Something doesn’t make sense,” Deya told Sarah one Friday afternoon, after her aunt had finished telling her yet another story about Isra. They sat huddled by the window, sipping on vanilla lattes Sarah had brewed for them.
“What?” Sarah asked.
Deya set her cup down. “If my mother loved books so much, why didn’t she want a better life for us?”
“She did,” Sarah said. “But there was only so much she could do.”
“Then why did she stop us from going to school?”
Sarah looked at her, startled. “What are you talking about?”
“She said we had to stop going to school,” Deya said, feeling her stomach twist at the memory. “She even called me a sharmouta.”
“Isra would’ve never said that word, especially to you.”
“But she did say it. I remember.”
“The Isra I knew never would’ve uttered that word,” Sarah said. “Was this after I left?”
“I think so,” Deya said, suddenly uncertain. She had been so young. Her memories were so fragmented.
“Do you remember why she said it?”
“Not really.”
“Do you remember when?”
“It must’ve been right before the car accident . . . I don’t know . . . I mean, the memory is clear, but I’m not certain of the exact—”
“Tell me then,” Sarah interrupted. “Tell me everything you remember.”
Outside the sky was dark gray, as Deya and Nora rode the school bus home. When they reached their stop, Mama was waiting for them, as she always did. Her belly was slightly bigger than usual, and Deya wondered if Mama was pregnant again. She imagined a fifth child in their narrow bedroom. She wondered where the baby would sleep, if Baba would buy another crib, or if it would sleep in Amal’s crib, and if Amal would share the bed with her and Nora. The baby’s face was in her head, already big and swelling bigger, suffocating her. She took a deep breath and loosened the backpack from her shoulders.
She touched Mama’s arm when she reached her, earning a quick smile before Isra looked away. It was the same smile Isra always gave her, just the slightest curve of the lips.
Behind her, she could hear her classmates calling from the bus. “Bye, Deya! See you tomorrow!”
Deya turned to wave goodbye. When she turned back, Mama’s eyes were intently fixed on her face.
“Why are those boys speaking to you?” Mama said. It was strange to hear words leave her mouth with such force.
“They’re in my class, Mama.”
“Why are you talking to boys in your class?”
“They’re my friends.”
“Friends?”
Deya nodded and lowered her eyes to the ground.
“You can’t be friends with boys! Did I raise a sharmouta?”
Deya stumbled back, struck by the word. “No, Mama, I didn’t do anything—”
“Uskuti! You know you’re not allowed to speak to boys! What were you thinking? You’re an Arab girl. Do you understand? An Arab girl.” But Deya didn’t understand. “Listen to me, Deya. Open your ears and listen.” Her voice lowered to a tight whisper. “Just because you were born here, that doesn’t make you an American. As long as you live in this family, you will never be an American.”
Deya couldn’t remember the walk home, couldn’t recall how she felt as she tiptoed across the pavement, crept down the basement steps, and settled into her bed. All she remembered was sinking between the sheets with a book in hand—Matilda—willing herself to escape between its pages. She dug her fingers into the spine, flipping page after page until she could no longer hear the ringing between her ears.
The next thing she knew Mama was downstairs with her. The room was quiet, and Mama settled on the edge of her bed, hugging her knees. How long before Deya had inched up to her? She didn’t know. All she remembered was blinking up at Mama, desperate to meet her eyes, to catch even the hint of a smile. But she could barely see her face, couldn’t see her eyes at all. She reached out to touch her hand. Mama flinched.
She waited for Mama to say something. Maybe she was thinking of a way to punish her. And why shouldn’t she be punished? She deserved it. There she was, making Mama sad, as if she needed any more reasons.
Deya wondered how she would be punished. She looked around the room. There was nothing worth taking. Just a handful of toys scattered across the floor. She thought maybe her mother would take the television. Or the cassette player. She wasn’t sure. She had nothing.
But then she saw it, the book resting beneath her fingers, and