CHAPTER 43

“Are you sure you should still do this?” Amal asks as we sit in my car parked near the VFW.

There’s a soft purple haze as the evening descends into night, almost like a promise of something romantic in the air. But I know better. Gorgeous sunsets and starry nights might help you tell stories to yourself, but those are sugar-spun fairy tales, not reality.

“It’s going to be fine.” I turn to look at Amal, hoping she’ll buy the lie. There’s worry in her eyes, so I try to mask my own concerns with a smile. But the truth is I am worried, at least that’s what my unsettled gut is telling me.

She looks at me, the straight line of her lips slowly turning up at the corners. “Primal scream?”

I nod and count down from three, and we scream at the top of our lungs. I can almost feel a few pounds of weight lifting off my shoulders.

It’s been two days since Andrew canceled on prom and since Hawley’s well-attended, borderline Nazi rally was the talk of the town. Since then, the Bulldog Banned Camp account has been assaulted by trolls. Forty-eight hours of nonstop vitriol—most of it directed at me. It’s been nasty slurs and threats from Islamophobes and racists and people with “patriot” and “Liberty Moms and Dads” and “1776 project” in their bios. Over the years, I’ve grown a thick skin, but it’s not armor. I still bruise and feel the sting of every burn.

Amal still looks a little worried as she attempts a reassuring smile.

“Seriously, it’s okay. You know trolls are all bark and no bite,” I say as we get out of the car and walk toward the VFW. “Besides, so much crap has gone down”—I push open the door—“it’ll probably only be us and our friends.”

We step inside. The hall looks bright and cheery, there’s the smell of coffee in the room, and music is thumping from a wireless speaker. Faiz told me he and Juniper were heading over early to set up, so I expected to see them here. What I didn’t expect are the thirty or so other people who are milling around, moving chairs, chatting and laughing. It’s not just students, either.

Juniper grins when she sees me and skips over to give me a tight hug.

“Who are all these people?”

“Have you not checked socials in the last hour or two?”

“Been avoiding it—didn’t think the hate was going to get any more creative or interesting.”

Amal waves to Cecily, who is setting up refreshments at a table under the windows at the back of the room, alongside a few adults, including one who looks vaguely familiar. “That’s my English teacher,” Amal says, astonishment in her voice. She squeezes my hand and then hurries over to help them.

“There are teachers here?”

“Yup.”

“And parents?”

“Yup. And more are coming.” Juniper beams.

“Did you set all this up? Your group chats must be on fire,” I joke.

“It wasn’t me. Or Faiz.” Juniper loops her arm through mine. “It was Ms. Clayton. She saw the Liberty Moms and Dads going after you, so she and a few other reasonable, non-fashy adults dragged them in the comments for attacking kids, and I guess she called people and told them about tonight, and someone put up a post on the parents association Facebook page and told everyone to show up here in solidarity.”

I turn to her, my mouth agape, as we step toward the center of the room, waving and saying hi to people. “Middle-aged parent power activate,” I say. A huge smile spreads across my face. I see Ms. Clayton moving chairs into rows and wave at her. She nods at me and raises a fist.

By the time we’re ready to start, the room is packed—there aren’t nearly enough chairs. The owner of Common Grounds came with coffee and pastries. Ms. Clayton and her friend Sylvia, the owner of Idle Hour, brought more books to donate to Banned Camp. There are other faculty members and a bunch of parents with their kids. I keep rubbing my eyes to see if I’m awake and not caught in a hazy dream.

I take a deep breath and walk up to the podium. It’s weird, because in the past, we’d been sitting or standing in circles, and this feels so much more, I dunno, formal? Official? My hands shake a little. I pull out my phone and place it on the podium so I can see my notes. I study the room for a moment, and people smile back, a warmth growing inside me. There have been so many ugly surprises since we moved here, so I’m extra grateful for this moment, at being surprised in a good way. In a restore-your-faith-in-humanity way. God knows I need it.

I grip the sides of the podium. There’s no microphone, so I remind myself to project. As I scan the room, I’m struck by my mom’s absence. I hadn’t even thought about her until I looked at this sea of parents who came here to support their kids. Now her face feels conspicuously absent. No surprise. She wasn’t even upset when I told her Amal and I were coming here. She shook her head, totally resigned. I think, maybe, her disinterest hurts most of all. I might not always get along with her, but I didn’t want my mom to give up on me, not after my dad already did.

