Chapter 19

“Maya, beta!” I hear my mother’s voice before my parents even enter the curtained-off examination area. My father looks grim. My mother immediately bursts into tears upon seeing me. She clutches me in a death grip.

“Mom, I’m okay . . . but . . . you’re hurting me,” I say, trying to nudge her away.

I study my parents. They look beleaguered. It’s like they’ve aged another decade since this morning. My mom’s face is completely ashen. I have a strong urge to move and let her lie down in my place.

My doctor walks back in, saving me from a parental conversation that might be even more painful than my elbow. He details my various injuries: hairline fracture in my left elbow, a deep contusion in my thigh, and various other minor bruises and scrapes.

My mother rubs her temples, and while the doctor outlines what he expects to be a quick recovery process, Dean Anderson enters—along with one of the police officers that I saw talking to Phil. Chief Wickham from the Batavia PD follows. They shake hands with my dad and nod at my mother. We all stare at one another.

Chief Wickham disrupts the charged silence. “Maya, this is Officer Russell. He’s with the county sheriff’s office. He wants to ask you a few questions. The amusement park is in his jurisdiction, but he’s letting me sit in because of the ongoing investigation with the incident at your parents’ office. Are you up to it?”

I nod, my throat too dry to speak.

Officer Russell steps forward. He’s shorter than Chief Wickham, more barrel-chested. When he smiles, it’s natural. Friendly. Not like the chief, whose smile feels like he watched a YouTube tutorial on how to seem friendly. I answer Officer Russell’s questions. The memory feels fuzzy, like I’m looking through a soft-focus filter, but I give him every detail I can remember about what Brian did.

But then Officer Russell starts asking me about Phil. When he arrived, what he said, how many times he hit Brian. Then he uses the word assault. And it’s not Brian he’s accusing.

“Phil didn’t assault anyone. He prevented Brian from hurting me . . . more.” I shouldn’t have to say this. And it makes me feel sick that I have to.

“Unfortunately, Brian has a different story.” Officer Russell looks at me. “He claims you two simply exchanged words and that you were injured in the scuffle with Phil. So we’re looking at two possible assaults.”

“He’s lying.” I want to scream, but my voice is a scratch.

“We’ll sort it out, but for now it’s your word and Phil’s word against his.”

“Wait. My camera. I almost forgot. I had it recording the whole time. There’s probably no decent picture, but I’m sure I got audio.”

Officer Russell nods. “That could help us get all of this straightened out.”

“And my daughter’s safety?” my mom asks. “When she goes to school? Who is going to be protecting her from this . . . this . . . ?”

“Both of the young men will be suspended from school and—”

“Both? Why is Phil suspended? That’s not fair.” I start rising out of my bed, but my father places a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“Fighting has consequences. It’s school policy.”

“But Phil didn’t pick the fight—”

“Maya, let the dean decide what is or isn’t fair,” my father says.

I collapse back against the pillows.

“We’ll take a look at any footage you might have caught, miss, and share it with the DA’s office,” Officer Russell says.

I motion at my mom, and she pulls the camera out of my bag and hands it over.

“The county will be working with Batavia on this, so I’ll make sure it’s returned to you, Maya,” Chief Wickham promises.

The policemen leave, but Dean Anderson hesitates at the door. “I don’t expect to see you at school tomorrow, either, Maya. Take as much time as you need. Stay at home and rest up. Get a little TLC from your parents. Dr. and Dr. Aziz, I know how frightening this must be for you. You have my assurances that we will do everything in our power to ensure that Maya is safe at school.”

Tears well in my eyes. My head pounds. I barely hear the doctor give my parents my at-home care instructions—a sling, a prescription, and physical therapy starting next week.

Back home, I half-hug my mom and then shut my door. I pull down the blinds and draw the curtains. Using only my right hand, I brush, splash water on my face, and fumble-strip down to my underwear, leave my clothes in a pile on the floor, and climb into bed, cell phone in hand. I dial Phil’s number. I don’t want to text. I want to talk to him. I get his voicemail.

“Phil . . . it’s me . . . Maya.” My voice is raspy. “I wanted to make sure . . . are you . . . okay? I’m so sorry. I gave the police my camera . . . I got footage of Brian cornering me. It should help explain how you helped me. I don’t know what else to say. Except . . . thanks.”

I let my phone drop to the floor and curl up under the duvet on my bed.

It’s warm outside, but I’m cold and numb. Even under the covers, I shiver. Sleep pulls at me. I’m fatigued to my bones, but I fight my heavy eyelids for one second more. Images from the day animate themselves, jumbling in my vision. The shrieks and sharp turns of a roller coaster. The slits of Brian’s eyes as he glowers over me. Phil punching Brian. Bright red drops of Brian’s blood falling to the pavement. The purple and black of my swelling arm. The barely there sensation of Phil’s fingertips on my leg. The dimple in his smiling cheek. Phil holding me in his arms, stroking my hair.

