Chapter 12

September 11th, 2001

I remember the day the world changed.

I remember it like it was yesterday.

The day we all lost our precious innocence. The day we all realized that the world, and the people in it, were all genuinely disgusting. Before this day, we'd all been in the same mindset. That the world was a safe and caring place full of love and mutual appreciation for our fellow human beings. We were wrong. Even in the Great White North, a free country full of snow, maple syrup, and politeness, there were monsters. South of the border, in the States, more monsters. The other side of the oceans, places where people looked different to us, even more monsters. We couldn't do anything about them, either. We just had to sit back and take it.

For this was the day we discovered nowhere was safe. Where I couldn't protect my friends from bad people and from bad things that were happening. We'd lost. Our precious little kingdom was torn down on this day, invaded. Shown that we weren't even worth the clothes on our backs. Because we were different. Immigrants. Not so much myself and Jaune, but we were still singled out on occasion. It was on this day that the focus shifted from the two European 'rich' kids to the substantially less fortunate. The day it shifted to the Iranian. Emerald.

Because this was the day the towers fell.

I remember it so clearly. The day had barely started. The school year had barely started. And we were left vulnerable. It was all of nine o'clock in the morning by the time we found out. We were in music class. I was sitting there, trumpet in hand, and we had the radio playing on Mr. Fernbank's desk to listen in to the broadcast. We were just kids, what did we know about the world? I remember the look of actually shaking concern on the teacher's face, staring off a thousand yards into the floor and leaning against the whiteboard, the end of a dry-erase marker in his teeth. I'd barely had time to get my mouthpiece in when he'd rushed into the room and flicked on the radio to CBC news.

The broadcast was shaky, and the broadcaster was equal parts nervous and confident, as if they'd been struggling to decipher if what was going on was real or not. I'd genuinely thought it was fake at first. An allegory, by the CBC story artists, famous for their ability to weave tales and songs. This one, the story of four hijacked planes on the same day, was in every way completely unbelievable. Unfortunately for everyone, this was no story. It was real life. And Reality is always scarier than fiction.

But what I remember most is when, at just after a quarter to nine, the fateful words 'and the plane has struck the North Tower' had made us all jump as the sound-compressed audio of the destructive and deafening roar of metal crashing and twisting as the fate of the world changed. I just closed my eyes and sat there, brass hanging loosely in my fingers, one foot propped up against the bottom of my stand and my other heel resting on a chair leg. I remember shivering, and just listening. The broadcaster had gone silent, and left us with only the noise of three thousand lives coming to an end through a tiny, insignificant speaker.

I only opened my eyes when the broadcaster started to gasp and yell again, to look over at Jaune, who sat in quiet contemplation, this sour and pained expression present in his whole body, his arms draped tightly over his bass. He was tense, coiled up like very agitated spring, listening. I envied his resolve at that moment, that he hadn't started to tear up and shake the way I had. He managed to keep his cool, even though the world was changing around us.

But it was only when I layed my eyes on Em that the gravity of the situation really set in. She was up at the front row, each half of her flute hung loosely in her fingers, threatening to fall out at any moment. I don't think she had any control of her body left. I think it had all left her at that moment. The most real and stomach-turning look of fear was plastered on her face. Wide eyed, open-mouthed. I watched her twitch, like she was being slowly and silently electrocuted. She made no movements. I made no movements. Nobody moved even an inch for the first hour of class, as we listened to the end of the world.

I watched Mr. Fernbank use every ounce of strength in the universe to turn around and press the power switch on his radio, cutting the feed and making the room into the single loudest silent room that there had ever been. We all could feel it. Some of us, specifically Emerald, could feel it more than others. I could hear how ragged her breathing had gotten. I wanted to get up and run over to her, but I couldn't. I was frozen in place. Frozen in place at exactly the wrong time. Frozen, at the very moment that one of the other students, a young fool who sat across from Em, slowly and quietly raised a hand to point at her. And I was frozen in place when he said the one word that changed us all. That turned precious, darling Emmy into a cynic. Into a scared, closeted little girl again. And made us all fear humanity.

"T...te...terrorist..."

