The Tyrant's Daughter by J.C. Carleson

straw origami—he’s making a stick figure, or maybe an airplane. “What about me?”
    “Are you going to stay in the U.S.? Do you
want
to stay here?”
    It’s a heavy sack of a question that he drops into my lap, and I wish he hadn’t asked it. I have no answer to give him, but I speak so as not to be rude. “I honestly don’t know. I don’t know what I want. It doesn’t matter anyway—going back isn’t an option right now. It may never be.” I blink fast—I don’t want Ian to see me cry twice in an hour.
    He notices. Of course he notices. Those pale eyes of his are like flashlights. “Emmy was right,” he says. “We
do
have something in common.”
    “Do we?”
    “Neither one of us has control over our future. Neither of us has a vote in where we may end up.” He cringes at his own words. “Sorry about that. This conversation isn’t going quite the way I’d hoped.… I mean, it’s not that I’m not enjoying talking to you. I am. It’s just—”
    “It’s okay. I know what you mean. But perhaps next time we should go see a movie together. That way we can’t talk.” I smile to let him know I’m teasing.
    He laughs. We stay another twenty minutes, but now we’re mindfully unmindful—our conversation all banter, controversy-free. Beneath the lightness, though, lies something newly solid. A connection. And then it’s time to leave. We stand up together, again as if our steps were choreographed. He puts his hand on the small of my back as we wind our way through the crowded maze of tables and chairs. It’s the lightest of touches—he probably doesn’t even realize that he’s doing it—but I feel it like an electrical current. I’m too aware of him, too distracted by his physical presence.
    When he takes his hand away, I’m even more bothered by its absence.
    “Can I walk you home?” he asks.
    I shake my head. “No. Thank you, but no.” I don’t want to refuse, but old lessons remain strong in my mind.
    “Then maybe I’ll see you at our hideout next Sunday.” His voice drops to a near whisper as he leans in, his lips grazing my ear. “I like being your accomplice.” And then he walks off, his words still hanging in the air and his touch still buzzing on my skin.

DEFINITIONS
    Mother is sitting in the same spot as when I left, but something has changed. Her ever-present teacup has turned into a glass.
    I recognize the amber liquid inside. Liquor is technically forbidden in our country, but the law is ignored by people who have enough money. This is the first time I’ve seen Mother drinking since we came here, though, and I wonder if the open bottle I spot on the counter is yet another double-edged gift from Mr. Gansler.
    “Where have you been, Laila?” Her tolerance for alcohol is low, and her words sound soft around the edges.
    “The library.” I keep my voice neutral and she nods absently. She has greater concerns than my whereabouts.
    I go to my room and sink down onto the unmade bed—all three of us struggle to remember that we are now responsiblefor our own menial tasks, and the apartment is perpetually cluttered.
    Bastien is sitting on the floor reading an American comic book. What does
he
want? After all, he is the best adapted here—in fact, he has the most to lose, whichever direction our fate takes us.
    “Bastien, do you miss home?”
    He wrinkles his nose at me. “Sure.” His gaze drifts back down to his reading, but he must sense that the disruption isn’t over because he sighs and puts it down.
    “But it seems like you’re happy here.”
    He shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.” For him there is no discrepancy between his answers. In his six-year-old mind, it’s still possible to be equally happy in two worlds.
    I’m envious. And irritated. A wicked part of me, the bullying-older-sister part, wants him to have to choose. “But where would you
rather
live?”
    Finally, he gives this question some thought. “I guess back home.” He grins. “I want to be