My hands shook while bile filled my mouth. Someone just killed my mother!

I drop my phone, and the incriminating photo briefly flickers as the phone hits the floor, cracking the screen in another place. The photo remained. What do I do? Who did this?

“Have a good day at school,” Mother yells. The front door opens and closes as I scoop up my phone and rush to say goodbye, but Mom has already entered her colleague’s car. I stare at her white hijab as the blue Civic merges and rushes Mother off to work.

Do I still have time? No make-up, no breakfast, I sprint to school. The bright red sun leads the way to the closed doors. Flinging them open, I sprint into the empty hall of frivolity where strange odors linger and burst into the principal’s office. “Principal Campbell,” I throw my phone onto her cluttered desk. She glances at the now-dark screen and then back up to me. Frantically, I retrieve the phone and fumble to get the screen back on before abandoning my efforts and explaining in a rush, “Someone posted a photo of me on the school website.”

Her face falls. One of only a few people who know my secret, she knows the picture could kill Mother and possibly me, “Maybe it’s not too late.”

Her fingers fly across her computer keyboard as I step around to loam over her shoulder. With agonizing slowness, she navigates and logs into the school website, deleting the photo from the archives.

“Removed,” she turns to me, eyes bright, mouth down, while her hands offer support.

“How long? Who?” I ask. I attempt to control my panic while my heart and mind race and my hands hold each other tight.

She does more magic, “Someone posted it late last night. Using our generic teacher account. No names.”

I move around the table and slump onto a pile of papers on her guest chair. My head droops while my hands cover my face, but I refuse to cry.

“I’m sure no damage was done. An honest mistake.”

Not likely. Someone did this on purpose. If my phone received the facial recognition alert, so did Mother’s enemies. Images of serious men sitting on planes flicked through my mind.

“Amara, I’m sure things will be OK. It wasn’t up for long.” “How?” My voice cracks. Principal Campbell knows, but she does not understand. The people who put a bounty on Mother will have the same technology as me, and they will never stop because they cannot stop - their religion, their God, demands it.

“To save money, we all share the login. Anyone could have posted it.”

“Anyone?”

“Well, only teachers, I guess,” She moves around her desk and drapes her arm around my shoulder, “Amara, your mom will be fine. You will be ok. It will all work out ok.”

“No, it will not,” I mumble and stumble out of Principal Campbell’s office to join the world of happy girls talking about unimportant things.

“Did You?” Lisa asks as she bumps me while staring at her phone.

“Yes,” I lie. The guilt twinge barely registers against my dread for Mother. My former religion has the same prescription as my new catholic one.

“Video?”

“No.”

She scowls at me before returning to her phone. I like Lisa because her well-groomed, ruthless exterior hides an old, powerful, noble heart. She knows our secret, but she would not tell. A self-centered person only acts in their best interests, and killing Mom and I would not serve Lisa.

Her father would not do it, nor would Mrs. Foley, who hands out flyers in the hall, where Lisa waves them away while Mrs. Foley turns her back to me.

The priest may have done it. He tried to block my enrollment in the school.

None of the staff know, or did one find out?

Six teachers. Who did it? Why did they do it?

“Amara, what the hell? You even listening?” I shake my head and focus on Lisa’s perfect pink lips.

“Jesus, if you’re not going to listen,” Lisa waves a hand in dismissal and strides away.

Morgan and Vivian slip past me, followed by Blonde Isabella. Teagan’s ramrod-straight body bumps me before entering our first class.

Maybe Ms. Barrett? She hides behind a caring facade, but how much can she care, given what she teaches? A sexual education class where she only advises to avoid sex.

I study her for guilt slip-ups. She does not glance in my direction, but her eyes roam the classroom. Her heels click randomly as if nerves overwhelm her. She straightens the paper on her desk, nervous or fastidious?

Finally, she answers our morning questions from behind her long, wooden desk while her right-hand fidgets, “Anal sex is considered sex.”

I disagree, and she appears to also. Her left index finger taps her thigh, maybe an indication of guilt? More questions, more tapping. A small bead of sweat appears on her right temple.

“Having sex with dead people is wrong, and wow, so gross,” as her left finger wipes away the little droplet.

I raise my hand to determine if she did it or not.

“Amara, save your questions for the end.”