I shake away the disappointment because right here, right now, there are people who care, and their presence inspires me to feel genuinely hopeful about what I’ve been doing.

“Hi. My name is Noor, and I read banned books,” I say.

Chuckles spread across the room, along with some whoops and “Hi, Noors.”

I look down at my screen and continue. “You may have heard some people call me an outsider who has messed-up, perverse values.” The crowd boos at that. “I want to start by saying thank you for showing up tonight.” My voice falters as I gaze out at receptive smiles and kind faces. When we moved here, I was convinced I didn’t need or want any friends, but by cracking myself open a tiny bit and letting them in, I found my people.

“We got you, Noor!” someone yells out, and there’s a chorus of yeses in agreement and scattered applause, and I feel this incredible lightness in my chest. I stare at the worn grain of the podium, knowing that if I make eye contact with my sister, I’ll choke up. I can sense waves of pride emanating off her all the way from the back of the room, where she’s standing, leaning against a windowsill.

I glance up with an embarrassed smile. “Ugh. Stop, you guys, or you’re going to make me have feelings.” A few awws spread across the room.

“When I found out five hundred books had been pulled from the library, my friends and I decided to start reading bits of these supposedly obscene books out loud during lunch.” I pause to gesture toward Faiz and Juniper, who is holding hands with Hanna. Faiz gazes at me, smiling warmly, his eyes twinkling, sending me silent encouragement. “Honestly, I didn’t think anyone would even be interested in listening. Then the administration shut us down because it turned out some of you did want to listen.” More cheers and shouts of “Hell, yeah” and “Yes, we did” from the group.

“So we moved here, and honestly, we didn’t plan any of this and didn’t really know what we were doing. Still kinda don’t. But we know book bans are wrong. Mr. Hawley and Mr. Carter and a bunch of parents and elected officials claim that they aren’t banning books, only advocating for parent rights. They say they aren’t being racist or homophobic or transphobic even though pretty much all the books they’ve banned are by Black, brown, and queer authors or supposedly have content that they don’t want us to read, like we don’t live in this world where men accused of sexual assault get to be Supreme Court justices.”

“That part!” someone yells out to murmurs of agreement.

There’s something about knowing everyone in this group is with me, the feeling of support—of belonging—that I haven’t felt in such a long time. “Liberty Moms and Dads say they’re trying to protect students. But we don’t need protection from ideas in books, from stories of love or rebellion or the brutal realities of American history. We need protection from fascism and censorship and bigotry.”

“Ban guns, not books!” another person yells, to a burst of applause.

I look up from the podium, my face beaming. I’ve gone through all the bullet points on my phone and, fueled by this buoyant feeling inside of me, ad-libbed a whole lot. The room bursts into applause and cheers. I spy Amal at the back of the room applauding wildly, a giant smile on her face. I gesture to Faiz, who makes his way to the podium with a book in hand. It’s Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury. It’s considered a classic and is taught in tenth-grade English, but this year two parents objected, so it was removed. Ray Bradbury was a white guy, and his book doesn’t have a queer storyline or even any sex, if I remember it right. But it’s a story about censorship and ignorance and books being burned. It’s a book that tells you to open your eyes. It might have been written a long time ago, but it feels like now. Faiz said there was a paragraph from it he wanted to read out loud.

When he gets to the podium, I reach up to give him a quick hug. I’m proud of him for stepping up to read. He wraps his arms around me and it feels so good that I let myself melt into him for a second before I let go and smile at him. Faiz smells like that sandalwood soap, and for the first time, it doesn’t make me flinch.

I turn back to the podium to introduce him, but when I gaze up and out toward the back of the room, I see headlights beam through the window that Amal is standing near. The window looks onto the street, so it’s not a surprise to see cars passing, but these lights don’t move. They seem too close, too bright. In that flood of light, I swear I see a figure rushing toward the window, their arm raised as if they’re about to throw something.

I scream.

Then my vision fragments, and the room moves in juddery slow motion, all sounds muffled.

Glass shatters.

Shouts fill the room.

Fire.

Smoke.

All I can think is that Amal was standing by that window. Everyone is on their feet, screaming, scattering, panicky, rushing to the exit.

Faiz grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door. But I yank it free. I need to get to Amal. I don’t see her anymore. Where is my sister?

A couple of parents run toward a fire extinguisher. Some of the teachers are yelling at people to stay calm, not to run. “Slow is smooth, smooth is fast,” I hear someone shout above the noise of the crowd.

