He straddles the curb as he walks, one foot on the sidewalk and one on the street. It gives him a lurching gait that makes me think of Amir’s sister. “Bastien, why did your teacher ask to meet with Mother?”

He scowls and kicks at a rock. “She says I’m lying. She says I make things up.”

I know immediately what he has been lying about, and my heart aches for him. “Did you tell people you’re a king?” I ask softly.

He looks at his feet and bobs his head in the tiniest of nods.

I start to tell him he shouldn’t say such things, that it isn’t true, but I stop myself. Who am I to say what’s true? Mother has dragged us both into a game I don’t understand. For all I know, Bastien
will
be king once she’s done maneuvering. And if not, our future is a bleak question mark. Bastien’s stories may be the only things that survive intact.

I shudder and walk faster. “Hurry up,” I snap at Bastien, and he looks relieved the conversation is over.

I arrive at school to find that my Here and my There have collided.

Cars and trucks with flashing lights crowd the street, and somewhere inside a tinny alarm sounds, on and on and on. Icy fingers of panic caress and then start to claw at my chest. My first thought is that the war has followed me, encircled my life completely.

Then I notice the other students.

They’re milling around the front entrance in a boisterous crowd, their expressions falling within a narrow range from neutral to cheerful. At worst, some look bored. There is no crying; there are no screams. But I still can’t push away the piercing dread that something terrible has happened.

I find Emmy standing near one of the fire trucks. She bounces up and down on her toes and waves with both hands
when she sees me. “Laila! Where have you been? Have you heard the good news? Someone called in a bomb threat!”

I’m certain I heard wrong—I’m so distracted by the red-white-red-white lights dancing across her face that I can’t grasp the meaning of her words. “What?”

“Bomb threat! Woo-hoo!” Someone in the crowd yells it, and then someone else tries to start a chant. “Make the call! Make the call!” It doesn’t catch on, but I can’t stop myself from taking a step back, away from the shouting. I stumble over the curb, falling in a clumsy heap.

“Oh, Laila.” Emmy’s eyes go wide and she covers her mouth with a hand. “I didn’t even think.” She rushes over and pulls me up. “Don’t worry. It’s not a real bomb—it never is. This happens at least once a year, but usually not until the weather’s nicer, or on Senior Skip Day. We’re just waiting until the principal makes the call—he has to officially make the decision to evacuate the school for the day. Which
always
happens.”

I understand her this time, but it doesn’t keep me from wishing we could move just a little farther away from the building, farther away from the flashing lights. Just in case. “But what if—?” The alarm clanging in the background cuts off abruptly, and the students cheer.

Emmy’s bouncing on her toes again, but she keeps a tight grip on me. “Okay, that probably means he’s about to make the announcement. Shhh. Listen.”

The sound of a man clearing his throat comes out of the loudspeakers, and then a decidedly unpanicked voice announces that the school is being evacuated for the remainder
of the day. He says something about alternate locations being set up for use as study halls, and the crowd jeers.

“This is sick,” I say, but no one hears me. Emmy is laughing along with everyone else. “You people are sick.”

“Let’s go find Tori and Morgan,” Emmy says, pulling me along with her. “Everyone’s heading to the park now—we should hurry so we can get a good spot on the hill.”

I’m too disoriented to do anything but follow.

“This is exactly why these things aren’t supposed to happen until spring, people!” Morgan shouts to no one in particular. “I’m freezing!”

My friends are disappointed with their day at the park. Their bomb has bombed. It’s cold out, and the scrubby grass on the hill where dozens of students have come to gather is damp. Grope Slope, they call this place, and it’s easy to understand why. The dreary conditions have not discouraged the public displays of affection that began to blossom around us, particularly after one entrepreneurial student showed up with a cooler and started to discreetly sell cans of beer. It’s a meaningless tradition, Tori explains. A way to pass the time.

“This place is kind of like mistletoe,” Morgan tries to clarify. “The kisses don’t really count.”

“It’s stupid.” Emmy wrinkles her nose as she shifts her weight and the plastic garbage bag we’re using as a picnic
blanket crinkles and sticks to her legs. “This whole day sucks.” Her eyes scan constantly, searching for someone who was supposed to be here but isn’t. Her next photo op, waiting to happen.