“Beta, wake up. You’re dreaming.”

My eyes flicker open to my mother’s face leaning over the bed. The curtains are drawn, and light streams into my room.

“Wh—what happened?” To my ears, my voice sounds gravelly and low. I clear my throat.

“A nightmare? You were screaming,” my mother says, her face as gray and voice as unnerved as it was last night. Maybe more. She hasn’t slept at all. “Was it about that boy who did this to you?”

I blink the sleep out of my eyes and look at my mother. “N-n-o. It was . . . one of those jinn stories that I heard in India.”

My mom nods, willing to accept the fib, if only to lessen her own worry.

“What time is it?” I rub my face with my palms, still groggy.

“It’s almost twelve-thirty,” my mom says, coming to stand at the foot of my bed.

“What? I’ve been asleep . . . since . . . how can I still be tired?”

“It’s from the pain medication. Do your arm and leg hurt very much?” A fresh wave of panic crosses her face as she asks me.

“Not really,” I lie again. “Where’s Dad?”

“He went to the office on his own. The patient load isn’t too big today.”

“Mom, you could’ve gone.”

“How can I leave you like this? Alone in the house?”

“I’m not a baby.”

“You are still our daughter, and after yesterday . . . oh, my beta, if anything would have happened . . .”

She starts crying. Again. A part of me feels like I should console her, tell her it will be okay. That I’ll be okay. But I’m not even sure I can convince myself of that right now. And honestly, I just want to be alone.

“Mom. Mom. I’m hungry. Can you make me something to eat, please?”

With the mention of food, my mom perks up. She hurries out and downstairs to the kitchen.

I almost manage to get through the omelet she prepares without a word. Almost.

“Violet called this morning while you were asleep. She was so worried about you. She said she will check on you after school.”

I nod, shoving the rest of the food into my mouth and dropping my fork on my plate. I wince with the pain. The medicine dulled the ache, but it’s still there, and my elbow screams at me whenever I forget.

I’m not in a chatty mood. I’m not much in the mood for anything.

My mom doesn’t get the hint. “I want to talk to you . . . Your father and I were discussing this last night, and we want to drive you to school and pick you up. We’ll adjust our patient schedules so it won’t be a problem, and you can study in the back office of the clinic until we finish for the day.”

I shake my head. “I can’t go to the clinic with you every day. I have work and—” I pause to catch my breath.

“You will have to quit your job.”
“I’m not quitting anything.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. If you want to buy something, we can give you the money.”

“That’s not the point. I love working at the Idle Hour. Anna and Richard count on me. It’s part of my life, and I won’t let you take that away from me, too.”

She steps toward me. “You talk like our home is a prison. Haven’t we always let you have what you want?”

My mom’s magical thinking allows her to believe that I have total autonomy over my life. My exasperation boils over. Everything in my life is a fight right now, and it’s exhausting. My parents’ fears shrink my universe to the four walls of this house. The world outside paints us all as terrorists. I’m blamed for events that have nothing to do with me. And all I want is to make movies and kiss a boy.

My mother sits down across the table. “Try to understand, beta. What happened to you yesterday was serious. God forbid, it could have been worse. And it’s too dangerous for you to be alone. When your father comes home, we will discuss the plans for next year—”

“I thought everything was settled for Chicago and living with Hina.” The option I protested vehemently against is now my only lifeline to freedom.

“Your father is thinking maybe we should reconsider . . . and have you stay at home.”

I rise from my chair. “Stay at home? And go where? To community college?”

Before she can answer, I run to my room and slam the door. Fury twists me into knots. I press my fractured elbow, grimacing through the pain, then grip it harder still to see how much I can bear.

The phone rings. Moments later, my mom shuffles to my door. There’s a quiet knock. Usually she barges in, but I know that in this instant, she doesn’t dare. She’s too afraid of setting me off. “Maya, open the door and talk to me like a normal person.”

“I’m changing,” I lie.

“Your dad called. I need to go in. Emergency tooth extraction. Will you be okay?”

“I can manage.”

“If you need anything—”

“I’ll call, and you’ll rush right home.”

My mom bites her tongue on the other side of the door. It’s a sea change. An ominous one. I hear her deliberate and heavy steps as she walks away and down the stairs. There has to be a clever way to turn the tide, but to my besieged brain there’s only one way out: the front door. I stare at the ceiling, my neurons on rapid fire.

Later, I text Violet telling her I need rest and will see her tomorrow. I call my dad’s cell. I know my mom is with a patient, so this is my best shot. “Dad? Yeah, yeah. Everything’s good. Listen, I’m going to spend the night at Violet’s. It’ll be fine. Yes. Her dad’s there. I . . . I want to relax a little, to take my mind off things . . . and . . . I don’t want to fight with you guys anymore. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Thanks, Dad. Khudafis.”

I slip the phone into my pocket. I smile, a plan taking seed.