That was it. That was the turning point. Everyone was evil. And now we knew it. I was in shock. I couldn't move. I wanted to. He'd only said one word. But it was enough. Enough to get his point across. I watched as Em's eyes flickered between him, the ground, and the phone her mom had given her, up on her music stand. She'd been told to keep it handy in case her mother needed to call her and let her know what was going on with her dad. God, I wish I could have reacted. I'd have had Emmy up and out of the school before the attack had even begun. But instead I sat. And watched.

Emmy was waiting for a call. A call that might change her entire life. Since early in the morning when the four planes had been hijacked, all flights across North America had been grounded, and all airspaces cleared. Cleared for what, I don't know and I wasn't about to ask. But the unfortunate thing about this was that it meant her dad was now stuck in Houston. He couldn't go anywhere. He couldn't fly his plane.

Emerald's dad was a commercial pilot, you see. And a very good one. Before Em was born, he'd been one of the top aerobatics pilots in the Iranian Air Force, and a prominent flight instructor with thousands upon thousands of hours behind the controls of the SU-25 Grach. Probably the only pilot to turn the fairly heavy and ungainly Russian aircraft supermaneuverable. After ten years of loyal service and countless promotions, he retired, got married, and settled down to become an airline pilot, most recently with Air Canada, operating out of our nation's capital. He was a damn good pilot and a damn good man.

So when we found out what had happened to him in Houston, it destroyed us all. Coming out of the bathroom, after changing into his uniform, he'd been apprehended. Like most Iranian men, and indeed most Muslim men, he wore a fairly simple prayer cap, his favourite being a blue knit one made by his wife. And on that day, that was what he was going to be wearing under his pilot's cap. His uniform, pressed and neatly lint-rolled, had just been put on. His tie, straightened by years of his wife's fussing, and his prayer cap, gently on his head like he would have done any other day of the week and before any other flight.

But coming out of that bathroom, unbeknownst to him, there was a world-altering amount of sorrow in store for him. Two men, feeling particularly patriotic, although that's merely a stand-in for xenophobic in this case, decided it would be right to place him under citizen's arrest. In typical Texas fashion.

He'd been beaten, thrown to the ground, kicked in the head. Kicked in the stomach. Had his prayer cap torn off and then torn up. The gentle man had been savagely attacked, and no self-respecting police officers, air marshals, or security guards stepped in to help. Quite the opposite in fact. Several self-disrespecting members of authority joined in. And handcuffs were applied. Three sets of them. To Em's dad. He was brutalized, had one of his arms broken, seven of his ribs broken, and his jaw knocked out of alignment, giving him his trademark crooked smile. A good man, and innocent man, was attacked that day, just for looking vaguely middle-eastern in an airport.

To thunderous applause.

So when I heard that other student utter those three fateful syllables, I wanted to snap. I wanted to scream and shout and hit him until his lungs stopped cycling and his heart stopped pumping. There existed too many monsters to count, and to reliably vanquish in my lifetime. For those monsters now consisted of the rest of the entire world. And I didn't want that. I just wanted to wrap poor Em in my arms and never let her out of my sight.

So when I heard Jaune's chair move, I was scared. I didn't have time to react as he stood up. As his bass fell from his lap and onto the floor, face-first. I remember the sound of the bridge crunching, and the saddle and pins snapping out as the four strings came flying out. I watched him step on it as he crossed the room. I'd locked up. Emmy had locked up. But Jaune hadn't. And as he stepped through the three rows of chairs and cheap metal music stands, knocking everything out of his path, the poor fool never saw it coming.

To be fair, I never saw it coming either. Jaune was always so laid back and relaxed, I thought. Nothing ever bothered him. Not whenever Em or I would jump into his lap, smack him with stuff, or beat him at Super Smash did he ever react poorly. He just didn't. He didn't have an angry bone in his body. Or so I thought. As it turned out, quite a lot of stuff bothered him, and he had very few avenues to express it. So he'd taken up Taekwondo, like most of his fellow male classmates, and he'd been doing it for a surprisingly long time. Since fifth grade, without us knowing. I'm not disappointed that he didn't tell us. It's a pretty brutal sport for a child to be participating in. Maybe that was why we'd never been invited to his tournaments or his exhibitions. I think it was because he didn't want us to see him get violent with anyone, body padding or not.

