“Turkish delight.” Sabeen puts a square canister on the lunch table. Ben and me smell roses as soon as she opens the box. “Take one.”
The pink powdered-sugar squares are soft and chewy.
“This is better than store candy,” I say. “Delicious.”
Sabeen grins. “My mother will be so happy you like them.”
Ben bites. “Mmm. Edmund loved Turkish delight. I wondered what it tasted like.”
“Who’s Edmund?” Sabeen and me giggle that we asked at the same time.
“A character in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.”
Ben reads everything.
“I’ll read it,” says Sabeen.
“Better ask your parents. It’s pretty Christian.”
“A Muslim can’t read Christian stories? A Christian can’t read about Muslims?” Outraged, Sabeen looks like a puffed cat.
“Sure they can. I just didn’t want you to get in trouble.”
Sabeen sighs, “Father wouldn’t mind. Father says, ‘Sharing ideas is good.’ But he also says, ‘Since 9/11, Muslims have to be careful. People think we’re all terrorists.’”
“You’re not a terrorist,” swears Ben.
“Sometimes I get picked on for my scarf.” It’s Wednesday. Sabeen’s wearing blue.
Whispering, head down, Sabeen leans closer. “When I’m at the store by myself, the cashier sneers, ‘Go back to Saudi Arabia.’” Sabeen throws up her hands. “Turkey’s closer to Greece, two countries away from Saudi Arabia. A separate country.”
I want to ask, “Why Saudi Arabia?” Instead I grumble, “People shouldn’t pick on kids.”
“Folks shouldn’t pick on anyone,” says Ben. All three of us pop another Turkish delight into our mouths.
I knew blacks were discriminated against. Also, poor people, homeless people. I didn’t know Muslims were, too.
“Religious freedom,” I say, chewing.
Sabeen and Ben both nod.
I swallow rose candy. Then blurt, “Pop survived 9/11.”
“What?”
“What’d you say?”
“My father survived 9/11.”
It’s like the cafeteria has fallen away—sound has been sucked out, there’s no sense of anyone else in the room, just me, Ben, and Sabeen.
I squirm, feeling desperate inside. “I want to see it,” I say. “What happened. All of it. How could a plane by itself make the towers disappear?”
“Any computer can show us,” answers Ben. “The school library?”
“Not a good idea,” Sabeen says flatly, shaking her head.
“Pop’s happy our teachers won’t show any video. I don’t understand. If Pop was there, at the two towers, why can’t I see?
“Sabeen, have you seen what happened to the towers?”
“No. But my family talks about it. A lot.”
“With an Internet connection, anyone can see. At school, the public library. Home. Anywhere.” Ben digs in his pocket. “My smartphone.”
Sabeen grips his arm. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”
“I want to see.” I feel sick. I do and I don’t want to see it again. But this time, all of it. Pop was there. I want to know what happened to Pop.
“Uncle Ahmet used to visit Turkey every year. Since the towers fell, he’s always searched, held at the airport when he tries to fly home.” Sabeen releases Ben’s arm. “It isn’t fair.”
“What’s Saudi Arabia got to do with anything?”
“Fifteen terrorists were from Saudi Arabia,” says Sabeen. “Nineteen in all. Two from the United Arab Emirates. One each from Lebanon and Egypt.”
Without saying a word, Ben waves us to another lunch table farther back. We huddle close. Ben types, searches on his cell phone. A small arrow appears on-screen.
“You sure?” he asks.
I nod. Sabeen murmurs, “Yes.”
The tiny screen lights up. “Two planes were hijacked by terrorists,” says Ben.
“Two?” I ask, trying to understand.
“Actually, four. One hit the Pentagon. One crashed in Pennsylvania.”
Sabeen is biting her cuticles, making her pinky finger bleed.
“This is the first plane,” whispers Ben.
It’s awful seeing the plane fly closer and closer, its silver nose pointed at the building.
People were on the planes. They must’ve been terrified. Did they know? Did they know they were going to crash?
On the cell phone, the explosion is soundless, but I can imagine sounds—screaming, tearing, slicing through concrete, steel, and glass. The building’s structure shudders. People shout, call, and cry.
Peering, leaning over the phone, we watch. I hear Ben and Sabeen breathing.
“Seventeen minutes later, the second plane crashed into the South Tower. Don’t look at this part,” warns Ben. “Shut your eyes.”
Sabeen closes her eyes. Me? Of course, I’m going to look.
What? My brain and eyes don’t work. I don’t believe what I’m seeing. My brain says it isn’t so. People are falling—no, leaping—out windows. Escaping fire, heat. Suffocating heat.
“Can I see?” asks Sabeen.
“Not yet.” Ben looks at me. I can’t believe we’re watching together. Can’t believe Ben has seen this horror before. How many times?
Ben is strong, tough. But I feel sorry for him. Sorry for me. I feel sorry for all those people in the planes and towers who were expecting an ordinary day.
I inhale, peering at black clouds, hellish flames raging, roaring inside and out the two towers.
Did the folks inside the buildings know a plane had crashed? That passengers had died? That it wasn’t an accident?
The camera shifts back to the North Tower. A man and a woman, holding hands, leap. They look like skydivers, wind fluttering her dress and his jacket.
“Can I open my eyes?” asks Sabeen.
“No,” Ben and me hush.
When there’s disaster, fire, smoke, maybe your brain doesn’t work, just thinks, Get away. Run. Run away from fire and smoke.
I start to cry.
Sabeen opens her eyes. Nobody’s jumping now. The video camera shifts back to the South Tower.
“You’ve seen this before?” I ask Ben.
“My dad’s military.” Ben’s gaze doesn’t waver. Ben’s kind, but he knows a lot. Book learning and life learning. Though he looks soft, he’s already wised up that life can be hard.
Sabeen’s pale, her eyes big. I’m sorry she’s seen the video—will all the happiness fly out of her?
I wish I could talk with Ma and Pop. Or with a teacher.
Sabeen moans. I gasp. Ben’s hands become fists.
On the tiny cell screen, the South Tower, floor by floor, falls, leveling, collapsing like an accordion. Down, down, down.
Tons and tons of gray smoke billow, darkening the sky. Particles of glass and concrete flurry like a tornado.
Steel, concrete, glass pound, rush like death elevators, squashing each floor, one after another and another. Boom, boom, boom until there’s no height, only weight hitting the ground.
The people? Where’d they go?
“The South Tower burned for less than an hour. Then, it collapsed.”
“Doesn’t make sense,” I say. “Its foundation was strong.”
“Took years to build,” adds Sabeen.
Ben clicks another link. “The planes were like explosives. Gallons and gallons of stinking oil, burning. Metal so hot, it lost strength, softened.”
“Metal was the building’s bones,” I say, imagining metal sheets and beams buckling, glowing red.
Ben avoids my eyes. “The North Tower was hit first, collapsed second.”
The camera shifts to the North Tower. The unbelievable is going to happen again.
“How long did it take?” I murmur.
“One hundred and two minutes. The North Tower collapsed twenty-nine minutes after the South Tower.” Ben sounds like a robot, dull and factual.
The bell rings. Lunch is over. Ben stuffs his phone into his pocket.
Sabeen wipes her eyes and adjusts her scarf.
Going back to class, the three of us move like zombies.