Page 17 of Privilege

“Oh, are you?” Ren winks, then falters. “I honestly can’t tell if you’re joking.”

The ground feels like it’s shifting under me.

“I’m not,” I reassure them earnestly. “I need to get to Anchorage,” I say, lowering my voice.

Ren’s eyes grow big and dart around. “I hear you, kiddo, but let’s be careful who we say that to, okay? Jeez, you all by yourself or what?”

For some reason my throat closes at that. I push tears back.

“Aw, Ami, I’m alone too.” Ren is serious now and stares into space a second before looking back at me, shaking their head. “Stick with me, kiddo. I’m also headed,” they hesitate, “north.”

I nod, taking note, and Ren laughs. “You’re so serious. Jeez.” They glance around, craning their neck to see overeveryone. People are starting to stand up, so we stand up too, but I stay near Ren.

“What’s your story, got folks in Alaska?” they ask.

I remember what my mom said. “My friend—uh—refused the Oath and left. He said that’s where he’s going. I want to find him if I can.”

Ren nods as we line up. There’s a big loading dock outside a garage door that’s open at the back of the room. Buses are pulling up to the dock and people are filing on.

“I hope you find your friend,” they say. Then we’re quiet. I’m about to find out what it’s like to be deported.

Bored-looking Officers stand at the entrance to the buses. There are metal detectors set up. A man in front of me walks through one and it beeps. The Officer holds out a small bin with a frown, and the man sighs and takes his earrings out, dropping them in.

He walks through again in silence and on the other side he turns back to the Officer but she sternly jerks her head towards the bus, shoving a bag into his hand. There’s an unspoken staring match until the man turns, boarding the bus with a muttered curse.

I think about the money sewn inside my pants and realize I’m sweating. There’s no metal in there, right? My mom wouldn’t put me in that situation. Of course, I never would have thought I’d get deported either, so I’m not a great judge of what plans my mom has in place for me.

I glance at Ren who nods with a frown.

“If you’re hiding anything it’s not too late to drop it.”

I shake my head and Ren reaches up to the ear hidden under their curtain of hair and pulls out a small hoop.

“Here you go. Enjoy!” they say to the CSO, almost ataunt, but with a winning smile. Rather than take offense, the Officer laughs and waves us through, handing the hoop back to Ren.

Despite sweating and my heart racing out of control, I walk through and there’s no beep, no red light flashing at the top. The Officer gives us each a bag, which has a sad-looking sandwich and an apple.

It’s crowded on the bus. There are a couple of families with kids. I wonder what they’re doing here. It’s the same mix of folks from back in the holding cell. Feeling out of my depth, I follow Ren, who scoots into a seat halfway back. They look up at me expectantly, so I slide in beside them. I may not know anything about Ren, but they’ve been friendly, so I’ll stick with them, at least for now, since they’re heading the same way I am.

The bus ride is super short. As we pull up to Penn Station we’re herded off the bus by Security Officers and down to a platform. It’s the same deal, metal detectors. This time it goes faster and I’m on the depo train before I know it, following Ren to a pair of seats once again.

Ren slides down, bracing their knees against the back of the seat in front of us. They pull open the bag from the Officer and take a couple bites of their sandwich.

“So how’d they pick you up?” Their eyes sweep me. “Were you fighting?” they ask, their eyes lingering on the logo of my T-shirt. I wonder what the logo means.

“No,” I laugh reflexively. It reminds me of being in school. The teacher would hear raised voices and come over with that same question, “Were you fighting?” It was never me. But if someone got caught they could be in mandatory therapy for the rest of the week.

“Definitely not,” I add. “But I Refused my Oath.”

Ren stares at me, then lowers their voice. “Ami, we’re going for tough here. Let me help you with that answer,” they whisper. “I’ll say, ‘Were you fighting?’ You say, ‘Yeah.’”

They sit up straight. “Were you fighting?” they ask again, their voice raised.

Every bone in my body is telling me to deny, deny, deny.

“Yeah,” I say. It comes out of my mouth with difficulty.

“What about you?” I ask, not sure what the polite response is in this situation.

---