But today I knew he'd had enough standing in the wings, just letting the play continue without him. Today he'd decided to do something. Someone had mad him angry, and they were about to understand that there were consequences related to that. Emerald was just an innocent child. So were the rest of us. But innocence only went so far. When someone broke that precious innocence, they would face retribution. Whether that would be at the hands of the school's disciplinary department or Jaune's was merely a matter of timing. Mr. Fernbank clearly wasn't in any state to do anything, and I don't think Jaune necessarily was either, but it was him who moved first. And when he did, we all had to bear witness.

And he grabbed the poor fool by his collar, and tossed him to the ground. And since he'd been in Taekwondo for the better part of four years, he'd been taught how to throw a punch. In fact, he'd been taught how to continue to throw them until either his opponent yielded or his own arm snapped. And with the look in his eyes, which was clearly completely hazed over, my bet was that he would continue even after his arm would break. It was at this point Jaune's innocence had left him. It was gone with the first hit. Square in the mouth. I think the fool had tried to cry out, but the next impact took away his ability to do so, as a punch right to the base of the ribcage generally did just that, taking his wind away and leaving him struggling for breath as another punch crossed the side of his face.

I don't remember how many times Jaune punched him, but I remember it being a lot. I remember looking helplessly to the teacher, who seemed to just be watching quietly from his spot on the edge of the room. I realized much later that what he was doing was counting the hits, waiting for a moment when the number of punches equaled the appalling comment made in poor Emerald's direction. That way he could ensure that the fool could be justified in getting what he deserved and would need no more punishment, and Jaune would get off on 'self defense' punishments, which usually didn't extend further than a one or two day suspension.

I remember finally letting my voice out and standing up, and yelling at him to stop. I remember my trumpet slipping out of my grasp and landing with a dull thud on the carpet, bending the bell out of alignment and crinkling the brass. An expensive fix, unfortunately for me. But I remember that he did in fact stop, turning to look at me with tears pouring down his face, his eyes red and bloodshot. I'd never seen him so angry. He was in anguish. We were so young. As you might imagine, after Jaune finally let go, we were told to leave the classroom. So before any protests could be made, I stomped over, picked up Em under the arms and basically carried her away, her entire being a blubbering mess. She was scared more than she was sad or angry. Because she had realized the same thing Jaune and I had in that moment.

The world will always be full of monsters. It always was, and it always will be. We'd become acutely aware of this, as I pulled a destroyed and shuddering Emerald down the hallway to the main office, one arm around her waist and the other holding her hand, her body desperately trying to shiver itself to pieces. She stumbled back and forth like someone just learning to walk after a paralyzing accident, with no help from Jaune who was just twitching along behind us with his hands in his pockets. I remember the silence, broken only by the shuddering of Em's sobbing gasps, as if the entire city had gone quiet in anticipation. Keep in mind that only one tower had been hit at this moment. It wouldn't be another two hours until the second one would go. So we'd only been exposed to one half of the tragedy, and yet here we were. Broken, alone.

So the moment we got into the office, to a room full of panicking members of faculty, a collection of phones ringing off the hook by parents obviously wanting to tear a strip out of someone, and a school official seemed like the weakest link to them today. Why were their kids still at school? Why wasn't there a lock-down? How many middle-eastern students were at the school? Had they already been locked up? Somebody was to blame, right?

It took a long minute to get Em sitting down again in one of the vaguely uncomfortable cloth chairs I was fairly familiar with from my occasional schoolyard scrap with whatever bully faction was currently picking on me. But pretty much the instant she was sitting down, I remember the intensity to which she ripped off her shawl and tossed it to the ground, staring down at it with a burning look. And them I remember reaching down to pick it up, only for her to shove it out of my hands and back to the ground.

"No, that's not who I am..." she blubbered out. "I'm not a label. I'm not a religion. I'm not one of them."

"No, of course you're not." I remember trying to clarify.

"I'm Iranian, not Afghani."

As if it mattered.

