The Tyrant's Daughter (11 page)

“Bastien, you know there’s no such thing there, right? That you’ll never be a king?” I’m brusque, mean. I’m too impatient to let him down kindly. Why should he be indulged when the rest of us are not?

He gnaws on his thumbnail, and at first I think I’ve upset him. But he’s only thinking. “I know,” he says at last. “But I’ll be able to tell people what to do, right? And they’ll have to do it? And we’ll live in the big house again, right? The palace?” He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “That’s close enough to being a king.” He picks up his comic book, and I am dismissed for a second time.

How can I argue with his child’s logic? In his mind, he
is
a king—he’s been told so his entire life, and the details do seem to support the myth. I start to ask him what this makes me, but I stop myself. It’s better that I answer this question myself.

It’s after school and we’re in Emmy’s room again. The faces in the pictures—her floor-to-ceiling monument to moments past—are starting to feel familiar. I’m part of the collection now. The photo from the night of the dance stares at me from the lower right corner of the wall. “Laila in Disguise,” it should be captioned.

Emmy has her ear pressed against the door, though that really isn’t necessary. I can hear her parents’ argument perfectly well from the opposite side of the room, where I’m making a show of carefully examining the pictures, pretending not to notice the shouting coming from the kitchen. I think Emmy appreciates this, my little token gift of discretion.

The photos are arranged by theme. Here, near the window, is a section devoted to Outdoor Emmy. I see evidence of a camping trip with friends. Canoeing with one boy, hiking with another. A cluster of girls toasting marshmallows over a
fire, everyone looking young and prettily windburned. I recognize a longer-haired Morgan in the background.

The next section is less wholesome and slightly more recent. Emmy is a stranger with too much eyeliner and a bleached streak in her bangs, but she’s still wearing the same huge grin. Boys on skateboards flash hand signals and scowls at the camera, all early-teen angst and swagger. The other girls have rows and rows of earrings, five hoops to an ear, and some have studded lips, eyebrows, tongues. A boy in baggy jeans wears one of the
X
’s across his face.

“When was this taken?” I ask Emmy, but she holds a finger to her lips. The argument has grown quieter, and she’s struggling to hear.

I move on. Here is Athlete Emmy. This must be last year, because she looks much closer to the way she does now. I didn’t know she played tennis, but there she sits in a team photo, her smile and her skirt matching those of the other girls. The boys in this section wear uniforms: baseball and soccer. In one picture, Emmy and a boy sit poolside, wearing swim goggles and making funny faces at one another.

The section that includes my photo is clearly the most recent. There doesn’t seem to be an obvious theme, though. Not yet. International Emmy, maybe? In addition to my foreign face, this part of the collage also includes several postcards from other countries.

A door slams somewhere in the house, and Emmy throws herself on her bed. “Aaaah!” She screams muffled frustration into her pillow before rolling onto her back.
“How embarrassing. I’m so sorry you had to hear that. My parents suck.”

“Are you okay?”

She doesn’t answer, just scrunches up her face, then picks a crumpled shirt off the bed and throws it to the floor. “My room is a disaster. I can’t even stand to be here. Let’s go to your house instead.”

Now I don’t answer.

Emmy sighs and flings her arm across her face, covering her eyes. “They’re separating. My dad’s moving out. You know what they were just fighting about? Which one of them is going to tell me. Like the entire neighborhood doesn’t already know, with their constant yelling. God, I hate them!”

For a long moment I can’t do anything but stand mutely. I flush warm with guilt as I realize that I’ve thought of her as a paper doll of a friend, one-dimensional and picture-frame perfect. That she might also have things to escape never occurred to me.

I step closer to her bed, and when she scoots over to make room for me, I lie down next to her. Side by side on our backs, both of us stare up at the ceiling in silence. “I’m sorry,” I finally say, feeling awkward for not knowing the right way to comfort her. Do we talk about it, or is it better to offer up distractions? Does she want to laugh about it or cry about it? So many subjects never covered by my tutors; I’ve never felt quite so alien as I do right now.

She’s quiet at first, but eventually she turns her head to look at me. “Please don’t tell anybody else.”

“I won’t,” I say. “I’m good at keeping secrets.”