I lower my arm and study her. Did she avoid the question out of guilt or classroom efficiency? I scrutinize her body movements, her pursed lips, her leans to emphasize points, and the click of nervous pacing.

We finish the questions, and she hands out sheets about the awesomeness of God. I copy off Lisa while analyzing Ms. Barrett. My gut says she did not do it, but do I trust my gut? Right now, yes.

The bell screams, and girls giggle and jostle with each other into Ms. Water’s math class. Math, something useful.

Mrs. Waters strides across the whiteboard, filling it with symbols and numbers as Lisa directs the class with questions while most girls hold their heads, barely able to stay awake. Mrs. Waters focuses on Lisa beside me while she avoids my gaze. Her concerned eyes do not appear guilty, but an amoral person would not appear guilty. How will I know? Her shoes squeak on the well-polished floor, while the red and black scribbles betray a messy mind.

I put my hand up.

“Yes, Amara?”

“Mrs. Water, I wanted to put our graduating class picture on the school website. How can I do that?”

“I’m not sure, maybe ask Principal Campbell. What does this have to do with Return on Investment Within a Future Value Capital Asset?”

“Nothing, Mrs.”

Likely, not her. But maybe she said that to throw me off her scent. My gut says no.

Two teachers assessed only four teachers to go.

Mr. Ryan stands before us, imposing and stylish. He talks about cells and their function in the body. His firm, soft lips form the complex words, making the unfathomable structures somehow possible. His long fingers point out colored parts of the cell on the blown-up image projected on the wall. His hips twist, accenting his little, brown-clad ass, and my heart almost leaps out of my chest.

“Mr. Ryan looks good today,” I nod to Lisa’s comment. He could never have uploaded the picture. A man this beautiful can have any girl here. But I need to make sure, so I put up my hand.

Mr. Ryan pauses and glances at me. My heart flutters, and I squeeze my legs tight together.

“Yes, Amara?”

“Mr. Ryan, I have a picture. How do I upload it?”

“For Instagram or Facebook?”

“Neither, Sir. School website.”

“Oh, well, I can help you. Meet me here at lunch, and I will show you.”

I nod and stare at his brown loafers. A ridge of faded, off-color betrays his frugal nature. I whisper, “Thank you, Sir.”

“Does anyone else have any questions not about cell biology?”

A few hands raise.

“I was kidding. Ok, the membrane,” Mr. Ryan says as he points to the green membrane surrounding the cell.

Would he invite me to lunch if he uploaded the picture? Maybe.

“You get to have lunch with Mr. Ryan. Be a good girl and show him what you’ve been practicing,” Lisa whispers, grinning like a lioness.

The rest of class goes by quickly, with my focus on his firm butt under his black slacks. I love how they bunch at the bottom, pulling tight before releasing. I do want to practice with him.

Finally, the bell rings, announcing lunch. Girls rush away, and Lisa deliberately takes her time putting things away. I walk to the front of the room where Mr. Ryan sits behind a laptop, now open on his small pine desk.

“Amara, have a seat,” Mr. Ryan says, distracted by his computer. I gaze around, finding nowhere to sit except the desk chairs.

“Are you ready?” Mrs. Waters walks into the room.

“Just helping Amara post a picture on the website.”

Mrs.Waters squints and slowly walks over to us. She holds a brown paper bag in front of her.

Mr. Ryan keeps typing, growing in frustration as his long, slender fingers delicately tap on the keys.

“Do you know how?” Mrs. Waters asks while staring at me.

“I do. I did. No, I guess not,” Mr. Ryan closes the laptop and stands suddenly. “Amara, sorry. Maybe ask Principal Campbell.”

He pulls out a bright blue and yellow bird-covered lunch bag. They walk out together, not touching, but each step falls in sync.

“Chicken,” Lisa giggles from the open door.

“Mrs. Waters arrived.”

“Whatever.”

She pauses at the door, raising her eyebrows, “Coming?”

“Sorry,” I run after her.

Lisa claims to want coffee and a muffin for lunch, but everyone knows she likes Demi at the coffee shop. We jump into her old car which smells of sweat and cigarettes. Her dad has offered her a new BMW, but she always laughs at him.

The coffee shop has a line snaking outside. Lisa strides into the shop and waves at the people who greet her by name.

Demi smiles and begins to pull her coffee. Lisa grabs a chocolate chip muffin from behind the counter. She thanks Demi with a shoulder squeeze before she leaves, waving, and saying hello to a few more regulars.