"Em, being from a place doesn't automatically make you a bad person, you're a good person no matter where you're from. Bad people come from every country on Earth, and there's nothing we can do about it."

It would take a lot more than a quick pep-talk from me to set her straight, and I knew that. I knew she wasn't going to suddenly perk up and say 'Yeah, Weiss. You're right. I just need to look on the bright side!'. Because unfortunately for us, someone had extinguished the light, leaving both sides dark and without colour. We'd been forsaken. And as Emmy dropped her head against my chest, I just held her in, so that even as alone as we were, we'd at least have each other.

"I want you to remember you're valuable. You're not anything like the bad people in New York, Em. No one but them is."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means..." I tried to come up with something reassuring. I failed. "...That everyone is good at heart, but some people just sort of… aren't."

Normally I was a lot better with words. But I was trying my hardest not to cry, and to keep Em talking so she didn't collapse onto the floor and have a seizure or something. I couldn't imagine the kind of pain she was in. And from the way she was shaking, I don't think it was localized, either.

"I should have stayed home today."

"That wouldn't have changed anything, Em. You'd have had the same problem tomorrow."

"I want my mom."

"I know." I reached into the pocket of my hoodie and pulled out Em's phone, which I had grabbed off the music stand when we'd left the room. "Why don't we call her?"

She didn't say anything more, so I went ahead and did it for her, sliding the top half of the phone up to reveal the buttons. I remembered that she had her mom on speed dail setting one, so I held the key down until the screen flashed the 'calling' icon and held the phone out to her. She sniffled a few times as it rang quietly, almost too quiet to be heard through the panic of the office. But unfortunately for us, we got no answer.

"D-dail tone..." she said, through a heavy breath.

"We'll try again." I said, doing just that. Again, no answer.

We didn't know about what was happening to her father just yet. Only that her mom wasn't answering the phone. All we knew was that his flight had been grounded. Well, we knew why. The entire world knew why at this point. And as was the norm when all flights across the continent were grounded, we knew he'd be stuck in The States for a while. We just didn't know in what condition. But it was about this time that Em's mom was finding out in what condition. Specifically, the condition of 'arrested' and 'in protective custody'. Protective for who, I wondered. Of course, in American English, that means 'handcuffed to a hospital bed, surrounded by cops'.

Of course, we wouldn't get through to her mom until much later, when she got home. She was out. Downtown. At the American embassy. Demanding to know what was happening to her husband. She would stay there until one or two in the morning, yelling and screaming until she could yell or scream anymore. She didn't get any answers, of course. It took about twenty minutes for my sister to show up to get us. But just me and Em, Jaune's mom had already called him to tell him she was on her way. He knew he'd be suspended. Of course he would. Nobody really talked about it. Not him, not any of the faculty, not even the poor fool he'd hit. We'd all just accepted it as fact.

However, the fool's parents had wanted their pound of flesh, as was to be expected when their child returned home from school with a black eye and in a fit of crying. When they'd approached the school for answers, Mr. Fernbank, the saint he was, calmly explained that their son had started an altercation with another student, yelling and screaming at her because of a perceived notion of how she looked and on the colour of her skin. And yes, Jaune had stepped in and asked him to stop, but received a strong slap in the face. So yes, Jaune reacted appropriately. A two day suspension was justice for them, and Jaune took it willingly. One less monster in the world was good enough for him.

So by the time my sister had come to collect us and driven us back to her house, Em had stopped shuddering. It had taken the both of us to extricate her from the car and carry her up the wonky stone steps to her door, since while calm, she'd become immobile. It had been a struggle for me to find my key to her house on my keyring while also holding her upright, but I managed. I finally got her into a lying down position on her bed, the only place I felt she'd be comfortable at this point, and we tried to call her mom again. And once again, just the busy signal. I remember kneeling down beside her, and just looking at the panicked, pale face of my friend, broken by a word and an abysmal action.

"Emmy..." I remember stroking her hair gently, trying to get her to come back into real world. "...C'mon, you're alright."

