Free The Tyrant's Daughter by J.C. Carleson

hers.” Mother leans back with her eyes closed and refuses to say anything else on the matter.
    I already knew that Farah’s marriage had been arranged—something gradually becoming less common, at least in our circles. But my cousin had claimed to be pleased with the match. I knew nothing of the man, except that my uncle had chosen him. That was reason enough to dislike him, though.
    “You are worth more than shiny stones, Laila,” Mother had whispered as she kissed me good night once we reached home. “We all are.” I’d been charmed by the rare display of affection, and I hadn’t sought any additional meaning from the words.
    Here, in the front seat of Emmy’s father’s car, I remember them. I also remember the feel of real jewels, so different from the costume version I wear now. I remember the weight of the gold, the strength of the clasps, and the almost-scratches left behind by sharp diamond facets.
    I flick irritably at the cheap baubles hanging from my ears, missing the gems of Before. And then I remember one more detail.
    Farah had been just sixteen years old.
    One year older than I am now, married off to a man more than twice her age. Had I even seen her since? Was she as unhappy as Mother had predicted? I can’t recall.
    I shiver and try not to think of her any longer. I am
here
now.

MOVEMENT
    The heavy, thumping music makes the air in the gymnasium vibrate. For a moment the guttural combination of drumbeats and bass turns familiar, the sound of a procession of tanks driving by, and my heart starts to race. But then the lyrics begin—silly, repetitive lines heavy with rhymes about feeling the night. We are not in a war zone, I remind myself. We are at a school dance.
All right, all right. Feel the night
. My pulse slows and my lungs allow me a breath.
    “Laila, come on!” Emmy yells over the music and waves me in, pulling me by the fingertips through a churning mob of dancing bodies. I’m bumped, then jarred, and I lose Emmy, but she reaches back and finds me again. Everyone around me is huge, all sharp elbows and heavy feet, and I feel like I’m being crushed. I’m underwater again, not breathing, until we break through the frenzy to a corner of painted linoleum calm.
    “Are you okay?” Emmy is laughing, but she looks concerned.
    I nod, not yet trusting my voice. In this life I have only seen such things in an entirely different context. In my experience, such frenzied swarmings mean only riots, and riots mean bloodshed.
    “As you can see, there’s no requirement that you actually know
how
to dance here. What a bunch of flailing idiots!” Emmy somehow spots Morgan in the chaos and waves her over.
    She’s pushing her way through when the air-pounding song ends and a new one begins. The crowd reacts by slowing, then dispersing. The sweaty dancers look wilted, dejected by the calmer tempo, and they shuffle and spread to the perimeter of the room.
    Morgan rolls her eyes at the deflating scene as she joins us. “Laila, you’re shaking!” She places her hand on my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
    “I’m just cold.” It’s a ridiculous thing to say in the swampy heat of the body-packed gym, but my friends accept my answer.
    “All the more reason to get out and dance!” Morgan half pushes me toward the center of the room, but I resist. More than anything I just want to leave this noisy, crushing place.
    “Laila?” I see in Emmy’s face that she will not enjoy the night if I am unhappy. For her, I decide to pretend. I follow Morgan, my feet heavy with dread.
    Fortunately, the dance floor is less crowded than when we first entered, and almost all the dancers left are girls. But justas my little group finds a space and we form a small dancing circle of our own, the music changes again. To my ears, the song is hardly different from the one that cleared the space, but the crowd hears something that I cannot. People surge back to the floor, and once again I am being pummeled and suffocated.