“Hey, do you know any guys who want a job?” Lisa asks as we climb into her car.

“Never mind, maybe I should have used that kid yesterday to seduce the dude instead.”

I burn at the memory of sucking the cute boy off. He never gave me his number, so I hope we meet him again.

Loud, incoherent, music assaults us as we drive back to school. Lisa’s pink lips sip coffee from the tiny cup in one hand, while her stern gaze studies her phone held in the other, and her knees steer the car as we bounce down the road. This old bucket barely has shocks, so it rides more like a boat riding on the road than a car.

I glance in the side mirrors and spy a black SUV following us. Have they arrived already? We take a right while they turn left.

Now, a white sedan follows us. The men in the front wear turbans and smoke. They remind me of teachers back where we ran from. The car turns right while we continue forward.

We park in board member parking, a spot reserved for her father, before heading over to Morgan and Vivian sitting on a bench near the rusted playground. A few little girls climb like monkeys over the bars.

“Hey, did you find someone?” Lisa asks Morgan.

“Not yet. I have three people to interview tomorrow,” Morgan says.

“I can help,” Vivian says and sits straighter.

“You could,” Morgan comments before giving Vivian the rest of her sandwich. Vivian never brings lunch.

“How goes designing better stuff?” Lisa asks.

“Good. It’s been a fun challenge, much better than trying to make big batches.”

Lisa and Morgan make prescription medicine for underprivileged people. Based on our math lesson yesterday, Lisa says she wants higher-end clients, which does not make sense. This culture and religion confuses me with so many similar things, yet backward.

Lisa hands Vivian the rest of the muffin.

I ponder what I know about the teachers. Not Ms. Barrett, too sweet and caring, and Mrs. Waters and Mr. Ryan cannot upload to the school site. Based on her reaction, not Principal Campbell either. Three more teachers and the priest. I glance at my watch - five minutes until the end of lunch. I have time to rush to the church and scrutinize the priest.

The beautiful, somber church silence wraps around me, promising salvation and protection. I love the wooden pews, the large wooden cross, and the soft, plush carpet. The empty room holds the entire school plus parents. I bow before God and hurry to a wooden door with an elegant golden plaque with ‘Father Leon’ scrolled on it.

I gently knock. The smiling man, wearing all brown, opens the door. “Amara, great to see you.”

A whiff of strong coffee and rose aftershave greets me. My mind blanks. What do I ask? How do I ask? He grips my hands, calming the trembling, “Principal Campbell told me what happened. You are always safe with us. We will always offer sanctuary.”

My eyes moisten, and I stare at his blue, Converse, flip-flops, “Thanks.”

“I’m sure it was an honest mistake. Do not worry, God will protect and keep you safe,” he says and squeezes my hands tighter.

I thank God for providing sanctuary and security in this church.

A muffled bell rings, announcing lunch has ended.

“Thanks.”

“God bless you, my child,” he says as I leave his comfort.

Mr. Bertram wiggles and bounces around the whiteboard. The funny little man gestures at a quote by Vladimir Nabokov, ‘Words without experience are meaningless.’

“So, what do you think? Is Nabokov correct?”

Martha throws her hand up. Mr. Bertram gestures to Martha to answer, “Words convey experiences. So, we can experience them.”

“Interesting.”

Sarah tentatively lifts her hand.

“Sarah?”

“I wonder if Mr. Nabokov means I can know that wrestling is hard, but I can’t understand how hard until I do it.”

“Interesting.”

“But you can know based on how a person says it is,” Martha says and turns to stare longingly at Sarah.

“Sarah?”

“Yeah, but ... it’s like tasting steak or drinking juice. You can imagine it, but you can’t, like know until you do it.”

Martha smiles at Sarah while Sarah stares straight ahead.

“Good point, Sarah. Anyone else?”

I glance at Taylor. She spends a lot of time with Mr. Bertram.

“No, ok, moving on. Open your grammar books to page ten. We need to talk about past participials.”

My mind wanders, unable to understand Mr. Bertram’s instructions. I doubt Mr. Bertram could or would post the picture, but I need to know, so I raise my hand.

“Amara, you have a question about dangling participles?”

“No, Sir. It’s about a picture I would like to post on the school website.”

“Then save it for after school. I can ask another teacher to help you.”