And now I was getting no answer from her either. I got into bed beside her at some point, and just lay next to her on top of the comforter. I don't know if she was trying to sleep like it was just a bad dream, or whether she just wanted to keep quiet out of respect for those who'd fallen that day I'd never know since I never would ask. It wasn't my place to know. Now, I'm not gonna try to feed you some political doctrine about how this whole event was some big conspiracy fabricated by the U.S. government, no. I don't buy into that shit. What I do understand is that there are bad people all around the world, and it doesn't matter what colour their skin is, what god they pray to, or even what side of the bed they get up on. This wasn't a Muslim attack on a Christian country, no. This wasn't an Afghani attack on the United States. This was a collection of people attacking another collection of people, and it unfortunately served to highlight which side was the bad side. And that would be both sides.

"No..." she struggled out after what felt like an hour.

"Yeah, you are. You've got me, and I'm here."

"Mmm..."

I was determined to not let the demons in her head control her, whether she wanted me to or not.

"Look, everything's gonna work out. Nobody's gonna hate you, I promise. You didn't do anything. If any of us are gonna get shit it's Jaune."

I desperately hoped he wouldn't, and that every other student would wise up to the fact that the fool had said something so racist and bigoted that they'd learn some kind of lesson. And more of a lesson that the simple 'talk shit get hit' that we've all learned over the years. To my credit, I don't know if anyone ever did say anything bad about dear Emerald after this. Maybe that was just a fear of the fist. And if that's what it took, hey, at least she wasn't about to be called a terrorist again.

"Mmm..."

"How about we get into our pyjamas and watch a movie?" I tried, in a feeble attempt to get her to not focus on the issue.

"Mmm..."

"Maybe we could go outside? Play with Stripes in the backyard?"

"...mmm..."

And she'd devolved into single noises. I huffed, trying to formulate a plan to get her back up and going. She rolled her head away, stretching her arm out to her fingers hung over the far edge and over her bedside table. With a faint movement, her index finger flicked out and spun the propeller on the model de Havilland Beaver on the nightstand. It only revolved maybe once before stopping. Funny, really. The little white and blue bush plane sat in front of a framed picture of her dad, dressed in his Iranian Air Force uniform and cap, taken five or six years before she'd been born. It was a nice touch that she'd put the model in front of the picture, as it had been the first flying-related thing he'd bought for her. A foolish move, as it started her lifelong affliction with flying. That had unfortunately just been cut short.

Her bedroom was littered with posters, but not of boy bands and anime guys like you'd expect most tween-aged girls rooms to be adorned. No, the posters she kept were all different aircraft, with special emphasis on first and second world war models and their squadrons, insignia and colours on proud display. Four large plastic models hung from the ceiling, a Spitfire, a Zero, a Hurricane, and the peculiar looking Junkers JU-287. She also had kept a small diecast model of the Boeing triple-seven her dad flew on a daily basis, decked out in the full Air Canada livery and on a little glass stand so it looked like it was flying at a slight right banking.

Emerald idolized her father. She wanted to be just like him when she grew up. A pilot, flying around the world and seeing interesting places and getting to look down on everyone from thirty thousand feet and laugh at their vertical inferiority. She'd bought every flight simulator she could get her hands on, built models, and tagged along with her dad on more than a couple transcontinental flights. She loved it. But on that day I don't know if I'd ever seen the light and passion for something leave someone so quickly. Like in one instant, it was gone. Her enthusiasm had departed, leaving her body in the terminal, abandoned. It made me sad.

"Em..." I tried. Pleaded, really. "Em, say something. Don't close down like this."

"Mmm..."

I sighed, dejected. "Scheiße."

"I... don't..."

I perked up. That was the first words I'd gotten out of her since the school.

"You don't? You don't what?"

"Mmm..."

Back to square one, then. I sighed, looking away from her again. Her pyjamas were stuffed halfway into a drawer, still open from the morning. Although, it was still actually morning, now that I think about it. It was only maybe ten in the morning. I reached out as far as I could, my fingers barely brushing the soft cotton of her grey p.j. bottoms and matching tank top. And if it was any indication of just how much Emmy wanted to be a pilot, she was the only person I'd ever met with Lycoming branded pyjamas.

