The rest of the group is gathered and ready to go. I point to the conveyer, and Beck shrugs. I don’t think my bag has come out yet. I stand there, trying to keep the panic from hitting my face.
“Boarding starts in half an hour,” Ms. Hollander announces to the group. “So if you need a bathroom break or coffee, it’s now or never. Meet me in front of Gate 32 in twenty.”
“We’ll wait for Sari,” Neha says, and Hollander nods before heading toward the ladies’ room.
Where’s my laptop? It has all my notes on it. I start to move forward to check, but the security lady comes out then, frowning. “Just a minute, miss.”
She’s got my bags. Behind the counter. Dammit.
“You ready?” Beck says, pulling her backpack onto her shoulder. “I want a frappuccino before we board.”
I look at the lady behind the counter, who’s still rifling through my bag. I shrug. “Go. I’ll meet you at the gate.”
I stand around, watching Faux-Ever Blonde dig through my stuff, and frown as the boarding time edges closer and closer. She studiously avoids my gaze, then looks up and scowls at me. “Can I see your passport, miss?” she demands, hand out and mouth stern. I reach for my money pouch, where I keep my passport, and realize I don’t have it. Hollander does. Or maybe it was the one they kept?
“I—um, I don’t know—it’s not with me.” I stutter as I say the words.
She glares my way a second, then storms back toward the security booth.
Faux-Ever Blonde talks to the man who scanned our passports earlier—he’s still frowning, too. He shuffles through a batch he has on his desk and pulls one out. Is that my passport? Weird. That can’t be a good sign.
It’s inevitable now. I’m going to miss the boarding window. And no one has come back to find me. The woman seems to be long gone, my passport MIA with her. And my phone, I realize with a start. It’s with the rest of the stuff in the scanner. So I can’t even call to let Hollander know I’m still here.
Everyone around me is moving on along, not noticing my silent panic. I have no phone, no ID, and no chaperone to come and resolve this.
Do not freak, I keep telling myself. Beck and Neha will be back as soon as they realize I’m still MIA. Right? Maybe another minute, or five, tops.
But where did that woman go with my passport and boarding pass? There’s someone else scanning bags now, and another uniformed lady is doing the pat-downs. What if that lady wasn’t a TSA employee at all, but a random passport thief who somehow managed to get into the security booth? No. That’s super unlikely. It’s probably just a case of classic racial profiling. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t been stopped before. But usually I’m with my mom and family, and not just by myself. Especially these days, with all this bullshit with the Muslim ban and stuff. It’s definitely that. They think I’m a terrorist. Because I so look like a terrorist at all of five feet tall, with my hair in old-school braids, and short-alls to go with my vintage ’NSync T-shirt.
I’m staring at my feet, fretting about what to do, when a shadow falls over me. Oh, Hollander, thank god.
Except it’s not Hollander at all. “Miss, we need you to come with us.”
It’s a short, stocky white dude in a suit. He’s got close-cropped brown hair, and his face is grim. I mean, his whole demeanor is grim. Like he’s a reaper from one of those TV shows. Except not sexy.
Hollander shows up just as I’m walking away. “Where are you taking her?” she shouts after us, but as far as I know, nobody bothers to respond. I wave, frantic, hoping she takes that as a signal that I’ll be right out. I’m probably holding up the flight.
I follow the cranky man and blonde lady to a bank of cubicles just outside the security gate area. They’re all unmarked and gray, like prison cells in some dystopian novel. I know there’s something I should do or say right now. Refuse to speak unless accompanied by a lawyer, right? Or at least an actual adult. But the woman just nudges me along, her mouth a straight line of nothingness, all business, as we follow Meanie.
The man opens the door to one of the nondescript cubes, and I falter, but the lady pushes me in. “Sit.”
I take a seat at a wooden table as the guy sits across from me, the woman hovering by the door. A single bulb lights the cube, but just barely. I glance around the room, and spy my stuff stashed in one corner, the suitcase flung open, the contents of my backpack shoved into a bin. I open my mouth to speak, then shut it. On Mom’s favorite cop drama, the perp never speaks first. I suppress a nervous giggle. Or maybe it was a hiccup. When did I become the perp?
I stare down at the dark, scratched wood of the table. I wipe my clammy palms on my cargo pants, but there’s nothing I can do about the drop of sweat that’s sliding down my cheek like a tear.
If Meanie thinks I’m crying, he clearly doesn’t care.
“What’s your name?” he asks, in a super gruff tone that makes me sit up at attention, like I did at my citizenship interview four years ago.
I flinch but hold my voice steady. “Sarika Shah.”
“Age?”
“Sixteen.”
“Social?”
Like Twitter? Or Insta?
The man glares. “Do you have a social security number?” he asks again, slowly, like I don’t understand English.
Oh. “Yeah. Of course. It’s 999-732-1380.” I swallow hard. “Can you, like, call my teacher. Ms. Hollander? I’m gonna miss my flight.”
“Where are you from?” Meanie asks, ignoring my questions.
“Westwood. New Jersey. Twenty-five minutes from here.”
“No, where are you really from?”
“I live at 11 Maiden Lane, Westwood, NJ.” I sigh. “I think I should call my parents.”
“And you’ve lived there...”
“Two years. No, three. Like two and a half?” I look toward Faux-Ever Blonde, who’s leaning in the doorway, busy scrolling on her phone. I wonder what time it is.
“Where did you live before that?” Meanie asks.
“Jersey City. We got priced out. And my mom got married.”
“And your mom is?”
“Ambika Shah. I mean, Ambika Sharma, now. My Nanima is Gulmohar Shah. My stepdad, they got married three years ago. Nitesh Sharma. From Jersey City. By way of Jalandhar.”
“Your English is very good.”
“Thanks. I get As in it, mostly. And I’m on the debate team.”
“Where’s your accent?”