Aries (#Wattys2018)

Chapter Three

The next morning when Azah woke up, she charged straight to the living room, prepared to interrogate her sister on how much she knew.  But she found the couch already made with all the pillows propped up and the blanket thrown over the back.  Amina was gone.
  She crept down to the lobby in her pajamas, peering around for any sign of life.  The woman and her television were still sitting at the front desk, and watching the same romance film too, if the theme music was anything to go from.  Besides that, the only thing that buzzed through the twelve-year-old's ears was silence.
  'Why, Matío?  Why would you do such a thing?' she gasped, dabbing at her eyes.  Azah could have stood there for an eternity and she doubted the woman would notice, as smitten as she was with 'Matío'.
  Eventually, she just reached over the desk and hit pause on the remote.  The  bespectacled receptionist squinted up at her through thin wire glasses.  She was wearing a hairnet and a severe frown that dug lines into her skin.
  'Hello, little girl.  Can I help you with something?' she asked, her words sticky sweet like brown sugar and honey mixed together.
  Bristling with anger at being called 'little girl', she slammed her hand on the tabletop and leaned forwards menacingly.
  'I've been waiting here for ten minutes while you moaned on and on at that box, so listen to me.  I'm looking for Amina Minhazai, she's seventeen years old and looks a little like me except way taller.  I have reason to believe that she left the building sometime between 6 and 7 AM, so why don't you check the cameras for me when you decide to actually do your job.'
  She sighed, pulling on her glasses chain.
  'Nobody left the building between 6 and 7 AM.'
  'What?'
  'Nobody's been through those doors since yesterday night, actually, maybe your sister jumped out of the balcony.' the woman remarked, turning back to the screen and picking up the remote.  'Now get out of here.'
  Azah stood there for a few moments more before traipsing back upstairs.  When she opened the door to the apartment, the first thing that hit her was the overpowering stench of scrambled eggs - poorly cooked and likely inedible scrambled eggs.
  Ghana Minhazai stood at the stovetop with her back to her daughter, but turned when she heard the door lock.
  'Oh, good morning!' she smiled, 'I thought you had already left for central!  You want some breakfast?'  She held out the pan, and Azah saw it was filled with the cause of the rotting smell: an assemblage of beige-coloured lumps, mixed in with some slimy coriander and covered in black pepper.
  Not to be rude, she accepted, and Mama handed her a plate before sitting down across the table with her own.
  'So,' she started, 'Amina told me about you getting AR as your job yesterday.'
  'Mmm.'  She picked at the smelly eggs with her fork, pursing her lips.
  'She also told me about going to see Abdur at the prison.' she commented casually.
  Azah cursed her sister silently in her head.  Was it really necessary to add that little detail?
  'Did you happen to see Amina this morning?' she asked suddenly.
  'Yes, she left for work early this morning.'
  'I went down to the front desk and asked.  Nobody's been through since last night.  Also, Amina doesn't work on Fridays.'
  'Huh, weird.  Maybe the receptionist fell asleep.' Mama suggested, 'But don't change the subject!'
  Azah didn't have to look up from her plate to know her mother was staring holes into her head.
  'I don't know why you keep going to see that - that murderer - and the only reason I allowed it in the first place is because your therapist suggested it.  But it's been 6 years, and it's obvious he has nothing to say.  There's no reason for you to keep going back, and it's really irresponsible of you.'
   Azah was reminded of her lecture from Amina yesterday, who had voiced almost the exact same opinion.  Except this time it was more disappointed than nagging, and that made it worse.
  Mama sighed, and she realized with a jolt that people kept sighing because of her.  The guard at the prison, her sister, the receptionist, and her mother.  Was she really that exasperating?
  'Are you going to have any breakfast?'
  Azah looked down at her untouched plate, and then sprung up from the table, grateful for the chance to get away.
  'No time!  I'm already kind of late, and my train leaves,' she spared a glance at the clock, 'In half an hour.  So, gotta go!'
  To make it believable, she scooped up the fork and took a small bite of egg, gagging at the burnt taste, before speeding out of the kitchen to her bedroom.
  She threw on a pair of dark gray pants with deep zippered pockets and a white collared shirt that were lying in the middle of the carpet.  She buttoned the shirt with one hand and used the other to grab up her train ticket, the one that the NUR Rep had presented her with the previous day when giving them their KIA results.
  Don't trust people who keep their faces covered.
  After a moment's deliberation, Azah crossed the room to her closet and threw open the left door.  After rummaging beneath some plastic shopping bags, model planes, and old elementary school projects made of macaroni, she found the glittering red pendant and crammed it into her pocket, crumpling the train ticket.
  She took one last, long look around her room; the swinging closet door, the pile of clothes, the unmade bed - and snapped the door close.
  Her mother was still in the kitchen, now cleaning up the plates of scrambled eggs.
  'You're leaving?' she inquired.  'Do you need a ride to the train station or anything?'
  'Thanks for the offer, but I can take a taxi.' Azah responded, already halfway to the door.
  'Oh ... well, when will you be back?' she asked, wringing the dish towel worriedly.
  'If I don't make it past the entrance exams, a month.  If I do, twelve years.  You'll see it on the news.'  She finally stopped walking at the front door, facing her mother.  'Love you, Mama.'
  Azah turned and left her home for the last time, laden down with thoughts, and laden down with a terrible, aching sadness.