It was a struggle to get her into them, too. If you think dressing an infant is hard, try dressing a comatose teenager who's body is locked up from shock. It took me maybe twenty minutes to get her undressed and then another ten to get her redressed, but eventually I managed, pulling the comforter off the bed and getting her head on a pillow properly. It's not that she was fighting me. I think she'd given up fighting all together at this point. It's just that she didn't want to be anymore, and that really killed her ability to move. But once she was back in her jammies, she seemed a little more pliable. But only just.

"There, that better?" I tried to little effect. She just closed her eyes and sighed.

There was only one thing for it. I went for a second dive into her dresser and grabbed another pair of p.j.s, these ones being dark green and plaid. The ones she took when we had sleepovers, that she didn't mind getting crumbs and Jaune on. I tossed them on with haste, kicking my jeans across the room and jumping into bed, yanking the covers up and over the two of us. I wiggled in closer to her, draping my arm over her stomach and having to hike up the borrowed bottoms as they were too big and too long on my skinny hips and my short legs.

"Hey," I said, squeezing her side in my fingers. "Hey, look at me."

Her head lolled over, but she didn't meet my eyes. They traced down to to my cheek instead. It was a start if anything.

"I want you to know you're safe with me."

"Hmm..." her voice came out, breathy and distant.

"Emerald, you're fine. I'm here for you."

I tucked the blanket up higher so it came just under our chins. Off in the distance I could hear a kettle boiling, no doubt my sister making an extra-strong coffee and trying to understand what bullshit was going on around her.

Then, taking me by complete surprise, she rolled over in bed towards me and wrapped her arm around my back and pulled me close. I barely had time to react as she did, her left arm punching its way underneath me and pulling my body against hers. And then she started to cry again. Out loud, this time.

"Hey, hey, shushshshhhhh... it's okay." I tried, pressing my forehead into hers. "It's okay."

"No, it's not!" her voice came out, an insistent yell without any sound. I pulled her close.

"Yes, it is. You'll be fine. We'll be fine."

"How?"

I tried something Winter used to do to me when I was sad. I pulled her head down and gave her a soft smooch on the top of her head. She still smelled like the green hair dye from the other day, with strong overtones of the raspberry shampoo she liked. Her body relaxed in my grasp. Her leg pushed forward and I let it rest between mine. She'd curled up in my grasp. I think she felt safe now.

"I brought your shawl. It's in my bag. If you want it."

"I don't..."

I cupped her face in my hands and brought it up to look at.

"Why not?"

"It's not who I am." she said, her face and the front of my shirt now quite damp.

"Hey, now," I said, giving her a suitable Big Sister look. "When have you ever let that define you? You're not just the shawl, you know. And I know you love that shawl, so why leave it behind?"

"That's all they're gonna see..."

"You know that's not true, sweetie. People aren't gonna look at you funny if you wear a headscarf, a hijab, or whatever you want. And if they do, that's not someone you want to talk to, now is it?"

She closed her eyes, and pressed her face back against my chest. "No."

"I love you just the way you are, shawl or no shawl. Have I ever looked at you differently because of it?"

"Well, no, but-"

"Nope. I'm right. Besides, if anyone does say anything to you, we'll just sic Jaune on them, apparently"

"That's violent."

I sighed. "I know. I still can't believe he did that. It was necessary, but that doesn't mean it was a good idea. I'm sorry, Emmy. On his behalf."

She rubbed her nose on my sternum, probably ruining my shirt. Oh well, that's what washing machines are for. Now, I won't pretend to condemn Jaune's actions that day, and say that what he did was ostensibly wrong or anything, because I genuinely believe that there was no amount of punishment the school could have dolled out for that kind of bullying that would have resulted in a fundamental change in his character and actions. Even if he'd been expelled for saying that to Emmy, he'd have just gone on to say it again at whatever school he ended up at afterwards. What Jaune did, to put it simply, is that that kind of hate speech isn't just not tolerated, it is abhorrent to the point of causing adverse physical reactions in people. You can 'boys will be boys' me all day long, but when it comes to shit like this, what Jaune did was right. But that doesn't mean he should have. But we were damn glad he did.

"Okay..."

"I want you to feel better, Em. How can I make you feel better?"

