It’s the second week of July and we’re hiding out in this place that feels like it’s the edge of America. Everything flat as can be, land and water reaching in all directions. We float along, disappearing inside the rhythms of mostly white families taking their vacations. The crowds are getting thicker around the fried fish places and lobster restaurants. The past two Saturdays there’s been a slow caravan of cars crawling down Route 6, luggage tied to the roofs, bicycles spinning on the backs.
We pretend. We pretend we’re not running because now we’re staying. We pretend there’s no news or headlines or sounds of children crying at shelters. We pretend there isn’t a ripped seam in our families, from long ago, in another country.
Sometimes I worry if people wonder who we are—three brown-skinned kids, no adults around. But there are others like us: boys who bike over for their kitchen jobs in a cook’s white pants or the restaurant’s T-shirts; women who pop out of vans, hauling tubs of cleaning equipment, heading into rental homes. Once one of them called out to Carlos, “¡Hola!” and he gave a friendly wave back. We hide among them too.
I spoke to Ammi once and told her Uncle is busy working all the time. I keep fending off Lidia, who is not happy. Ammi has put her off us, told her I’m responsible, with relatives. Sometimes I see Ammi’s number lighting up my phone and I let it go to voice mail. Sorry, Ammi, I text. Busy with Auntie. Helping out. She texts back, Good girl. And finally I emailed Amirah, praying that I hadn’t lost the job. Sorry for the delay. Is it possible to do training in August? Can’t wait to start!
I can make our money stretch. On Wednesdays and Fridays, I let Kamal play video games on my computer while I don rubber gloves, push a laundry tub into each motel room, scrub the toilets and sinks and tubs, and leave stacks of fresh towels, which brings in another two hundred. And we get lots of free leftovers from the restaurant, which we store in the portable fridge. We buy beach and pond stickers, bathing suits, beach towels, plastic buckets, and arm floaties for Kamal, head out onto Route 6, and turn down the road, to a pond.
“Look, look!” Kamal shouts.
“I’m looking,” I say.
It’s perfect for him. There’s a small sandy beach sloping toward the water’s edge. A floating dock, where clusters of children are jumping into the pond. Kamal lets me rub him with lotion. He slides on his floaties and then stands with his ankles in the shallows. There are so many kids—all ages—splashing and tossing rubber balls and kicking in little round tubes. I sit on our towel and just watch Kamal, smiling at his bony back, the way he tentatively skims his fingers on the surface. I don’t push him. Slowly he goes deeper, up to his calves, then his knees. I can tell it’s super shallow because it takes a while to get up to his shoulders. And then suddenly, he’s in, thrashing around in his awkward dog paddle, his orange floaties flashing in the sun. I lie down on my towel, content.
A shadow falls across my eyes.
“Hey.”
A guy is standing over me. My blood jumps. Then I realize it’s Carlos. He drops down beside me. I’ve never seen him in a bathing suit—his is navy blue with white stripes and a too-big drawstring that cinches around his narrow waist. He’s just come off a shift and walked here. I can see sweat beading around his neck. His hair curls sweetly around his ears. They are delicate, elfin.
“That’s a long walk,” I say.
“I’ve walked longer.”
He’s in one of his moods. Carlos gets those sometimes. I figure it’s because he’s thinking about his aunt. Or what he’s doing next. He ducks into silence or brings out his drawing pad and soon gets lost in his work. He told me he loves this landscape, the scrub pine with their gnarly branches mirrored, upside down, in the shimmering ponds. There’s no prying a word out of him. I’ve brought my notebook too, scribbling down thoughts, sputters of writing.
“This is great, isn’t it?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“Wouldn’t it be cool if we could do this always?”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe you can earn some money off your drawing. We could make books together. I’ll write the captions. We’ll sell them. And—”
“Rania,” he warns. “Let’s just be here for now. Okay?”
“Okay.”
We go back to our work, but I’m feeling jumpy, unable to concentrate. I can’t stand his silence anymore, so I ask, “What are you going to do?”
“Do about what?”
“Your situation.”
He goes back to his drawing, hand cupped around a charcoal nub. My heart is galloping in my chest, as I think, I have to help him. I’ll call Lidia. She’ll figure something out. But when I tell him my idea, he puts a hand on my arm. “Rania, stop. It’s better this way. No plans. We’ll figure it out.”
He leans back on his elbows and closes his eyes. I can see he’s exhausted. He works a lot more hours than I do. “Papers, no papers,” he mumbles. “What’s the difference in the end?”
“But—”
“Learn to wait, Rania.”
“I’m not good at waiting.”
“No kidding.”
