Free The Vow by Jessica Martinez Page A

as good as yours. And with my hair being light, people are going to think I am American, and I’ve heard American women get treated really badly—”
    “Stop it!” I say, sitting up quickly. “You’re freaking yourself out for no reason.” I take a deep breath, listen to my heartbeat thunder in my ears. “Dad wouldn’t take us back there if it was unsafe, or if life was going to miserable for you.”
    She’s silent. I’m pretty sure neither of us believes me.
    “I think I’ll have to wear a hijab ,” she says. “Right?”
    “It’s not like it’s the law,” I say, knowing that’s not what she’s asking. Sarina understands the differences between laws and customs. Mom used to wear one before we moved, but only out in public.
    “It’s okay,” she says with a convincing resolve. “I can do it. I probably should’ve been doing it here anyway.”
    Usually her religious resolve pisses me off, but tonight it just depresses me.
    “Maybe Mom will be happier there,” she says softly. “Do you remember if she was happy before?”
    I shake my head. How is a ten-year-old boy supposed to know if his mom is happy?
    “Maybe becoming more devout will make her—”
    “I don’t think Mom’s problems have anything to do with Islam,” I interrupt. “And I don’t think they can be fixed by it either.”
    We sit in silence and wonder the unthinkable. Is it Dad? Is it us?
    “I want something different,” Sarina says finally. “I don’t want to be . . .”
    “You’re not like her,” I mumble. It’s the truth, too. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Something heavy is pressing down on my chest, and above us, Mom is still crying. Their bedroom door slams. Dad’s footsteps travel over our heads and down the stairs.
    “I think I’m going to go punch him in the face,” I say.
    “Right. It’s not like he has a choice about any of this.” She starts spinning again.
    I snort, then roll over onto my side so I can see out the window into the Dubrowskis’ backyard. “Of course he’s got a choice. He’s just not looking for a job in the States.”
    “He said there’s nothing here,” she says.
    “No, he didn’t.”
    “After you left to get Annie, he said he’d been looking for a while. I think all that positivity about the interview in Jordan is just a show. For us, I mean. He must feel like he’s letting us down, but I bet he’d stay if he could.”
    Looking for a while. He saw it coming. How long has he been watching me work like a dog for the American dream, knowing full well it isn’t mine to earn? She’s wrong. He isn’t thinking of us at all.
    I try to focus on her face, but I can’t catch her features. She’s still spinning. “Seriously,” I say, “don’t make yourself puke.”
    “I won’t. I don’t get dizzy.”
    “Everybody gets dizzy.”
    “Not ballerinas,” she says.
    Those words hang between us like smoke.
    “Oh,” she says. That’s all, but that puff of air is enough to blow it all away. “There probably aren’t ballet studios and stuff like here. Right?”
    “I don’t know,” I say, but I do know.
    She doesn’t say a word. She knows too.
    “If it makes you feel any better, I’m pretty sure my basketball career is over.”
    Still nothing. I can’t think of anything else to say.
    “We’ll be the weird ones again, won’t we?” she says.
    “Yeah.”
    “They probably hate Americans.”
    “I don’t know. Dad says they love Americans and hate America, but I’m not buying anything from him anymore.”
    Mom has stopped. Maybe she’s asleep.
    “I’m scared.” Sarina’s voice is thin, like a ribbon of smoke twisting up from the spinning chair. Like she’s on fire.
    I liked it better when I thought she was oblivious. “You know what I’m not going to miss? You know on the first day of school, when the teacher reads out everyone’s full name?”
    Silence.
    I close my eyes and replay that moment, seven times over for seven years. I hate that