Rebels by Accident
Read Rebels by Accident Online
Authors: Patricia Dunn
Copyright © 2014 by Patricia Dunn
Cover and internal design © 2014 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover designed by Jeanine Henderson
Cover image © Stock4B/Corbis
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For my son, Aliâand the people of Egypt.
ONE
This isn't my first visit to the Mayflower Police Station. The last time I was here, Mom brought me with her to register a complaint about a pothole. It was the size of a quarter, but Mom insisted it was dangerous to drive over when she had a child in her car. I was thirteen.
This time, I'm at the Mayflower Police Station as a criminal. Sixteen (well, almost sixteen), and I'm behind bars. Okay, maybe I'm being a bit dramatic. It's not as if I'm locked up with serial killers or slashers, but I'm in a cell. Deanna's with me, along with about thirty other underage girls who were also at the party and didn't run away in time or convince the police to let them go.
As we piled into squad cars, I watched these girls (and even a few guys) put on all the movesâcrying, flirting, screaming, fainting, even beggingâto get out of the arrest, but none of it worked.
I have to say Deanna gave it her best. Not being able to crack a smile really worked to her advantage when the officer in charge said to her that he was glad someone was taking the situation seriously. She wasn't kidding when she said she was a great litigator like her mom. When the cop found me hiding in the bathtub with the shower curtain drawn (could I have picked a more obvious place?) and dragged me downstairs with the rest of the crowd, there was Deanna, telling the police we shouldn't be responsible for the actions of some stupid guys who brought beer to the party. She almost had one cop convinced to let us go when Karen, the bane of my existence, stepped forward and threw up on his shoes.
All through elementary school and middle school, Karen and her drone Beth talked trash about me and my family. Their favorite insults were that my dad was in Al-Qaeda and my mom was only one of his many wives.
At least she's not in our cell. They put her, and all the other vomiting kids, in a separate cellâwith buckets.
Still, it stinks in here. I stick my nose between the bars, trying to breathe air that doesn't smell like puke, beer, or raw fish. Who has an open sushi bar at a high school party? Then again, what would I know about parties? This is the only party I've been to since first grade.
“Come on, Mar. It's not that bad.” Deanna pushes against my shoulder. I don't budge. I don't say anything.
“Funny how we started the night trying to break into the party, and now we just want to get out.” Deanna stands closer to me, but I can't even look at her. If I do, I'll start to cry. And I'm already the biggest freak at school.
“Look, I know you're flipping out here, but everything will be okay.”
“Are you kidding me?” I turn to her and lower my voice. “I'm in jail. Do you know how happy this is going to make my parents?”
“Happy?”
“Now they can feel totally justified when they never let me leave our apartment again.”
“Relax.”
Relax? We've just been arrested! We are in a holding cell with girls who have picked on meâor, worse yet, ignored meâsince kindergarten. On top of that, my parents are going to kill me! Why did I let Deanna talk me into going to this party?
Okay, the truth: she didn't have to talk me into anything. I wanted to go. I would've done anything, even lie to my parents, to crash a party. I knew I wasn't invited and that I'd probably be kicked out as soon as someone saw me. But forcibly removedâby the police? That I didn't expect.
Still, I shouldn't blame Deanna for helping me get what I wanted. But I do. It was an amazing night of music and dancing. Yes, I danced with three guys! And nobody made jokes about my dad being a towel-head or my uncle being Bin Laden.
Ever since those people tried to build their mosque near Ground Zero and there was all that controversy, my life has been worse than ever. The kids at school treat me like I'm one of those people. But I'm not. My family may be Muslim, but I don't think they should put a mosque so close to Ground Zero either. I mean, I believe in freedom of religion and all, and I know Muslims died at Ground Zero too, but why would they want to be where they're not wanted? I don't get it. If it's causing so much trouble, why not just build their mosque somewhere else? It's selfish to cause so many problems.
But tonight I was dancing and laughing. I wasn't a freak or a weirdo; I was just another girl having fun.
“Actually,” I say, turning to Deanna, “thanks.”
“You're thanking me?” she asks.
“Hey, I know I'm in big trouble but tonight was an adventureâprobably the last one I'll have until I'm thirty.”
“Don't mention it,” she says. Most people would say she has no expression on her face, but I can tell she's smiling.
When I met Deanna last summer, she'd just moved to Mayflower from San Francisco with her mom. I was the first person she told about her face. I Googled it to try to better understand why her face doesn't make expressions like most people's, but after reading pages and pages of medical blah, blah, blah, it really just boils down to what Deanna told me about it: “The muscles in my face don't work.”
“Does my hair look okay?” some voice behind me asks. “Do I have anything in my teeth?”
Another voice says, “No, but do I have anything in my teeth? Is my mascara smeared?”
“Are they kidding?” Deanna asks me. “We're in a jail cell, and they're worried about their makeup. It's like we go to Airhead High.”
