Alone in the Night (Mechanicsville 2)

Chapter 1: Monday, October 17th

***Faraj***

I am sitting on my bed; I share a room with two other Muslim boys, who are both are older than me. They are giving me suspicious looks and speaking Arabic as if they think I don't understand it. I just can't hear more than a few words.

One is really scary, he has the same beard and scowl that Ali always had when he looked at me. The other is closer to my age, maybe late sixteen. He also scowls when he catches me watching him, but his beard is wispy and thin. It makes him look more comical than scary. But I don't trust him.

I try to stay in my room, away from the other boys, but I need to eat. And shower, use the washroom, go to the counselling sessions ... I feel like everyone is staring at me, whispering. The bits I do hear are all threatening, I don't know if I want to hear what else they're saying or not.

I have to see the counsellor after lunch. He thinks I'm guilty and keeps bugging me to tell the truth.

You'll never understand yourself, as long as you keep lying to yourself.

I haven't even been to court yet and I'm judged guilty. Ali is starting to make more sense now than he did when I was listening to him.

And everyone seems to be staring at me, hating on me. Even the guards, who call themselves dorm supervisors. They don't have guns, but they look like they don't need them.

***Ashleigh***

Okay, so it was still great to have clean clothes that I didn't have to wash. And real food, lots of it. It was even cool that I had put on enough weight to need new jeans, and Shelly bought them. Two pairs! Without any bitching at all!

But OMG, there were a lot of rules here.

How to talk to the kids (no swearing, at all!).

Doing chores, which is a whole new thing on its own.

Asking for things, including please and thank you on almost every single sentence! Well, not really, but it seems like a lot more than necessary.

Come home straight from school.

Tell Shelly where I'm going.

Stay away from the market, my friends, and my old neighbourhood ... where else was I supposed to go? I only know Rideau Street and my neighbourhood.

No TV until homework's done. Shit, I never did homework before and I'm just fine. Well, D's mostly, but I'm passing. Except for math.

Curfews, bedtimes, snacking rules, looking after her kids when she out, it was like freaking jail.

Did I just say freaking? OMG, it's starting to rub off on me, I can't even say fuck in my own head.

But even at my most pissed, I had to admit it was better here than with my real mom. Shelly could actually cook, and she did it every day. A real supper, just like on TV. And she may have been a pain about homework, but she was right about second chances.

New school, new home, new friends. People didn't think of me as another drunk or stoned Indian. The new haircut hid the burnt pieces of my hair, bruises heal, and I can start over.

Shelly says I can reinvent myself as anything I want to be. I just have to apply myself and be willing to work at it.

But I've never worked at anything before. Some things come easy, like science or health studies, the rest I just ignore. Shelly says I'll be going to college in a year or so, I should know what I want to take, but I've never thought about it.

I never expected to even finish school, so who thinks about a career?

Other than White Girl, she probably has a whole plan for the next twenty years. Exactly which college, which classes, what degree, even where she'll work and who she'll marry. Stupid, anal retentive, nosey, white girl. I miss her.

***Samantha***

I decided to make myself something to eat. It was strange, but I think I missed Faraj's grandmother more than my mom did. She was always kind to me, and now everyone was weird around me.

And I really missed the smells of her curries. Or whatever they were, they smelled so delicious.

So I decided to try to make myself one. We had leftover white rice from supper a couple days ago, and I'd heard somewhere that you needed old rice to make fried rice properly. I kinda enjoy cooking, the smell of the spices, and the magic of watching it become something awesome.

This wasn't exactly awesome. It wasn't terrible, it was just odd. White rice, a spoon of pesto, some sriracha sauce, some Indian spice (I had no idea what was in Iraqi spice mixes and I figured Indian would be close.)

Nope.

It wasn't horrible, it was just ... weird. And nothing like what I remember her cooking smelling like. I missed it.

I wonder where they moved.

Not that mom would tell me, or I could go visit for cooking lessons. I was grounded. Permanently. Like a blind pilot.

Dad said the cops were watching me. Way to go, Dad. Make me paranoid.

The house phone rang as I was washing up the dishes. It was maybe a job offer for Dad, so I had to answer it, soapy hands and all.

I said hello in what I hoped was a calm, professional manner, but there was just silence on the line. I tried a couple more times, but it was just nothing. After about a minute, I decided it was just a mis-timed dialler and hung up.

It rang again before I got back to the sink.

Hello?

Nothing, but I thought the line sounded full. I mean, an empty line sounds hollow, right? This didn't.

I said hello again, still nothing. So I hung up again.

It rang again just as I put a plate in the cupboard. I just stared at it. It was starting to feel like one of those horror movies. You know, the one where the cops say the calls are coming from inside the house? Except we were in such a small apartment that you couldn't miss a crazed killer if they were hiding here.

I picked it up and just listened. This time I was going to wait them out. It was a long wait. Finally, they hung up.

It was anti-climactic.

I put the rest of the dishes away, listening for the phone to ring again.

Then I watched a little TV, still waiting for the next call.

I knew that was what the caller wanted, to unnerve me. To make me paranoid. But I couldn't help listening for the ring. It felt unfinished.

By five I decided to start supper. I had no idea where mom and dad were, but they'd be sure to complain if I hadn't at least started. I knew how to make spaghetti, and it was pretty cheap, so I pulled a box of pasta from the upper cupboard, and looked for the pot. It was sitting, with the lid on, beside the sink, dirty. A little mouldy, actually.

A bubble of resentment tried to burst under my ribs, but I knew it probably my fault. I wondered if I was supposed to wash it days ago. If this was a lesson of some kind, it would work better if I knew about it.