“Yes, sir.” I hang my head and try to read the words about writing words.

I remember Mother and I boarding the plane to come to America. She quickly pulls me through the airport, getting on the long, fat, white with blue strip, 747 plane, just before they close the doors. We sit in our seats, me scrolling on my phone, Mother shifting around, glancing and scrutinizing others as they move and settle. She gasps at each noise.

Exhausted, I fell asleep before take-off but slept light enough that I knew Mother did not sleep. Instead, she fidgeted, stood, sat, and moved around the cabin but always stayed close. The steward asked Mother a few times to sit but took pity on her and did not insist. They must deal with nervous flyers on every flight.

After uneventful arrival in the USA, with long, boring lines, ending with stern, fake smiling, officers’ boring, repetitive, questions, Mother rented a car and drove straight for two days, stopping only for gas and sugar. I practiced my English at each gas station, pleased everyone understood me.

We arrived safe, Mother with her new job and me with a spot in the school, where Lisa remains my only friend.

Mrs. Hayes stands tall, straight, with her flat chest thrust out. “What does everyone think about the war currently happening?” she asks.

I glance at Lisa. She remains on her phone.

“Does anyone know about the war happening?”

I tentatively raise my hand.

“Yes, Amara, I know you know about the war.”

I lower my hand.

“Anyone else?”

I can not imagine Mrs. Hayes posting the picture. She never does anything with technology and often talks about hating modern technology.

She turns to the whiteboard and scribbles with a red marker. English words still confuse me, so I turn to stare outside at the gentle sway of the lush, green-yellowish, tree. It reminds me of Kabul, the way the leaves flutter while absorbing the sunlight. I miss my friends and the love of my life, Hamid. Since childhood, we played, strong and fast, he protected me on the pitch while I helped with his studies. I did not say goodbye, which remains my greatest betrayal. Does he still dream about me like I do him?

“Amara, do you have any insights into this?” Mrs. Hayes interrupts my daydream. I glance at the board, recognizing the words Jihad and Crusades.

“I am not sure, Ma’am. Jihad means to rescue souls while the Crusades meant to rescue lands.”

“Interesting but wrong. Jihad is a never-ending call to war, while the Crusades were a holy attempt to liberate Christian holy lands from the infidels.”

I nod and cast my gaze at my feet, too careless.

“Now class...”

My ears burn while my heart thumps in my chest as I slump down in my chair and ignore the teacher.

My last class of the day, and I still need to find out who posted the picture. I have only poor suspects so far. Mr. Goddy, the worst teacher in the school, whom the other girls claim they only hired because of his name, shifts his skinny legs erratically, in shorts, as he writes on the board.

“Today, we are talking about Zoroastrianism, an ancient religion from Iran. Amara, what do you know about this religion?”

“Nothing, Sir.”

“Strange. Are you not from that area of the world? Did you not pay attention to people around you?”

I shake my head.

“Class, you need to understand the differences and motivations of the people around you. Amara, you need to see me after class.”

I nod. Mr. Goddy and I have had a sexual relationship since the second day of my arrival. At first, he enthralled me with his confidence and stature within the school, smitten with the idea of an older, wise man wanting me. Over time, the shine of our relationship has worn off, and now it feels slimy and unwelcome. I wish I knew how to break it off without getting expelled.

The clock ticks, hammering my ears, while I stare out the window.

“Amara, dinner at our place tonight,” Lisa says as she packs up her stuff. The last to leave, she closes the door behind her, and it automatically locks.

“Amara, the love of my life.” Mr. Goddy beckons me over.

I glance at the door behind me, the thick blue wood seals my fate. Hands clasped, I shuffle over to him as he perches on his creaking wooden chair, chest thrust out, gazing up at me.

“Can you strip for me today? I love you doing that.”

I nod and fumble to unbutton my shirt. My fingers shake, but with diligence, I undo the white garment, exposing my bra-encased breasts, the top of my mocha skin bulging out of the tight white restraints.

I neatly fold the white shirt and place it on the desk. The thick, warm classroom air makes my breath seize. I fumble with the skirt clasp until Mr. Goddy’s strong fingers push mine away and undo it. The skirt falls to the floor, and I dive to pick it up before it gets dirty. I neatly fold it and place it on top of my shirt.

“Turn around. Slower. I love your body. The white looks so good against your tanned skin.”