“Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry,” she apologized to the TSA officer.
Dad called the immigration lawyer while Mom got out her phone. Iran didn’t have an embassy in the United States. I wondered who else Mom could turn to.
I sank down to the floor. I still didn’t understand what was going on. Sara had done nothing illegal; she had her passport and her visa. Why would they have let her on the plane in Iran if she couldn’t get out of the airport in the US?
9:52 AM PARVIN: My aunt’s being detained at the airport.
9:53 AM RUTH: OMG, Parvin! I’m so sorry! Did they say why?
9:53 AM FABIÁN: calling you
My phone buzzed. “Hey, Fabián.” My voice sounded all warbly like it did when I tried hard not to cry.
“My mom wants to talk to your mom,” he replied. A tiny part of my throat unsqueezed itself. I had forgotten that Fabián’s parents worked for the Mexican embassy. They dealt with detained visitors all the time at their jobs.
“One sec.” I handed Mom the phone. “Fabián’s mom wants to talk to you.”
Mom put her hand on my shoulder. “Good thinking, Parvin.” She took the phone.
“Hi, Celeste. Yep, yep. Exactly.” Mom hunched over my phone, already nodding and taking notes in her sketchbook as Fabián’s mom told her what to do.
I grabbed a chair off to the side and curled up in it, my stomach aching. It looked like we would be here awhile.
■ ■ ■ AIRPORT 10:30 A.M.
I made a list to try to calm down. Here is what we know:
Ameh Sara still hasn’t been let out.
Apparently there was an issue with her visa.
The security officers don’t know when she’ll be released.
They won’t let us see her.
I felt numb and helpless. Every time I thought of Ameh Sara all alone in the airport’s detention center, I wanted to cry. Why was this happening? She’d done nothing wrong. Were they giving her food and water? Would they let her use the bathroom? My mind swirled, and my racing thoughts made me feel worse. There was nothing we could do, and no one would tell us what was going on.
According to Fabián’s mom, they probably confiscated her cell phone. That was why she wasn’t answering our texts. Mrs. Castor had been calling all her colleagues at the Pakistani embassy to see if anyone from the Iranian Interest Section there could help.
The immigration attorney my parents were working with, Ms. Jordan, drove to the airport the second Dad called. She was talking to the immigration officers in the airport’s detention center.
The tea Mom had bought me at the coffee kiosk had grown cold in my hands. I was not going to make it to Farsi class today.
■ ■ ■ AIRPORT LATER
Ms. Jordan got back to the coffee kiosk where we’d been camped out. She had to be escorted by ICE and everything through the main doors. I thought most lawyers wore suits and stuff, but Ms. Jordan had on black leggings, a sweatshirt, and bright red hair up in a messy bun. I doubted she thought this was how she’d be spending her Sunday morning. She didn’t look very hopeful.
“I wish I had better news,” she said. Dad’s face crumpled when she said that. I saw Mom grip his arm more tightly.
Ms. Jordan made a pained expression. “According to ICE, she has an incorrect visa. Your sister is being deported.”
■ ■ ■ HOME 12:00 P.M.
I remembered getting into the car, and then somehow, we were back at home. Without Ameh Sara. Without any real explanation.
There’d be no hugs today. No getting to shout “SARA!” and showing her my poster as she walked through those double doors from Customs and Immigration. The excitement I’d had was gone, and instead I felt empty and hollow. This was so much worse than Wesley dumping me. So much worse than being nervous about Homecoming. My ameh was being deported, and my thoughts raced between sadness, anxiety, and fear for my aunt.
I looked at my phone. Sara was boarding her deportation flight to London now, where she’d spend another five hours back in the air. Then they’ll make her wait in a detention center in London Heathrow Airport until her second flight home to Tehran. In Iran, Ms. Jordan explained, they would finally give her phone back.
I couldn’t believe this was happening. It seemed like a nightmare.
When we got home, Mom and Dad went to their bedroom to discuss what to do in low voices, and I went to mine to cry my eyes out. I still couldn’t process that I wouldn’t be seeing my aunt today, and every time I remembered she was being sent back, the tears started flowing again.
My phone buzzed.
12:30 PM MATTY: Hey, Parvin. I had fun last night. Do you want to go to Homecoming with me?
And then I burst into fresh sobs.
■ ■ ■ HOME 5:00 P.M.
Mission success. Woo-hoo. Here it was: the goal I’d been working so hard toward. Matty Fumero had asked me to Homecoming. I’d finally gotten my wish. But I was too numb to care.
I knew now that I didn’t like Matty that way. I didn’t feel a single butterfly in my stomach. Good looks and green eyes could only go so far. The second we’d gotten home, I’d just collapsed into bed, exhausted after everything that had happened. I still hadn’t responded to him.
If Ameh Sara were here, we’d be poring over the text message and strategizing how to let him down gently. Instead of stressing about a date, she’d help me research dresses and test out different eyeshadow combinations. But now the thought of going to Homecoming seemed impossible. I just wanted my aunt.
Someone knocked on my door.
“Parvin?” Mom called up the stairs.