I push against people to get to the back. Ms. Clayton is there and she yells, “Move back,” as she aims the extinguisher at the curtains that have caught fire and douses them with foam. There’s a teacher a few feet away with a second extinguisher putting out another fire. How did the fire leap like that?

“Amal!” I scream into chaos.

“She’s here!” Faiz yells from one side of the now overturned refreshment table.

Oh no. No. No. Amal is on the floor, face down. I hurry over to her. I can’t tell if I’m yelling her name or saying any words at all. Panic floods me. My heart stops.

I hold my breath as Faiz helps me turn her over.

“Noor?” Amal coughs. A trickle of blood runs down the side of her face.

I let out a breath and pull her close to me. “I’m here. I got you.”

“We need to get her outside,” Faiz says.

I nod and we lift her up, and she groans. I can’t tell how badly hurt she is. Letting her lean on us for support, we start walking toward the door. Everyone is pretty much outside, and it looks as if the fires have been put out, but the room is still smoky and the sharp smell of alcohol and chemicals swirls around us.

Amal stumbles as we near the door, her knees giving out a little. I try to steady her, but Faiz lifts her into his arms and walks out. Before I join them, I hear one of the adults say, “I think it was a Molotov cocktail.”

I step out into the crowd of confused and crying students and adults. Faiz has Amal propped up against a tree; her face is bloody and smudged with soot. I kneel next to her, gingerly taking her hand in mine, whispering that it’s going to be okay as I press my cuff to her bloody temple.

The sounds of sirens fill the night.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 44

The local hospital isn’t anything like the sprawling medical center campus at the University of Chicago. Here, it’s only one big building with a side entrance for the ER. It’s small, only four or five triage rooms. There must be fifty people crowded in here, so it’s fair to say the doctors and nurses—there were only four when we got here—were a little overwhelmed until they called in help. Fortunately, no one was too badly hurt. Amal bore the brunt of the injuries.

She’d been standing right by the window that the Molotov cocktail had been thrown through, and that’s why she was bleeding from the side of her head—cuts from the broken glass. Luckily, she’d fallen away from the window as the fire spread to the curtains. But Amal has been coughing since we pulled her out of the lodge.

Looking at her, I keep thinking about how it could’ve been so much worse. How badly she could’ve been hurt. How she might’ve been hit in the head with that glass milk bottle that had been filled with alcohol, stuffed with a flaming rag, and thrown through the VFW window. God, she could’ve caught on fire. Every inch of me is aware that she is here, in the hospital, because of me. And, I hate myself for it.

I stand next to the side of her bed, numb, watching everything as if I’m outside my body. I hold her left hand as the ER doc finishes a small row of neat stitches by her right temple. Faiz, Juniper, Hanna, and a couple adults who were at the meeting are standing around by the foot of the bed, and others keep checking in.

“I’m okay,” Amal whispers to me, squeezing my hand. She shouldn’t be the one reassuring me.

“Excuse me. Excuse me.” I hear the frantic high-pitched tone of my mom’s voice. People move aside to let her in. The doctor asks everyone to move to the waiting room as she steps toward my mom with her hand outstretched.

My mom walks right by her and rushes to Amal’s bed on the opposite side of me. “Oh my God, beta. I can’t believe this. What happened?” My mom’s panicky eyes look over Amal’s entire body, presumably scanning for injuries she didn’t immediately notice. Her gaze comes to rest on my sister’s face and the stitches and small red scratches that constellate her forehead and cheeks. There are bandages on Amal’s right arm, too, and my mom gingerly rests her hand on my sister’s fingers. She still hasn’t looked at me.

“It’s okay, Mom. I’m all right.” Amal coughs a little and shivers. “Just a little cold.” My mom yanks off the scarf from around her neck and covers my sister with it.

The doctor, a woman with chestnut-brown hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, steps up closer to my mom. “I’m Dr. Kent,” she says.

My mom looks at her blankly for a moment, then shakes her head as if realizing where she is. She reaches out with a trembling hand to greet the doctor.

“Amal is right. She’s going to be fine,” Dr. Kent says. “Luckily, none of her cuts were too deep. Some contusions but no broken bones. I’m going to have you come back in seven days so I can check on those stitches. The nurse will give you care instructions before you leave. Happy to answer any questions.” She smiles, and small wrinkles appear at the corner of her eyes. She has a kind, reassuring face, but I don’t think it’s enough to calm down my mom.