She shrugged.

"I want my dad back."

"And you'll get him back, I promise. But you'll need to choose something I can actually do right here and now to help you. I'm afraid I'm not omnipotent."

She gave me a pity laugh. "Oh, that's disappointing."

"Sorry."

She sighed. "Hug me?"

I pulled her in. "Kinda already doing that, silly. But I can do this for as long as you need me to."

"Forever."

"That can be arranged."

I wasn't aware at the time that it was possible to get hugged so hard, but I was suddenly enlightened as Em's arms suddenly constricted all the air out of my lungs. I did my best to comfort her, stroking her hair gently behind her ears, the soft green curtains like silk in my fingers. But not breathing was hard.

"Thank you."

"You're quite welcome, Emmy. I'm gonna keep you safe. I love you."

"Mmm..." she paused to sniffle. "...I love you too."

I hummed softly into her cheek. She was a mess. I was a mess. The whole lot of us were. I didn't know how Russel was dealing with all this, but I'm sure he could make do without us. He was tough. In his own way. I think at some point in the first day, I called him to check in, and he'd gone home early to think. As most of us did. And on that first day, Em and I quite literally spent ten full hours in bed, curtains closed and lights off, in fair silence. She fell asleep a few times, waking up with weak gasps and sad tears on her face. I let her be the little spoon, despite her standing six or seven inches taller. All curled up, she wasn't so tall anymore.

I knew it would take a while to get her readjusted to real life. Because of course it would. I'm not trying to make any political statements about who was right in this and who was wrong. Everyone was wrong. But what was right was me keeping Emmy company for as long as I could. And making sure she stayed safe. That meant that I'd stay with her all week at her house. We didn't go back until the following Monday. I only got out of bed on the first day twice to get us food. Mostly microwaved instant ramen in her cupboard and cookies I found in her pantry. My sister had gone home around noon and left us alone, just so she could have some time to herself. She'd been nice enough to leave us some homemade spaghetti in the fridge, which we didn't get around to eating until Thursday. And that was fine by us.

But around ten at night, the day of the attacks, the unthinkable happened. We were lying in bed, as I said, trying to distract ourselves. I was reading a book I'd found in Em's side table, and she was sitting next to me, well, more snuggled into my tummy, but the point stood. She was sitting next to me nonetheless, playing with my hair and trying to braid it over my shoulder. It was silent, apart from the noise of the furnace in the basement.

So when her cellphone rang from the side table, we both nearly jumped clear off the bed and onto the floor. We hadn't expected anyone to call at this hour, so we'd been left unaware and relaxed. The ringtone was awfully specific too, 'Leaving on a Jet Plane' by Peter, Paul and Mary. I looked to Emmy. She'd noticed the ringing as well, and had gone pale.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"It's..." she said, furrowing.

I reached out for her phone and grabbed it. The little screen on the lid had three little palindromic letters on it. I gasped.

"I think you better answer this, Em."

"Y-yeah, I think you're right..."

She took the phone in her hands, unlatching herself from me and sitting up. She flipped the phone open, and very slowly reached for the answer button. She clicked it with a shaking hands.

"Baba?" She said, quietly.

"Hello, my dear." He responded in plain English. The little speaker in the earpiece was hard to listen to, but we managed.

"Dad?"

"My gem, how are you fairing?"

"Fai- what do you mean, how am I fairing? What's going on? Where are you?"

"For now, my love, I am in a hospital in Houston."

I could feel her shaking in the bed.

"Wh-why?"

"It's not important, but I can assure you I'm alright," he lied, but Emmy smiled anyways.

"B-but..."

"Your mother has been fervently trying to reach me. Unfortunately, since I've been placed in custody, she's been unable to get through. And because this is the United States department of Justice, I only am allowed one phone call."

"So you called... me?"

"I had to be sure you were alright, my gem. And my lawyer is already here, so I didn't need to call him. He drove for the last twelve hours straight to come here from Detroit."

Her voice hitched. "What's going to happen, baba?"

"Well, first I am going to get stitches in my head, then I will be doing all I can to come home to you as fast as possible."

"How... how long?"