“Shush,” I tell her.
“Mar, no one is listening to us. They're all too busy hearing themselves not think.”
The only reason Deanna even wanted to crash the party was so she could show me what I wasn't missing. But look at these girls: not one seems the least bit freaked out. Are their parents that laid-back? Maybe that's the secret to their coolnessâcool parents. If that's true, I don't stand a chance.
“Well, it could be worse,” she says.
“How?”
“Oh crap,” she says. An officer unlocks the large cell door. There stand Beth and Karenâthe Mayflower Mean Girls.
“In you go,” the officer says.
Deanna looks at me. “We're going to be locked in here with them.”
Karen stares at me. “Who're you supposed to be? Cleopatra?”
I rub my eyes. Black eyeliner wipes off on my fingers. I'd forgotten Deanna had done my makeup before we went to the party. “You look like an Egyptian queen,” Deanna had said. But not just any Egyptian queen. She insisted I was Hatshepsut, the queen who ruled Egypt for more than twenty years. Deanna says Hatshepsut was the queen who was king. Deanna loves anything Egyptian, which is probably why she's friends with me. But I don't want to look like an Egyptian queen, even if she was incredibly powerful. I don't want to look like an Egyptian anything. I rub my eyes some more.
“Back off,” Deanna says, moving between Karen and me. Karen is a half-foot taller than Deanna, but my bet is on Deanna.
Karen steps back, then smirks. “Hey, Beth. I just realized why these two are best friends.”
“They come from the same place,” Beth says, like the two of them had rehearsed this scene. Now everyone is listening. “Cleopatra and the Sphinx.”
“You mean Sphinx Face.” Karen laughs.
“She did
not
just say that,” someone whispers loudly from the other side of our cell.
“Yes, she did,” someone else says.
Beth lifts her hand to high-five Karen, but Deanna grabs both their wrists and, like a professional wrestler, pulls their arms behind their backs.
“Fight, fight!” people shout around us.
“Get off me,” Beth shrieks, struggling. Karen winces.
“Apologize.” Deanna pulls their arms harder.
“You're hurting me!” Beth stops struggling.
“Apologize,” Deanna demands.
“Fine. Fine. I apologize.”
Deanna lets them both go. “Get out of my face.”
Beth scrambles to the other side of the cell. “You're crazy,” she says, but it's obvious she's trying to save face with everyone watching. I know Deanna hears this, but she doesn't take her eyes off Karen. Karen opens her mouth, but before anything comes out, she closes it and walks over to Beth.
“You okay?” Deanna asks me.
I nod, but I have never felt lamer. She stood up to both of them, and I just stood there. They called her Sphinx Face, and I didn't do or say anything. And she wants to know if I'm okay?
“Deanna⦔
“You'll get it next time,” she says, like she's just treated me to a mocha cappuccino.
I force a smile. I can't imagine being as courageous as Deanna.
TWO
An officer with the largest nose I've ever seen unlocks the cell door.
“When I call your name, I want you front and center,” he says as he flips through the pages on his clipboard. He starts reading off names, but I don't even bother to look up again until I hear “Deanna Roberts andâ¦Mariam⦠How do you pronounce this one? Is it Indian?”
“Egyptian.” Deanna rolls her eyes.
He slides the cell door open, and Deanna and I file out with the other kids whose names he called, following him to the station's front desk. I hear Mom before I see her.
“Mariam! Thank God you're okay!” She has her arms wrapped around me so fast and so tight I feel like an octopus's prey. Any minute, the life will be squeezed out of meâwhich may be the best I can hope for right now.
“You're going to suffocate the poor girl,” Baba says, but then he hugs me almost as tight.
I look around the room. Parents shout at, then hug their kids, while the kids beg for forgiveness, all with the same look of fear and regret on their faces. I guess their parents aren't as cool as I thought.
Karen stands with some woman who looks like her, only gray haired. The woman's yelling so loudly that one of the officers tells her to quiet down. Karen doesn't look upset though. She actually doesn't look like she's feeling much of anything. I turn away. I don't want her to catch me staring.
Then I hear Deanna's voice. I turn back to my parents. Deanna is standing nearby with her mother, nodding and repeating, “Yes, yes, yes.”
Baba pulls me in for a squeeze, then lets go of me, steps back, and says, “What are you wearing?” I'd forgotten I had on Deanna's clothes. Baba hates it when I wear black. He says black is for mourning and for people trying to hide their hips. Baba likes me to wear what he calls “bubbly” colors, like sunshine yellow. If it were up to my father, I'd walk around looking like a lemon.
“And your face⦔ Mom pulls a tissue from her pocket, spits on it, and starts to scrub my cheeks. “Do you know how worried we were?” Mom's mascara is smeared, and her eyes are red. Mom never criesâever. Baba cries, but not Mom. Actually, Baba looks like he's been crying too.
“I'm so sorryâ”
“You were supposed to be home by ten thirty!” Mom screams at me. “Why didn't you call?”