“I just don’t understand how this could happen to us,” I say. “We followed the rules. We’re not even undocumented.”
He slams his drawing pad down. “¡No chingues! The only difference between you and me is a good lawyer, Rania.”
Rolling over, he shows me his back. Tears sting my eyes. I want to stroke the bony line of his spine, make it better between us, but my hand won’t budge.
“Are we having our first fight?” I whisper.
His voice is muffled. “No, Rania. I’m just tired, okay?”
“Okay. Sorry.”
I get up, walk into the pond, wading toward Kamal, and play with him awhile, letting him jump up into my arms. “Do you want to go to the dock?” I ask.
He bites his lip. “It’s too far.”
“I can carry you.”
He considers this. Kamal always weighs what he wants to do—he never likes to be pushed. “Next time, okay, Aapi?”
Smiling, I half twirl him back in, so he splashes, giggling. Then he drifts over to a group of kids tossing a plastic ball, so I decide to swim out, past the dock.
I was always a swimmer—it came naturally to me—the breathing, hands slicing the surface. One summer Ammi signed me up at the Y, and that was that. But I’ve never swum a place like this—open, without buoys marking the lanes. Ahead are blotches of darker water, the reflection of bushes along the shore, stabbing downward. I aim toward them. The farther I go, the more I can feel my own strength, pulling from my stomach. I swim until the sandy beach shrinks to a flat line and the kids are just dots on the dock. The water feels like silk, folding around me. But then I picture Kamal’s worried little face, and turn back. I swim harder, with purpose. I’m going to help Carlos. Somehow.
When I reach our towel, I lean down, kiss Carlos awake on the cheek. A surge of warmth springs loose inside me. Was that the right thing to do?
His eyes flutter open, surprised. He is smiling. He’s not mad at me! Just then, Kamal races up and plows into his stomach. “Oof!” Carlos grunts, then laughs and tackles my brother.
We crank open the car windows, let the breeze skim our still-wet skin, our hair, our fingers. Carlos is relaxed. We decide to splurge and treat ourselves to fried food in the pretty town, which curves down a hill with galleries and little shops that sell mugs and T-shirts and beaded bracelets that cost too much. The restaurant sits right on the bay, the water jeweled and shiny from the lowering sun. All around us are families, mostly white families, though to my relief, I see a few South Asians. I see grandparents with wispy gray hair and striped nautical shirts, helping feed the kids. My eyes film with tears. We’re a family too, I tell myself.
“So,” I say to Carlos, as we push aside our empty food containers. “Just hear me out. What if Ammi gets out? You can come live with us. You can be a delivery guy for Uber Eats. Like the ones who scooter around in yellow vests with the insulated bags on the back.”
He tilts his head, amused. “You don’t give up, do you?”
“They will totally love you, all the people who work at the restaurants—”
Kamal brightens. “Is Carlos staying with us in Brooklyn?”
Carlos laughs and stands. “Hermanito, it’s time for ice cream. Not talk.”
As I watch them walk away to the ice cream window, my heart soars. They do belong together: lanky Carlos, one hand set lightly on Kamal’s head while Kamal hops on one foot.
I’m lit up with plans: He’ll meet Fatima and give her ideas for her fashion designs, and they’ll argue over who is my best friend. We’ll swim in the pool in Sunset Park, teach Kamal how to finally ride a bike. My mind is spinning. It will all work out.
I pull out the prepaid phone card and call Fatima and tell her my ideas about Carlos coming to live with us in Brooklyn.
“Whoa, whoa, Rania. Slow down. So now you’re his savior?”
“No! I just think it would be so cool. He can go to art school. You to FIT—”
“I’m going to Brooklyn College,” she points out.
“Okay, but we can be together.”
She laughs. “Ra-Ra, I love you. But you get carried away. You think just because you dream something up, it can happen.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Hey, tell me about your uncle! What was that like?”
I flinch. “Complicated.”
I’m not ready to tell her about my father. The past few nights, old memories of Pakistan have been bumping into my mind. I remember how my brand-new leather book bag squeaked when I ran down the street to school. I had a best friend then too—Asma—and she liked coming to my home because Ammi let us play nomads in a desert, making a tent, draping a quilt over the chairs in the middle of the living room, using brass goblets and plates for our meals. I miss that Ammi—the one who taught me how to dream and imagine with so little.
“Fatima, about my idea. What do you think?”
She sighs. “There are…limits. On what we can do.”
“What does that mean?”
She’s quiet—so unlike Fatima.
“Fa-Fa,” I say. “Is something going on?”