She nods as if she already knows that.

“Which shall it be, chocolate or french fries?” I ask her.

Her smile is watery. Grateful. “Lots of both. Quick.”

We leave the house in search of neutral ground and comfort food.

Two days later, the King has a birthday. He’s turning seven, and so we gather uneasily at Skateland. Why my mother chose this run-down venue I don’t know, but it’s a brilliant selection: we are all equally uncomfortable.

Not the kids, of course. They are delighted by the activity and pay no mind to the smell of mildew in the party room or the fact that the laces on their skates are held together by chains of grungy knots. It’s the grown-ups who shift and fidget, not wanting to sit on plastic chairs dotted with hardened gum or drink from the pitcher of startlingly orange soda.

Two groups face off in the blue-carpeted room—the parents of Bastien’s school friends on one side and Amir and his cousins on the other. Mother invited Mr. Gansler, but he claimed to be busy. As a gift, he arranged for the party to be catered by a restaurant in downtown Washington that serves
food from our homeland. “They don’t normally cater,” he’d said. “But I pulled a few strings.”

The food tips the balance—the American parents are now more uncomfortable than the rest of us. Even in this land of strip-mall tacos, falafel, and teriyaki, our food remains exotic. They eye the dishes distrustfully and circle and confer before going in for microscopically small portions.

“Laila, there are no forks,” Emmy whispers. She was a last-minute invite, an exception to my efforts to isolate the different parts of my life. But now that she has shared her secret with me, how can I not include her?

“You use this.” I hand her a piece of the flatbread that is served with every meal. “You tear off a piece and use it kind of like a spoon.”

Emmy is ecstatic when she takes a bite. “This is
so
good!” Her blond-haired enthusiasm convinces some of the more skeptical parents to at least sample the food.

The food
is
good, but I can’t enjoy it. Coming from Mr. Gansler, this taste of home is bitter with expectation.

Before long the kids come swooping in, red-faced and sweaty and still wearing roller skates. Bastien shows them what to do, and they are thrilled to be liberated from utensils. Eating with their hands becomes the highlight of the party, and the room grows loud.

“Who’s Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome?” Emmy points to Amir, who notices and scowls in response. “He’s very … intense. He’s got that whole brooding thing working for him. It’s kind of sexy.”

I laugh so forcefully that it comes out as a snort. “Don’t let him hear you say that. He’d be mortified.”

I sneak a glance at him. Sexy? Amir? To me he just looks sullen, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed high on his chest, wordlessly announcing his stubborn refusal to enjoy himself. But that’s nothing new. His cousins have agreed to start working with my mother again—whatever that means—but he’s kept his distance. The only sign of improvement is that he looks at me with slightly less hatred than before.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Emmy presses.

It’s a terrible idea, but I don’t want to refuse her request. Besides, it’s an excuse to talk to him. Something about Amir turns me maddeningly timid, and I’m aware that I have made little progress gaining his confidence.

When he sees us heading toward him, Amir pushes off the wall and takes several quick steps to meet us halfway. It isn’t a friendly or chivalrous gesture—I suspect he just doesn’t want the other men to eavesdrop while he talks to us.

I make the introductions, and Emmy shoves her hand at Amir. “So nice to meet you!” she chirps. Amir stares at her outstretched arm as if it belonged to a leper, but Emmy is undeterred and leaves her hand out until it becomes awkward. Amir shakes it reluctantly.

“Did you guys know each other back home?” she asks.

Amir raises his eyebrows at me.
Really?
his expression seems to ask. “Laila and I were in very different social circles,” he answers stiffly.

I nearly giggle out loud at the understatement, and he looks sideways at me. The corner of his mouth is twitching,
and I realize that he is my coconspirator here. We
are
allies, if only for this strange clash of cultures.

Emmy notices our exchange of glances, and a new expression takes over her face. She shoots me a sly smile and then turns back to Amir. “So, I’m curious. What do boys in your country do when they like a girl?” Her voice is flirtatious and teasing. “Group dates? Phone calls? Love letters? What’s it like there?”

Amir’s face turns pink. He looks to me for help.

