“I’d say my only accent is Jersey.”
“But you were not born here?”
“No. We moved when I was two.”
“Not Indian.”
“Well, yes. And no.” Shit. I’m sweating now, because this is serious. They really do think I’m a terrorist. Based on one word on my passport. One word. The circumstance of my birth. My family is from Kashmir. Disputed territory. With a large Muslim population. But I haven’t been there since I was a baby, when my mom and Nanoo escaped here, seeking asylum.
“Have you been to your country recently?”
“I’m a US citizen.”
“Have you been to your country recently?”
I swallow hard. “Define recently.”
The man sighs. “Let me put it another way—what interaction have you had recently with people from your country?”
Again, my country? “I’m an American.” I gesture toward my passport, which sits on the table between us, just out of my reach. “You know that.”
“Listen, Ms. Shah, I don’t want any trouble. But your family history and place of birth when we did the scan flagged you in our system. We’ve been ordered to hold you—and your passport—for further vetting.”
“But I’ll miss my flight.”
“So you’ll miss your flight.”
I place my hands on the table, trying not to fidget, working not to cry. “Can I call my parents?” I mean, even criminals get one phone call. Right?
“No. Sit tight. We’ll be back shortly.” He stands abruptly and walks out, taking the blonde with him.
I sit in the dimly lit cubicle for a minute, then two, then ten. No one returns. I wonder if they even remember I’m in here. I wonder where Hollander is. I wonder if my parents know. I’ve probably missed the flight. Would they just leave without me?
I scan the cubicle. There’s no clock. Nothing to give me any idea how long I’ve been in here as time ticks by. But my bag is in the corner. And my laptop is in the bin. I wonder if my phone is in there too. I stare at the door, willing it to open. Then I stare at it some more, wondering if I should risk it. I have to. If I can call Mom, she’ll know what to do.
I tap the table and then grab my leg, trying to get it to stop shaking. I need to do something. I can’t just sit here and wait for them to come back and interrogate me some more. Who knows what other nonsense they’ll come up with? These days, they’ll use any excuse to deport people. Especially brown people. Even citizens.
If I get caught going through my things, that might just give them the excuse they need. But it seems like they’re going to do what they want, whether it’s legal or not. So I might as well do what I need to do, too.
I stand, looking frantically around the room. What if there’s a camera, I realize too late. But now that I’m up, I have to move.
I’m definitely going to miss the flight. I’m going to miss Geneva, and hanging out with my friends, and making my speech, and maybe making out with Rajan. I’m going to miss prom and graduation and college and living my American dream. Everything I’ve worked so hard for. Everything that I’ve been dreaming about for days and months and years. All the reasons my family fought so hard to be here. All because of where I was born. A place I never really knew, a place I’ll probably never see again. My heart is racing and my eyes are wet, tears ready to spill, but I won’t cry. Nope. I have to stay calm.
Slowly, quietly, I tiptoe toward the corner of the room, where my stuff is scattered. As soon as I’m there, I turn back toward the door. No one. Thank god. I start to comb through the bin, looking for my phone. Or at least my ID. Definitely my passport. None of them are in my suitcase, which holds only the dresses and outfits I’d picked out oh, so carefully, hoping to impress Rajan. The thought makes me laugh now, though it’s a high-pitched, hysterical yelp of a thing. I can’t believe I let myself get excited. It was too good to be true. The bees that were buzzing so sweetly before are full-on stingers now, and my stomach roils like it’s being attacked by a swarm.
I have to find something, anything that will help me prove who I am when they finally accuse me of being a terrorist. Because they definitely will. I’ve seen this happen too many times, on TV, on the news, and I’ve even heard stories from people at the temple. It doesn’t matter that I’m sixteen, that I grew up here in New Jersey, that I haven’t touched Indian soil in years. It doesn’t matter that I’m a straight A student, that I’m on the Presidential Honor Roll, that my future will be as lawyer or a TV correspondent.
Well, I’ll definitely be news now.
This is it. That story you always see. Came here when I was two. A total Jersey girl. All-American.
Except that I was born in a region marked for “further vetting” or “possible terrorist ties.” In a nation I’ve barely known and may never get to see again. Unless they deport me tomorrow.
That’s when the shaking starts. Slow at first, a slight tremor in my hands. But soon I can’t control it. Then the tears come in a flood, the sobs wracking me from head to toe. And I can’t make it stop, no matter what. My mind is spiraling out of control, the stories that Nani told me about bombs on Dal Lake and the army taking over schools and homes scrambling any rational thought. I try deep breaths, and counting, and staring at a random spot on the wall. But I can’t stop thinking about how I’ll never see my mom or Nani again, about how maybe they won’t even know where to look for me. I have to pull myself together. I can’t let Meanie and the blonde find me here, lying on the cold linoleum in a dim room, sobbing.
I sit up and try the deep breaths again. I will myself to stand and cross the room, one step at a time, making my way back to the table. I’m nearly there when the door opens, creaking ominously, the dim light casting Meanie’s shadow across the floor. I shudder, and I hear him laugh.
“Just a misunderstanding, of course,” he says with another boom of laughter. And then I see the other shadow, small and slim, cast alongside his. Hollander. Thank god.
She pushes past the man and reaches me first, and I sort of collapse into her, even though I’ve never so much as high-fived her before.
“Are you okay?” she shouts, practically shaking me. “I was so worried. They wouldn’t tell me where you were, or why they took you. They wouldn’t let me talk to Agent Lombardi here until I threatened to call the governor’s office. Lombardi is from ICE. But your passport clearly states you are a US citizen.” She’s stroking my back now, as my tears soak her T-shirt. I’ve never been more happy to see another human in my life. “Your mom was frantic.” That just makes me sob harder. My mom. I need to talk to my mom. “Thank god you’re okay.”