I can hear her sucking in wet breaths. “My father says I have to go out with the boys they choose. Especially if I want to go to college. They want things settled.”
“Bullshit! You have to stand up to him. Remember, freedom—”
“What do you know!”
“Whoa, Fa-Fa—”
“I can’t be like you! Doing whatever you like! Coming up with all kinds of fantastic stuff!”
There’s a gulf opening up between us. Maybe it was there all along. I don’t get why she doesn’t stand up to her father. Fatima doesn’t understand how my parents fought those old conservative ideas. Or the spike of fear I feel every time I see a local police car. That one day I’ll turn on my phone and learn Ammi is gone. Deported. This is the first time I’ve kept something from Fatima.
I spot Carlos bringing Kamal back. His dyed streak is lighter from the sun and falls over his face as he leans toward Kamal, whispering some kind of joke. Every part of me wants to be next to him.
“I gotta go.”
“Yeah, me too.”
We hang up.
After, we drive to the ocean-side beach. I’m still upset with Fatima, and upset with myself. Why do I keep banging into conversations, hurting people? Dark falls swiftly as we clamber down the steep dunes. We walk and walk, passing clusters of bonfires, flames blowing thinly in the dark. Wind rubs our faces. The ocean looks like a midnight-blue sheet being shaken out, again and again, unfurling a few feet away.
Carlos and I sit down on the sand while Kamal keeps tossing flat stones in the water. He pushes my hair out of my eyes again, as it whips around. “Don’t bother,” I say, and laugh.
“I like doing it.”
We fall quiet.
“Tell me about your aunt,” I finally say.
I can barely make out Carlos, but I see him lean forward, arms cupped around his knees. “She was very good. She worked at a factory. For sixteen years. She led a quiet life. Went to church every Sunday. She was good to me. Even when I got in trouble at school, she didn’t say she would send me back.”
His chest sucks inward as he takes a breath. “And then one day they just showed up. Said her deportation order was in effect. And that was that. I was in gym at the time.” He pauses. “Can you imagine? I was running around the track hoping this girl Lucinda didn’t see how slow I was.”
Carlos doesn’t act like a regular teenager, with normal stupid obsessions. I’m stung with jealousy for a girl named Lucinda watching Carlos run laps. Is that who he’s thinking about? Why he holds himself back from me? I bite down on the thought. We’re like a mom and dad, taking care of Kamal. A brother and sister. Not a boyfriend and girlfriend. Then why do I stare at his mouth when he talks, wishing I could kiss him? Why do I want to smooth those thin scars with my fingers?
“How is she now?”
“She’s back in our town. I spoke to her a few times. She told me those guys—the ones who made me run—they keep asking about me.”
“What does she tell them?”
“That I’m never coming back.” His voice goes tight. “And I’m not.”
I keep watching the jerking silhouette of Kamal tossing his stones.
“Don’t you ever get angry?” I ask. “At all that’s happened to you?”
“Not anymore. That gets you nowhere.” He turns to me. “The solution will come.”
“Paciencia.”
“That’s why I like to draw. It makes me slow down. Take things in. Especially when there’s so much shit I can’t control.”
I think about what Fatima said. How I’ve always thought I could push through anything. Just like Ammi. I’ve watched her barge into offices, demanding all the right documents so she could get a license. She doesn’t take no for an answer. Neither do I. But sometimes having a will is not enough. Here we are: She’s stuck in some awful detention center. Me and Carlos and Kamal in a motel room, suspended. Waiting.
“Okay, your turn,” Carlos says. “What about your father?”
“What about him?” I’m aware of Carlos’s leg, right next to mine, electric with warmth.
“Are you going to do anything?”
“He’s no one,” I say. My throat feels hoarse.
But I mean it. Ever since Uncle told me about my real father, I’ve pushed him far down in my mind. I think about the way I snuck glances at Uncle, combing for traits that connected him to me. His nose, his mouth, his neck. Particles, cells, genes. What does that even mean? Is that family? I haven’t told Carlos about the new memories that have begun edging into my thoughts.
Carlos rears up from his haunches and hurls a pebble to the water’s edge. “Nobody!” he shouts. “He’s nobody!”
Kamal, hearing us, twists around and repeats, “Nobody!”
“Stop!” I laugh and also heave myself up from the sand. I fling my arms around him and give him a kiss. His cheek is rough, cool. In the dark I can’t see his reaction, because he’s turning, calling for Kamal, his back to me.
Back in the motel, there’s an awkward strain between us. I feel idiotic, hot with shame for what I’ve done. Not just once, but twice. I better stop.
“Good night, Rania,” he says, like every night, and snaps out his light.