But there was no point in sulking or pissing the parental units off worse by neither washing the pot, nor starting supper. Besides, soaking it in hot water for a while would give me time to chop the onions and garlic. I liked lots of onions and garlic in just about everything. Sure, my breath would probably scare people off the block, but I was safe from vampires.

I was just starting to grin at that, when the phone rang again. Was it just me, or was it starting to sound different, shriller, more menacing.

It was my Dad, they were stuck in traffic behind some accident.

I was an idiot.

Chapter 2: Tuesday: October 26th

***Ashleigh***

I had a court mandated appointment with the school psychologist. She called herself a counsellor, but I knew she was really a shrink. Like I couldn't read the diplomas and shit on her wall.

I hated the way she looked at me, so expectant. Like Shelly's two year old, waiting for me to play princess with her. She always seemed to be waiting for me to say something brilliant. But I didn't know what she wanted me to say.

Today I was wearing a new sweater that Shelly had bought as a surprise for me. It was like a Christmas sweater, except instead of snowflakes and shit, it was an Aztec pattern around the neck and shoulders. It was a little warm for late October, but I wanted to wear it. It looked so proudly native. I'd never seen anyone proud to be native before, not since my dad got arrested.

Shelly laughed at me, but I could see she was pleased.

Mrs. Johnson, the counsellor would probably want to know why I wore it. How to explain it so I don't sound stupid? I wear it because it's the only nice thing anyone's ever given me? Sounds pathetic.

Because it makes being native look cool? What if she disagrees? I mean, it's not Mohawk, it's Aztec. And they had serious cool.

Maybe because I'm cold. No, she'd probably know I was lying, or think I have Aids or something.

Truth is, it makes me feel wanted. And that sounds so pathetic.

She never even mentioned it. She wanted to talk about Mouse. How did she even know about him? Shelly must be talking to her behind my back; I am so fucking pissed right now.

***Faraj***

The room was a bit like the cafeteria at school, if the tables and chairs were bolted to the floor. And the teachers were big, biker looking dudes.

Everything was ugly plastic; orange plastic chairs, grey plastic tables, plastic forks and knives. It was depressing. I missed my grandmother with an almost physical ache.

But I had to look tough. I was only five foot four. And about a hundred thirty pounds. I had no wish to be someone's girlfriend. That was a worse sin than bombing the bus station. I think. Was it Ali who'd said that in one of his rambling talks? Did I trust him about anything?

I stood in line to get my tray of mediocre food. Nothing here was very good, though it wasn't really bad either. Just kind of grey. I ignored the others deliberately bumping me, or elbowing my ribs. I thought I would look dignified, better than a common thug. Later I worried that it made me look weak, that I should have shoved back, defended myself. Then I realized that getting into a fight would just get me in even more trouble.

Was there nothing I could do? Probably not.

When the newspaper had printed my face on the front page with news of my arrest, the photo was taped to my door, the shower wall, the cafeteria tables ... I took it as a warning that they knew who I was.

Finally, I had my tray of lunch. It was not inspiring. Watery mashed potatoes, lumpy meat in gravy, boiled vegetables. No appetizing smell of spices, no homemade bread. The inmate serving it had just stared blankly when I'd asked if it was Halal. Was it still a sin to eat it, if there was no other food? Maybe if I just ate the vegetables and left the meat?

I wondered how long I would be here.

***

I was in the library room, trying to find something I felt okay reading. But everything was either for high school courses or filled with sex and swearing. The older boy at the checkout desk just ignored me when I asked what else they had.

But the big white guy with the tattoo on his neck didn't. I wished fervently that the desk guy paid attention and the scary guy ignored me. But Allah was not listening to me that day.

Hey, baby-murderer, you should get back to your room while you can. It ain't safe out here.

I am permitted to be in this room for one hour a day. You cannot stop me.

The guy grinned, showing a broken tooth.

I bet I can.

Suddenly, I couldn't breathe, I could feel my heart start hammering in my chest. I looked for help to the boy behind the desk, but he just got up, stretched and headed out the door. The bully in front of me grinned wider.

I stepped back, away from him and toward the door, but two more big boys entered, nodding at the one in front of me as he stepped forward, pressuring me to step toward the corner, away from the door and windows.

If I did, I was afraid they would kill me.

***

I looked around, quickly gauging the size of the windows, the distance to the door, how silent everything was on this floor. Allah forgive me, I was fucked.

They grinned as they saw me realizing how much trouble I was in.

Still proud of yourself, baby-killer? The biggest one started to pound one fist into the other palm, making a deep smacking noise.

I licked my lips, they were very dry all of a sudden, and my chest was too tight to breathe.

It wasn't me. I whispered.

They just laughed.

As a second boy stepped forward to grab me, I tried to run from the room, but I had waited too long. I was cornered.

The red haired one grabbed my arm as I passed him, spinning me back toward the others, then yanking my arm up behind my back. White pain blossomed along my shoulder and ribs, my breath caught, my sight almost faded. Dimly, I heard a snap.

Before I felt the pain, my head snapped back from a fist to the face, and I hit the wall, sliding down to my knees. I tasted blood and fear.

Hey, don't kill him. I don't need another six months in this hell-hole.

Six month, he was willing to kill me, if it didn't cost him six months.

***

I woke up in the dark. My whole body hurt, and I had no idea where I was.

Was I dead and buried? Was I buried alive? I wasn't back in the hospital, there were no machine noises. I ran a hand down my arm. It felt like a cast, but no IV bags. I think I survived, but couldn't remember anything after the redhead hit me the second time.

I guess I made a noise, because the overhead light turned on and the cop from the hospital came in and looked down at me. The ceiling light was blinding, throwing his face into shadow and shining right into my eyes. I couldn't tell what he was thinking,