“You’re siblings?” I ask.
“Twins.” The girl with the auburn hair nods. “I’m Emma,” she continues. “So where are you really from? Idaho?”
“Oh no, I’ve never been there.”
“You haven’t been to Idaho?” Charlotte sits down beside Emma.
I shake my head.
Emma dips a carrot stick into hummus. “Where did you move from?”
It’s been so long since I’ve talked like this—carried on a conversation with girls my own age—that my voice clogs in my throat, making it hard to say anything at all. “I came here from North Africa,” I finally say.
“Africa!” Charlotte and Emma say in unison.
“Did you go on a safari?” asks Charlotte, leaning toward me.
“No. I mean yes. I mean, I’ve been on safaris of course, but those are in southern and eastern Africa. I came from the north.”
“Where? Egypt?”
“Did you see the pyramids?”
“Actually, I wasn’t in—”
“Did you climb to the top? What’s it like inside? I’ve always wanted to walk through them!”
“Does Egypt look like Arizona?” Charlotte asks.
“Possibly? I’ve never been there either,” I answer.
“You haven’t been to Arizona?” they say together.
“No, I—”
“Was Egypt dangerous? Did you wear a hijab and cover your face?” Emma asks.
“Do you mean a burka? A hijab only covers your hair and your ears; a burka covers the face too, including the eyes; a niqab covers the face but not the eyes, and you know, a chador doesn’t cover the face at all, only the head and body. But Egypt is secular so women aren’t forced to veil, unless they choose to, and actually …”
I trail off, realizing I’m talking as fast as Charlotte.
“So, what are you doing in Waterford?” Charlotte asks quizzically.
“My parents retired,” I say, desperate to change the subject. “Are you both from here?”
Emma puts her hand over her heart. “I am,” she laughs, “but Charlotte was the new girl. Until you showed up.”
Charlotte opens a bag of cookies. “Except I’m from Seattle. Not, like, Africa.”
“Oh, good,” I say quietly, “I’m not the only one.”
“No, you are. I moved here in seventh grade.” Charlotte pushes a cookie to me. “What was it like growing up in Africa?”
“I didn’t grow up in Africa,” I clarify.
“Where did you grow up?”
Trying to be polite, I take the cookie. “Everywhere. Lebanon. Belgium. Uzbekistan.”
“Uzbekistan?” Emma laughs, “I’ve never even heard of Uzbekistan.”
Charlotte watches me, wide-eyed. “Why did you live in all those places?”
“We didn’t live there permanently. Sometimes we’d only travel for a few weeks, or days, at a time.” Their mouths open, but I press on, hoping to steer the conversation away from where I know it’s headed.
“My father works for the State Department,” I say, reciting the line I’ve shared since I was seven. “He facilitates NGOs in developing countries, sometimes in active war zones—hot spots. He travels a lot. He never stops moving. We never stopped moving.”
Charlotte sighs. “I’m jealous. My mom’s Korean, my dad’s Dominican, and I’ve never left America. I wish I spent my life vacationing all over the world and—”
“No!” I say hastily. “I mean … it wasn’t … vacation.” I’ve dropped my cookie and hurriedly scoop the crumbs from the table onto a white napkin. “We traveled because we had to. I would have much rather stayed in one place like Nairobi or Beirut or Waterford and never have gone to Kabul … Grozny … Crimea …”
… Tunis …
I feel it coming on. I close my eyes to make it stop.
I have to get out of here. Abruptly, I stand. My chair topples over, clattering to the floor. I scramble to set it upright. “I—I’m sorry,” I stammer, “I have to get to class.”
Charlotte opens her mouth, but I dart from the cafeteria and sprint down the hallway, through the east wing and up the main staircase until I reach the landing. I collapse against the railing.
My fingers curl around the bar, steeling my body.
Count, I tell myself. Count to ten in Russian, Mandarin … Count backward in Arabic from one hundred.
When this strategy doesn’t work, I plot the fastest route back to the house—down the stairs, past the office, out the front doors, 30 degrees northeast across the front lawn, cut west across Fourth Avenue, and turn left onto Edgewood Drive.
Distraction works.
Seconds later, the tension in my chest releases.
My mother says I should allow the flashbacks to come, that the more I recall them, the more I can control them. But the truth is, they control me. When they come, my limbs stiffen, my body immobilizes—like I’m trapped in a nightmare and my legs won’t move.
Leaning my forehead against the window, I breathe slowly, how I learned in Varanasi—in for three, hold for three, out for three.
How did I think today would go? That I would suddenly be able to turn it off like a switch? That I could simply prevent being triggered?
Everything is supposed to be different in Waterford, but I don’t feel any different. I don’t want it to take time. I’ve had time. I want it to be different now. I want to be normal now.
I stand on the landing, midway between the first and second floors, where the windows overlook the front lawn of the school. Focusing on the shadows cascading between the cloud cover, I concentrate on counting the ocher hemlock trees circling the perimeter of the front lawn.
Exhaling slowly, I release the railing. I tell myself to return to the cafeteria. Finish lunch. Finish out the day.
The slightest pressure on my forearm causes me to spin.
“Sophia!” Emma gasps.
I look down. My hand is clutched around her wrist. Blood rushes to my cheeks. I uncoil my fingers instantly. “I’m sorry—”
“Did we say something wrong?” Emma asks, nonchalantly shaking out her wrist. “You ran off so fast—”
“Not at all.” I attempt a smile. Behind her, students hurry up the stairs. I glance at my watch—class starts in seventy seconds. “I didn’t want to be late.”
“What’s your next class? I’ll walk you.” Emma seems genuinely concerned.
I retrieve my schedule, showing her I have Calculus II—second floor, fourth classroom west of the staircase.
Emma looks between me and the schedule. “Lucky girl, you’re with all the seniors.” As I follow Emma, passing students watch me with unfiltered curiosity.
Charlotte meets us at the top balcony. “Do you want to come over tonight, Sophia? We’re going to make mudslides.”
“Mudslides?” I ask, imagining the dry protein pies the Red Cross delivers to displaced people after natural disasters, months after the foreign aid stops.
Charlotte grins. “The most delicious food ever. Do you want to come?”
The warning bell rings.