“I forgot my cell at Deanna'sâ”
“None of these kids had a phone you could borrow?” Mom asks.
“Yes, butâ”
Baba places his fingers over his lips. “It's best that you stay quiet now.”
Mom shakes her head. “Just be grateful that Ms. Roberts has convinced the police to let you go home without any further action.”
“I want you to thank her,” Baba says. We walk over to Ms. Roberts and Deanna.
“Ms. Roberts,” I say, “thank you for all of your help.”
“Deanna wants to say something to your parents as well,” Deanna's mom shares. I can tell from her face that Deanna is in as much trouble as I am. Deanna looks down at the floor.
“Go ahead, Deanna.” Ms. Roberts nudges her.
“Mar didn't want to go to the party, but I begged her to. I am so, so sorry. Hate me all you want, but please don't be mad at Mariam. She was just being a good friend.” The way Deanna looks at Baba and Mom, she doesn't have to be able to move her face for them to see she's not lying. She really is sorry.
“Thank you for your honesty, Deanna,” Baba says.
“But Mariam is old enough to take responsibility for herself,” Mom adds. Mom turns to Ms. Roberts. “Thank you so much.”
“We are indebted to you.” Baba puts his hand over his heart to show how grateful he is. I appreciate Deanna's mom helping me out, but my parents are acting like she just got me off a first-degree murder charge. The police probably took us all into the station just to scare us.
“I'm just glad I could help.” Ms. Roberts smiles, and she looks just like I imagine Deanna would if she could smile.
Baba nudges my arm. “Thank her again.”
“I am very grateful for your help. Thank you, Ms. Roberts.”
“Feel free to call me Carole,” she says.
I look at Mom, expecting her disapproval (encouraging a child to call an adult by her first nameâhow disrespectful!), but all I see is admiration in my mother's eyes.
As my parents usher me to the door, I turn to catch Deanna's gaze. I'm sure I won't be seeing her for a very long time, at least not until winter break is over and we're back in school. I'm going to miss her. A lot. Even her craziness. Actually, I'll miss that the most.
On the ride home, Mom adjusts the rearview mirror so she can't see my face in it. She keeps the radio off. Baba looks out the passenger window the whole time. It's not until we walk into the kitchen that Mom speaks.
“We'll talk in the morning,” she says. Then she goes to her room and slams the door.
Baba stands there, shaking his head at me.
“I'm so sorry,” I say.
“As your
sittu
always says, â
Sorry
can't make some things better.'”
“I know I should've called to tell you I was going to be late, but we weren't drinking or anything.”
“Drinking? That's the least of it.”
Oh no. Did Baba find out I was dancing with those guys? But how?
“Do you know how blessed you are that Ms. Roberts was there to help us? You could have had a serious drug charge to deal with.”
“Drugs? Baba, I didn't use any drugs.”
“All I know is that you were at someone's home without adult supervision and the police found enough marijuana to get all of you kids in a great deal of trouble.”
“Pot? I didn't know people were smoking⦔ I remember the place smelling weird, but I thought it was some kind of incense, like patchouli. “But Deanna's mom, she made it all okay, right?”
“You destroyed my trust. Your mother's trust. And you think it is all okay?” Baba starts to leave but quickly turns back to me. “It's going to be a long time before it is okay.”
⢠⢠â¢
From my room, I hear my parents arguing. I almost go into my closet to press my ear against the wallâthat's how I always find out what my parents are really thinking. But tonight I don't want to know what their plans are for me.
I slip out of Deanna's skirt and into a pair of pajama pants, but I leave on her shirt. I'm not ready to take it off; it still smells like my first night of being a true teenager. I climb into bed, and as I fall asleep, I think about how I can't go back to living the cloistered life of a Muslim nun. Somehow, I have to convince my parents to trust me again.
When I wake up a little while later, my whole body is on fire. I'd been dreaming about some guy I don't know, but in the dream, I liked him a lot and he liked me, and then⦠I can't remember the details. All I know is there's no way my parents can stop me from living my life. They can lock me up in this apartment, but I'll figure out a way to escape, even if I have to climb out the window. Oh my God, that's what they're going to do: ground me for life. I can't let that happen. I have to talk to them.
I jump out of bed and rush to their room, hoping they're still up. I listen at the door. I don't hear anything. I quietly push it open and look through a crack. My mother is sleeping so far on the right side of the bed and my father so far on the left that they leave a huge space in the middleâa space big enough for me.
For a moment, I want to crawl into bed with them, the way I did after I'd had a nightmare when I was little. Sleeping between them always made me feel like life was exactly as they wanted me to believe it was: beautiful and safe, as if nothing was ever going to hurt me. But I'm too old to crawl into that space, and this time I'm the one who did the hurting.
I close the door and go back to my room. It's a struggle to fall asleep. All I can think about is how I've let my parents down.
