The Tyrant's Daughter by Carleson J.C

Author:Carleson, J.C. [Carleson, J.C.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780449810002
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2014-02-11T00:00:00+00:00

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“You didn’t have to be so rude.” My words rush out before I remember that I am in no position to chastise Amir. I duck my head so he can’t watch me hopscotching between indignation and shame.

Amir relaxes as Ian disappears. “You need to be careful. Things aren’t as easy here as they seem at first.”

I can only stare at him, confused. What is that supposed to mean? What does he want? “What are you doing here?” I ask again.

“I wanted to talk to you, but your brother said you were out. So I waited.”

I feel like a dog bracing for a second kick.

He pulls an envelope from a pocket inside his jacket and thrusts it toward me. “Here. It should be enough.”

I don’t have to ask him what it is; the flap has come unsealed. It’s money. American money. The envelope is bulging with wrinkled bills. Some are torn; all are dirty. These are not the clean, crisp bills of Emmy’s ATM visits. This is money hard-earned and well hidden.

“But …” Questions collide on my tongue, but no words come out.

“Your mother called us late last night. You didn’t know?”

“No,” I whisper, embarrassed. “What did she say?”

He looks as confused as I am. “She said that she needed money to pay the rent. She asked to borrow it from us.”

“No!” I’m repulsed by the idea of taking his money. “We can’t. I mean, you can’t afford it anyway.”

“Why would you think that? That we can’t afford it?”

I can see in his eyes that this is a test. His questions are challenges. “I’ve seen where you live, Amir.” I say it softly. I force meekness into my voice to lessen the insult.

But he doesn’t take it as an insult. He responds as if he were teaching a small child, patronizing and slow. “We have plenty of money, Laila. Everyone living there works at least one job, and sometimes two or three. Except Nadeen, of course.”

My face grows hot at the mention of his sister. Her very name feels like a rebuke, even if Amir does not intend it that way. “You work? When?”

“Nights. Weekends. Weekdays during lunch period sometimes if they need me. Though there aren’t many busboy emergencies at the restaurant.”

My brain calculates his schedule. No wonder I never see him at school. He’s racing to his job the moment the bell rings. “Then why—” I search for a polite way to phrase my question. “Why do you live like you do? With so many of you crammed together? With those horrible neighbors?”

“We have better things to do with our money, Laila.”

I can see that he wants me to ask the question, so I do. “Like what?” I’m more dutiful than I am curious, since I already know that the answer will sting.

It does.

“I’m saving to get my father out of prison, first. But everyone in that apartment has someone back home who needs rescuing. Airfare, travel visas, medical care, food. We’re a needy family. We come from a needy place.

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