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?”
“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