Her mood is all peaks and valleys today, and I can’t do a thing to cheer her. My mind is anywhere but here—my thoughts focus on bombs that are not pretend, while hers swirl around a boy who did not come. Today our differences form a perfect storm, and now she heaves deep, theatrical sighs and stabs at the uneaten take-out salad we are supposed to be sharing. She’s waiting for me to notice that she’s mad.

Emmy, the least angry person I’ve ever met, is angry with me. The only surprise is that it’s taken this long. Finally, I grant her my full attention.

“What wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s just … you’ve been kind of flaky lately.” She’s hesitant at first, but then her words come out in a rush. “I know you have stuff going on in your life, but I do too. Not that you seem to care. And what’s going on with Ian, anyway? He told me he’s worried about you, but he won’t say why. And since you’ve barely spoken to me this week, what would I know?” It sounds like she’s been holding this in for days. She probably has. Not that I would have noticed—she’s right about that. The events of the last few days have eclipsed everything else around me—including Emmy. I try to muster something pleasantly distracting to say, but it backfires.

“You think this is funny?” Emmy’s eyes go wide, her anger now edged with hurt.

“No, no. I’m sorry. That’s not why I was smiling. I’m
just … I don’t know. Stressed out. I was just thinking that
flaky
is such a strange word to use. In my mind, flaky is a good thing—it’s a perfect pastry.” I’m fumbling. I
am
flaky.

“No. Don’t pull that lost-in-translation crap, Laila. A friend is a friend in any language. Just like a jerk is a jerk.” She pushes away from our garbage-bag picnic and weaves her way through the other clusters of students sitting on the hillside.

I know I should go after her, but I don’t. I can’t. I just don’t have the energy. I care about Emmy, I truly do. But I can’t care as much as she wants right now. Not with everything else going on in my life. I have tunnel vision, and Emmy stands outside the tunnel. She’s better off that way, even if she doesn’t think so.

Tori and Morgan are silent, which probably means my flakiness has been an earlier topic of conversation. We sit without words until Ian joins us, taking Emmy’s place on our sad plastic picnic blanket.

He’s tentative as he sits down, mumbling a polite greeting to the group and then turning to me. “You doing okay?” he asks.

I nod, but I can’t even feign a smile. Emmy’s departure has rattled me, left me anchorless in this place that only days ago had started to seem safe and familiar. “Happy bomb threat day,” I say. I don’t disguise the bitterness in my voice, but Ian puts his arm around me anyway.

“Ugh, not you guys too,” Morgan groans. “I can’t take any more Grope Slope today. I’m outta here.”

Tori jumps up with her. “See you guys later,” she says, winking suggestively at us before she leaves.

Everything about today makes me queasy and miserable. I’m trying to appreciate Ian’s kindness. I’m glad that he’s forgiven my behavior in the car, but when he leans over and nuzzles the underside of my jaw, I feel no less queasy or miserable than before, and I’m relieved when he stops.

“This
is
pretty lame,” Ian echoes Morgan. “Do you want to go get some coffee or something? You look cold.”

I start to say yes automatically, but then I stop myself. I don’t want coffee. I don’t want to sit here in celebration of someone claiming to have planted a bomb in a school, either. I’m half shivering, half burning up, and I’m half outraged and half numb. I’m half Here. I’m half There. I’m a girl divided, which is to say that I’m no one at all.

“No.” I shake my head. I’m going to say more, but the words don’t come. All I can think about is Amir, and what must have gone through his head when he heard about a bomb in his school—what panicked memories must have spilled from his heart.

Ian pulls away from me, and the muscles in his jaw bunch up. “Laila, I can’t figure you out. One day you’re all over me, and the next it’s like you can’t even stand me.”

“I’m sorry,” I say to the patch of weeds growing at my feet.

He softens. “It’s okay. I know there’s all sorts of shit going on back home for you right now.”