My mom’s normally tidy bun has pieces of hair sticking out, and her mascara is smeared. She must’ve been terrified when the hospital called her. It should be me in the hospital bed, not my sister. I wonder if that’s what my mom thinks, too—that the wrong kid got hurt. Guilt is a parasite consuming my insides. I deserve it.

“Thank you, Doctor. I’ll call with any questions,” my mom says gravely, and then turns back to Amal.

Dr. Kent gives me a soft smile before heading out.

“It’s only four stitches, Mom. It’s fine,” Amal says as my mom strokes her hair. “You should see the other guy.” My sister attempts a grin, then winces in pain.

“You are my brave, sweet girl,” my mom says to my sister. Then her eyes flash to me. “How could you let this happen?”

I didn’t think about how my actions could hurt my family. I should’ve kept my big mouth shut. I should’ve listened to you. AITA: yes.

“I… I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken Amal with me,” I whisper as I trace a finger around my burn scar over and over.

“You’re right on that account, at least. Your behavior is unacceptable.”

“Hold up. I wanted to go. It’s not like she forced me, Mom. Please don’t blame Noor for this.” Amal gestures to her injuries, then looks at me. “She was attacked, too.”

My mom gazes at my sister, eyes brimming with tears.

“I’m going to go check to see if everyone else is okay,” I say, and leave my sister’s bedside after giving her hand another squeeze. I don’t think my mom wants to deal with me right now. Besides, I can’t take another minute of her deep disappointment in me—it’s resting on my chest like a boulder.

The crowd in the ER has started to thin out. When I step into the waiting room, Faiz looks up, then nudges Juniper and Hanna, who walk over to me.

“Is Amal okay?” Faiz asks.

“She will be.” I turn to Faiz and put my hand on his forearm. “Thank you… for everything. I couldn’t have carried her out of there by myself.”

“It’s nothing. Glad she’s going to be okay. Glad everyone is okay.” Faiz locks eyes with me and gives me a soft, assuring smile reminding me that he’s here. He’s not leaving.

“How are you?” Hanna asks me. “Your mom looked…”

“Like she wanted to murder me? Yup. I don’t blame her, though. This whole mess is my fault.”

Juniper’s jaw drops. “You are not the person who threw a literal bomb. A Molotov cocktail is a bomb, right? Anyway, you are not the person who threw an incendiary device into the meeting. I forbid you from feeling guilty, okay?”

I sigh, my shoulders slump a little, and Juniper hugs me. “Listen, are you hungry? Can we get you some highly salty snacks from the vending machine?”

“Junk food is an excellent stress reducer,” Hanna says, and we all laugh a little.

My phone dings, and I fish it out of my back pocket. My body goes rigid when I see the name: Andrew. I show the text to my friends: I heard what happened. Are you okay?

“Is he serious? He has zero right to talk to you.” Juniper twists her lips in disgust.

Faiz looks at me, then turns away, subtly shaking his head.

A low-voltage rage builds under my skin as I stare at Andrew’s name, his words.

“He didn’t even have the balls to show up here in person,” Juniper says.

“Probably because he knows you’d rip his throat out.” Hanna slips her hand into Juniper’s and squeezes. “And I’d help.”

My phone dings again.

Andrew: I’m sorry. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.

I am frozen with anger, my hand wrapped so tightly around the phone it feels as if I could crush it.

“I told you he was a selfish asshole,” Faiz says.

Juniper looks at him. “Not now, dude.”

Faiz opens his mouth and then shuts it, walking away as he clenches and unclenches his fists.

I move to text something back, but I’m not sure what to say. I feel so hollow right now, like my insides have been scooped out and dumped on the floor.

Juniper moves closer to me. “You don’t have to respond. You don’t owe him anything.”

I look at my friend, her kind eyes filled with sympathy. “I know,” I say. “You’re right.”

I rub my thumbs over my phone screen as if I can erase his name. As if I can erase him and everything that’s happened. I messed up everything, gave away my trust to people who didn’t deserve it, misjudged so many situations, put my sister in danger. I want to scream. Smash my phone into the ground. Punch the wall. I want to curl up on my bed and let myself bawl my eyes out. I want my mom to walk out of the ER doors and wrap me in a giant hug and say, Everything is going to be okay, like when I was a little kid and fell off my bike and came in the door crying with bloody knees. I want my dad to have loved me enough to still be here.

I want all the things I’ve lost forever.