I don’t offer any—it’s far too much fun to watch him squirm. Instead, I copy Emmy’s expression—a parody of innocence—and Amir realizes that he’s been set up. He laughs, this time without the choked sound of resentment. “Perhaps you should visit and find out. I’m sure you would be
very
popular there,” he teases Emmy back. “It wouldn’t take you long at all to learn all you want to know.”

Emmy grins and begins to pepper him with questions. I’ve grown used to her trivia collecting, but Amir is quickly overwhelmed. With a sense of humor I haven’t seen before, he answers until he can’t take it anymore, and then he excuses himself with a weak story about an imaginary obligation across the room.

“He likes you!” Emmy crows as soon as he’s gone.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I tell her. She doesn’t know how far from the truth she is.

“He totally does. I saw the way you guys were giving each other little secret looks.” She stops abruptly. “Oh my god, Laila. Are you seeing him? Are you guys together?” She’s bouncing on her toes, giddy at the possibility.

I shake my head. “No, no. It’s nothing like that.” But I can’t explain. I can’t tell her that our shared glances were at her expense. Or that I
am
trying to woo him, just not in the way she thinks. So I deflect. “Wait a minute, I thought you had me practically lined up to marry Ian. You can’t switch candidates now! Besides,
you
were the one flirting with Amir. Congratulations, by the way. I didn’t know he was even capable of being friendly.”

She giggles and shakes her head. “No, that was just for fun—he’s not really my type. But you’re right about Ian. Hmmm … what should we do about him? Maybe he could have you half the week, and Amir could have you the other half.”

I elbow her. “You’re awful!” But then I link my arm through hers as we make our way across the room to where Bastien has begun opening presents. How could I have guessed that Emmy of all people would be able to breach Amir’s fiery reserve? Perhaps I haven’t given her enough credit.

Bastien tears through the wrapping paper with manic intensity, unveiling a steady parade of toys. Ninja action figures and Nerf guns seem to dominate. There’s an uncomfortable moment when Bastien opens the gift from Amir’s group—they bought him a fancy fountain pen in a wooden case—but Bastien recovers from his disappointment quickly and thanks them with politely feigned enthusiasm. He is the center of attention, a child’s version of king for the day, and he plays the role well.

At five o’clock the parents sweep up their children and head out en masse, as if some alarm only they could hear had sounded. Apparently parties begin
and
end punctually here.

My mother and the men huddle in a corner, speaking in hushed tones that exclude the rest of us, and Amir storms out rather than be ignored. Since Bastien is inspecting his gifts, sticky-faced and happy, Emmy and I are left to clean up the mess.

Emmy is acting normal. Too normal. She’s cheerful and chatty, rambling on about her own seventh birthday party, when I stop her.

“You don’t have to pretend, Emmy. I know you’re upset.”

She shrugs with one shoulder, then bends to pick up a flattened party hat. “Honestly, I don’t even want to think about it right now. Besides, you have enough of your own problems—you don’t need to listen to mine.”

I must look offended, because she clarifies quickly. “I mean, your father is
dead
, Laila. I’d feel like an ass whining about how mine is going through some gross midlife crisis or whatever his problem is. Mine may be acting like an idiot, but at least he’s around. Well … sort of around.”

I put down the wad of paper towels I’d been using to mop up spilled soda. “Emmy, please. It’s not a competition for whose life is the bigger disaster. You can talk to me about anything you want.” Even as I say this, I know it’s only true as of this moment. I’ve hardly been returning Emmy’s friendship in equal doses. My old life was not exactly filled with friends.

She blows her hair out of her eyes as she gathers up an armload of discarded wrapping paper. “I just want you to be happy here.”

An uncomfortable feeling spreads over me like an itchy blanket. Emmy has been sheltering me, and I’ve judged her unfairly for it. She’s not without substance—she’s just self-censored. She’s been my tour guide, social director, interpreter, and emotional bodyguard. I’ve been her … what exactly? The realization makes me feel ugly and defensive. “Why do you care? I mean, why were you so determined that we should be friends from the first time we met? You could have walked me to class once and then gone on with your life—I never asked you to babysit me.” My outburst gains momentum. “I know I’m a convenient prop for your identity du jour, though. Perhaps you’ll wait until spring to drop me, when you decide to join the drama club instead?”