“No, Ian. I’m sorry for more than just today. I’m sorry because … because I can’t. Any of this. You. Here.” I’m babbling as I push to my feet. My words are unplanned and surprise me as much as they surprise him. “I just don’t
work
here. There’s something wrong with me here.”

He reaches for my hand. “Laila, let me do something. Let me help you.”

But I shake my head again and pull my hand back. “There’s nothing you can do, Ian.” I kiss his cheek once, quickly, and then I race away.

I need to find Amir.

I don’t know where to start.

He’s not at school, of course. The evacuation orders were real, even if the bomb was not. I think about finding a phone to call his home, but I’m stopped by tumbling, troubling images of people packed into Amir’s apartment watching the news, waiting for news. In my mind, his sister sits too close to the television, afraid to glance away in case a crowd scene contains someone she knows. I imagine her crying as she watches. Others in the room cry too, either because they fear the worst or because they already know the worst. My eyes burn at the thought—I can’t call there.

Work. With no school today, maybe Amir went to work? I can hardly walk fast enough—I practically run the blocks between the park and the restaurant where he washes dishes and takes out garbage. I’ve never been inside, but I’ve walked past it a hundred times.

“Here for a late lunch?” A bulldog-faced man in a stained apron greets me from behind the counter.

“No. I’m looking for Amir. Is he working right now?”

The man scowls. “Yeah. He’s
working
.” His emphasis is meant to deter me.

“Please. It will be just for a moment.” My princess voice is rusty, but it works.

The scowling man relents. “Amir!”

No response. He grumbles before turning on his heel to check the back room. When he returns, he busies himself wiping the counter with a filthy rag, making me wait for his answer. “He’ll be out in a minute.
For
a minute,” he says finally. I nod and wait by the door.

I want to know that he’s okay. That the bomb threat didn’t take him back to his past, reviving memories better left buried. As far as I know, Amir doesn’t have any American friends—no one like Emmy to explain the joke. He has no context for a celebrated threat.

But I also have another reason. A selfish one.

I want to see his face when I pay back the money. I want to watch him as I hand over the envelope, to see if he understands whatever it is that has changed any better than I do. So much will depend on his reaction.

So far, this is what I believe: My mother
does
hate my uncle. But she also has a plan. A goal. And her desire to achieve it outweighs her hatred. My mother will deal with the devil, it seems, to get what she wants. But I’m still hoping a tiny, foolish hope that Amir will somehow be able to interpret things differently. That he can find goodness where I see only betrayal.

Amir comes out of the kitchen, and we both ignore the bulldog man as we step outside to talk. He gestures to a flimsy table, and we sit down across from one another.

“Are you okay?” I ask him without any greeting. “I mean, the thing at school …?”

He grunts dismissively. “People here can be so stupid. It’s like a game to them.”

For the first time all week, I smile. Finally, someone sees the events of the day the same way I do.

But Amir isn’t smiling. “You’ve seen the news? From home?”

He’s worried. Just like I am. He’s jumpy, and his eyes are bloodshot and sunken as if he hasn’t slept in days. We’re two people with the same worries, a sorry fact that for a moment makes me want to embrace him. But then I remember that our worries are
not
entirely the same. Same facts, very different context.

“Yes. We’ve been watching—it’s awful. How is your family? The ones back home, I mean. Are they okay?”

He lets out a long puff of air. He holds his breath when he’s nervous, just like I do. “I don’t know. We haven’t heard of any strikes in our area, but we can’t be sure. The news is slow to catch up, and the phones aren’t working. I went home to check in after the school was evacuated, but I couldn’t stand waiting around anymore, so I came here.”

I reach over and place my hand on his, then immediately feel self-conscious. But he doesn’t even seem to notice, so I leave my hand there. It’s an American gesture, this casual
touch across genders, but it feels natural to reach out to him right now. There’s no tension, no power play. Just a much-needed connection.

“The capital was hit pretty hard. Do you … do you have anyone there still? Is
your
family safe?” He words his questions carefully so we aren’t forced to admit out loud that we have family on opposite sides of the fighting.

I shake my head. “There’s no one left there.” We reach an unspoken agreement that my tie to the General will not be recognized. “What about your father? Do you have any news about him?”