"I do not know. My lawyer is already drafting a collection of lawsuits for me, against everyone involved. If I am not released soon, they will be filed and I will have to stay to see the outcomes. But for now, we are just to wait to see if they release me with an apology. That I don't believe I will be getting."

"Baba... You... you're gonna come home, right?"

"As soon as I can. I promise."

This time he was telling the truth. His lawyer and the legal team that supported him were all firmly on his side, and expedited the creation and drafting of seventeen lawsuits on all the offending members of the public, and staff of the airport, and the Houston county sheriff's office. This proved effective, as it meant he would be released considerably faster than normal, since no one wanted to cause an international incident. Something we were all glad for. Sometimes even the thickest people can be made to reason. It would be Friday when he'd return, driven up from Texas by his lawyer in the back of his Mercedes. But for now, he was still stuck down there.

"O-okay."

"Are you alone?"

"Well... mom's not home..."

"I heard. Are you by yourself right now?"

"No, Weiss is with me, baba."

Her father chuckled through the phone. "Ah, yes. Is she keeping you company? Keeping you safe?"

Emerald looked to me, and I nodded, placing my hand on her cheek and rubbing the wet spot under her eye. She smiled at me. "Yeah, she's here for me."

Damn right I am, I thought. Emmy smiled, rubbing her face in my hand.

"That's good. I hope she can stay with you as long as possible. I'm going to be a while."

"Okay, baba. I'm..."

"My gem, it's okay."

"I don't want you to be hurt, baba."

"I'll be fine."

"Bad people hurt you."

"Bad people exist everywhere, my gem. It is how we deal with it that defines what kind of people we are. Do you understand?"

"I-I think so."

"Then I think you'll be alright. You just need to be patient, my gem."

"Okay, baba."

"I'll see you soon, Emerald. I love you more than anything."

"I love you too, baba."

"Remember to eat well. And give Weiss a hug for me, as thanks for keeping you safe."

"I will."

"I will see you soon."

"G-goodbye, baba."

The line ended. She closed her phone and stared at it for a moment. I did too. We were just scared children. We didn't understand how the world worked yet. In a moment, I felt like I was eight years old again, naive and frightened, unsure of how to act or behave, and terrified of just how big and scary everything was. But there was a light at the end of the tunnel. No matter what happened to him, Emmy's dad was a trooper, and could pull through and bring himself back to his family. Because it would be a cold day in hell when someone kept Farhad Sustrai away from his daughter and his family. I remember when she'd put her phone back down on top of the covers on her lap, and scrunched up her fists full of blankets. She looked at me for a second, her eyes red and her cheeks wet. Then she reached out to hold me. In any other circumstance, I'd have thought she was going to kiss me.

But she didn't, instead, taking me in her arms and hugging me, her damp cheek pressed against mine. I turned my face into hers and gave her my own pathetic kiss on that very damp cheek, just to assure her that I cared.

And this is how we stayed, probably for the next two days. We didn't go back to school until the following Monday, and when we did, everything was different. Nobody would meet our eyes in the halls, nobody would speak to us unless absolutely necessary. We'd become outcasts, unfairly. Granted, nobody spoke about us in hushed tones, they knew better than to do that. Nobody said anything bad about Emmy, lest they face the wrath of Jaune, and certainly nobody used the T-word ever again to her or any of the middle-eastern students. But no one every said anything good about Emmy either, and that felt to me just as bad. We received no apology from the fool, but I didn't expect one. Like her dad had said, it was how we dealt with it that defined who we were. So we just brushed him off and became the better people.

I spent a lot of time sitting with Emmy at school for the rest of the year, making sure she ate her lunch and did her homework. And when her dad got back from the United States, we had a party. A very big party, with just our regular crew and Em's parents. We had cake in the shape of his pilot's hat. The real item of which she'd taken and proceeded to wear everywhere. To school, to our group socials, and even to bed.

We were there the day the world changed. We weren't prepared for it, and even in the isolation of the Great White North, we still felt trapped. But even with the hole that had been dug, we still managed to climb out. Because we had each other. Jaune and Russel, too. Nobody was ever alone.

We were there the day the world changed.

And it made us stronger.

Together.