HISTORY
“Why, though? Why does she have to go?”
I look at the clock on the wall. Nasrin will be boarding the plane in a few minutes. They’ll close the doors and move away from the terminal, and she’ll be in the sky. The space between us will stretch and break, and she’ll leave me behind.
She’s already left me behind.
“You know why, Toph.”
I nod. “The fire. The attack.” I poke at the food on my plate. I’m hungry, but I’m too upset to eat. This isn’t fair.
“It’s more than that, though. It’s the fear that it will happen again.”
“She’s not safe here. That’s what you mean.”
Charlie shakes her head, and her voice is quiet. “Yeah. That’s what I mean.”
“But I don’t understand. She was born here, just like me. How come I’m safe, and she isn’t?”
Charlie pushes her plate away and rests her elbows on the table.
“Because we screwed up, Toph. We got things wrong, and now too many people think it’s OK to attack someone because of the colour of their skin.”
“And she’ll be safe in Canada?”
She sighs, and runs her hands over her hair.
“I think so. I hope so.”
I shake my head. I still can’t believe that she’s gone.
“It’s hard for you, Toph. You can’t stay in touch.”
A tiny flame of hope kindles in my chest. “I could visit.”
Charlie shakes her head. “You know you can’t go to Canada. Not on your passport.”
“They’ll let me in. And the UK will let me out. They can’t tell me what to do.”
She shakes her head again. “You can leave – that’s true. But they won’t let you come home. You’re only here because your Dad has a British passport.”
“But I was born here!”
Charlie holds up one hand. “Yes, but your passport’s Australian. If you leave, they don’t have to let you come back. Not if you have somewhere else to go.”
I look down at the table. “Mum.”
“That’s where they’ll send you, Toph. To live with your mother.”
She’s right. They’ll send me away from everyone I know. They’ll send me to the other side of the world. To Mum, and her new life. To the life I refused to live when she left Dad.
I didn’t want to leave London when I was eight, and I don’t want to leave now. I don’t want to leave my friends. I don’t want to leave Dad, and Charlie, and Rob. I don’t want to walk out on everything I know.
But I’m clinging to the feeling of hope. “Nasrin will write me letters. I know she will.”
“I’m sure you’re right. But it’s not the same as seeing someone. Watching their face as they talk to you.”
I stare at her for a moment. “Is this another Internet thing?”
She nods, and I slump back in my chair. What is it about old people? It’s as if this is all they can talk about.
“We used to be able to make video calls. To see people on the other side of the world.”
“Before the government shut down your Internet access.” I’ve had enough of these conversations with Dad to know how the story goes. After the Crossrail bomb, the National State of Emergency let the government take away civilian Internet access, mobile phones, and voting. I was three years old, so I don’t remember how it was before, but Charlie does. I thought she was most upset about the voting, but there’s something in her voice that makes me think this was important to her as well.
“And was that easier? Did people have girlfriends in Canada, before Crossrail?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know, Toph.” She stares at the table in front of her. “It was different. Being apart – you still end up with different lives, even if you’re seeing each other, and talking every day. But I guess it was more gradual, before. Breaking up – losing someone – it didn’t feel like a disaster.” She looks at me. “It didn’t feel like this.”
I don’t know what she’s talking about. I can’t imagine losing Nasrin, if we could see each other every day.
“How did it feel?” I can’t look at Charlie. If she’s hurting, if this is personal for her, I don’t want to see.
She thinks for a moment. “More like the slow burning down of a bonfire. The longing went on for longer, but by the time you both realised it was over, it didn’t hurt as much. It just … faded away.”
I close my eyes. I can see Nasrin walking away from me, past the soldiers and barriers. I can see her turn, and wave. I can see the terminal doors closing behind her.
There’s no fading away, for us. Just a door, closing.
“How did this happen?”
Charlie shrugs. “We used to be part of something bigger. We used to be part of Europe. Scotland used to be part of the UK. We didn’t have these restrictions on travelling abroad, or on people coming here. We were a melting pot – London, especially. There were people from all over the world, here.”
“Why would that change?” I’m trying to understand, but it doesn’t make sense.
“People got scared. We had attacks, and bombings, and the government blamed anyone who looked different. Anyone wearing a headscarf, or a turban, or anyone with darker skin – the government and the papers made them out to be terrorists.”
There’s a lump in my throat. I want to shout. I want to scream. But my voice is a whisper.
“People like Nasrin.”
Charlie reaches across the table towards me, but I stay slumped down in my chair.
“I’m sorry, Toph. This isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault. I’m sorry this happened to you.”
“Yeah.” I fold my arms across my chest. I hate that Charlie can see how much I’m hurting. “Me too.”
“Come on,” she says, standing up. “Let’s get you to school.”
School. I hadn’t thought about going to school today.
My stomach knots. I can’t imagine school without Nasrin.
“I don’t think I can …”
“Toph. I have to get to work, and you’re not missing any more lessons.”
“It’s nearly lunchtime. They’ll kill me if I come in now.”
She smiles, and winks at me. “I’ll sort it, Toph.”
“And you won’t let them tell Dad?”
She grins. “I said I’d sort it.”
I don’t have a choice. I know she’ll keep me out of trouble – she always does.
We walk back to the car, Charlie’s hand on my shoulder as we leave the café.
“What will you tell them?”
She waves a hand in an extravagant gesture. “Oh, family crisis. Personal disaster.” She turns to look at me, grinning. “I’ll mention your Mum. That should do it.”
I can’t help laughing.
“Yeah. That should do it. Thanks.”
She’s smiling as we get into the car.
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