that her dribbling had ceased, and it felt like it could have been any other evening of training.
“You’re Omar’s sister, right?”
Joy nodded. To Amira it seemed clear the girl was in deep discomfort, or pain, even. “Guessing these chains aren’t comfortable.”
Joy breathed through her pursed lips, almost sibilant. “They’re not.” Her lips were dry and starting to crack. The whole night, she hadn’t had a sip of water, afraid a single drop would be the one that caused her to burst. Eventually it would be the bucket or her leggings, Joy knew. But even the thought of lying there in urine-soaked leggings for who knows how long didn’t help her.
“Do you need anything? You don’t look like you’re doing well.” Amira dribbled the ball, just once, tucking it right off the bounce against her hip. The reverberations on the wooden floor rippled out across the court, echoing in the empty gym like the lonely drips of water filtering through stalactites in a cave, plinking down into puddles hidden in the dark. It was one of Amira’s favorite sounds.
The feeling, however, was not Joy’s favorite. She felt the ripples of energy on the ground go through her legs, a soft but unbearable knock on her lower abdomen. She breathed again, her exhalation so shaky she knew tears were coming the moment she spoke again. Maybe they would help her get rid of the liquid in her bladder, she thought, knowing it was ridiculous but hoping all the same.
What a stupid night it had been so far. She hadn’t felt like a rebel or a badass, hadn’t felt like she was helping the world in any way. She hadn’t had an ounce of fun except for her texts with Lolo. It’d been lonely and painful, and she hadn’t even spoken with Omar the whole night. So she looked up at Amira and nodded.
* * *
Amira knew what her mother would say to this. Not ladylike, not becoming for a girl. It was maddening how persistently her mom’s voice rang out in her head, even though every part of Amira disagreed. She climbed the bleachers and reached for the large plastic banner commemorating the CIS girls’ volleyball team for a championship in a tournament of other international schools in the region a few years back. A girl would not damage property, a girl would not chain herself to a door, a girl would not fantasize about a girl who chained herself to doors. A girl would not pee in public, even with the public’s absence. It all made Amira want to dunk again, want to do every single thing her mother had told her she could not do.
She tugged at the banner until the strings holding it in place snapped. Then she found a couple of orange cones beneath the bleachers and propped them up around Joy, weaving the banner through the cones so it formed a protective wall around her.
Tears welled in Joy’s eyes again when she thanked Amira, and it almost felt like the tears did bring relief, however slight. Amira nodded, then dribbled away, shrouding Joy with noise for complete privacy. It was right after Joy had popped the lid off the bucket and began to feel exquisite relief when the gym suddenly filled with more noise.
* * *
Now that they’d declared their freedom, the students ran through the halls like criminals on the loose, like champagne bubbles popped free from their bottle.
Granted, official activities were still suspended, and the teachers were running around to make sure no real shenanigans broke out, but the students didn’t care. They had lock-in night again. At least a version of it.
* * *
Jordi Marcos ran straight to the spray paint tutorial. If Ms. Tekin was too busy or concerned with protestors to teach them how to spray paint, they still could go and spray paint poorly, tagging the canvas that’d been hung up around her classroom. Their names were sloppy, the paint dripping down in a way she would have taught them to avoid. They got paint all over their fingers, splattering, not creating anything remotely cool. But why not just that, their names sprayed haphazardly on canvas, proof the night, to an extent, had happened. Proof he had not let those damn protestors have their way and ruin his evening.
Others went into the library, because they’d been promised a game of charades via Skype with that famous actor who was someone’s uncle. While they’d been sitting in the auditorium, they pictured him