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Informationen zum Autor MARINA BUDHOS is the author of award-winning fiction and nonfiction. Her novels for young people are The Long Ride, Watched, Tell Us We’re Home, and Ask Me No Questions . Her nonfiction books are Remix: Conversations with Immigrant Teenagers and two coauthored books, Eyes of the World: Robert Capa, Gerda Taro & the Invention of Modern Photojournalism and Sugar Changed the World, written with her husband, Marc Aronson. Budhos has received an NEA Fellowship in Creative Writing and has been a Fulbright Scholar to India and was a professor of English at William Paterson University. Visit her online at marinabudhos.com. Klappentext After her mom is taken by ICE, seventeen-year-old Rania's hopes and dreams for the future are immediatly put on hold as she figures out how take care of her younger brother and survive in a country that seems to be closing around them. Leseprobe I Brooklyn, New York 2019 Chapter One They’re coming. It takes a second for the words to drip into the thick soup of my sleep. They’re here. The words make ripples in my half dreams. A lamp switches on and a bright band of light stings my lids. “Rania! They’re here.” I wrench up from the quilt, my heart quivering. “Who?” “Just come.” Ammi nods to the other bed, where my little brother, Kamal, is sleeping. “Don’t wake him.” “Of course,” I grumble. I punch my pillow and force myself to get up. Kamal is protected. He’s sensitive. Don’t let him hear. With me, her voice is flat, practical. I follow her out of the bedroom; she’s still in her jacket from work—a black windbreaker that makes a rubbing noise as she walks. The keys are still in the open door. She hasn’t even pulled out her sofa bed. Several people are crowded outside our apartment. The fizzing, garbled sound of a walkie-talkie from the hall cuts through our living room. My heart speeds up. They’re in black quilted vests with police on the back. No. Not us. A woman turns to me, the one with the walkie-talkie. “Hold,” she says, and clicks off. “And this is?” “My daughter.” “Any other children in the apartment?” “My son.” “And your daughter is how old?” A hesitation. “Eighteen.” “Ammi—” I start, but she flashes me a cool, forbidding look. That’s a lie! I want to yell. I’m not eighteen for seven months—December. I’m tall, very tall, taking after my dad, so most people think I’m older than I am. I get away with a lot: the teachers who don’t say a word when I come to pick up my little brother; the kids who hit on me to buy them beer at the liquor store. Me and Ammi both stretch the truth when we have to. The woman looks up at me. “We’ll have to see some ID, then.” Ammi gives her one of her charming smiles. “Can you wait just a moment?” She takes my arm and draws me into the foyer. “Ammi!” I whisper. “My ID says I’m seventeen! Why did you—” “Hush.” She sets her hands on my shoulders. Ammi is so short, she has to lift her chin meet my gaze, but she can still terrify me with one firm look. “No time for panic or baby stuff.” “I’m not a baby!” Her eyes dart in a dozen directions. “There’s a plan—” “What plan?” I yank up my sweatpants, worrying the string. “I tried to call Maria Auntie but she’s not home. She’s on a shift.” “Why did you say I was eighteen?” “Rania!” She shakes me lightly. “You’re minors. You can’t be left on your own.” On our own? My eyes swing around the foyer. Wait. Panic starts up in my chest. Ammi can’t go. She’s fumbling inside a table drawer, taking out an envelope. Ammi once showed me the paper inside, explaining, “If anything happens, this is what you need. It’s a standby guardianship form. Maria Auntie will take care of you.” Maria Auntie lives down the hall and is ...
