{"product_id":"we-are-all-we-have-isbn-9780593120231","title":"We Are All We Have","description":"\u003cb\u003eWhen a teenage girl’s single mom is taken by ICE, everything changes—all of her hopes and dreams for the future turn into survival.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeventeen-year-old Rania is shaken awake in her family's apartment in Brooklyn. ICE is at the door, taking her mother away. But Ammi has done everything right, hasn’t she? Their asylum case is fine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis was supposed to be Rania’s greatest summer: hanging out with her best friend, Fatima, and getting ready for college in the fall.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut now, none of that is certain. Now, along with her younger brother, Kamal, and a new friend, Carlos, Rania must figure out how to survive. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn this vivid exploration of what happens when the country you have put your hopes into is fast shutting down, award-winning author Marina Budhos shows us how one girl bursting with dreams navigates secrets, love, and the lure of the open road.★ \"A\u003cb\u003e triumphant tale\u003c\/b\u003e about finding home.\" —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ \"Budhos weaves \u003cb\u003ea rich tapestry\u003c\/b\u003e of words that navigates a yearning for acceptance, love, and the unerring need for freedom.\" —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The \u003cb\u003etightly wound plot\u003c\/b\u003e creates an underlying tension as the young characters’ situations constantly unravel.\" —\u003ci\u003eThe Horn Book\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"[A] \u003cb\u003ehopeful tale\u003c\/b\u003e with a large cast of kind-hearted characters, whose boundless compassion for Rania and Kamal, and sense of helplessness in the face of an unfair and impossible government system, is palpable.\" —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003eMARINA BUDHOS is the author of award-winning fiction and nonfiction. Her novels for young people are \u003ci\u003eThe Long Ride, Watched, Tell Us We’re Home, \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eAsk Me No Questions\u003c\/i\u003e. Her nonfiction books are \u003ci\u003eRemix: Conversations with Immigrant Teenagers \u003c\/i\u003eand two coauthored books, \u003ci\u003eEyes of the World: Robert Capa, Gerda Taro \u0026amp; the Invention of Modern Photojournalism\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eSugar Changed the World, \u003c\/i\u003ewritten 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.I\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBrooklyn, New York\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2019\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey’re coming.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt takes a second for the words to drip into the thick soup of my sleep.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey’re here.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe words make ripples in my half dreams. A lamp switches on and a bright band of light stings my lids. “Rania! They’re here.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wrench up from the quilt, my heart quivering. “Who?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Just come.” Ammi nods to the other bed, where my little brother, Kamal, is sleeping. “Don’t wake him.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeveral 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo. Not us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA woman turns to me, the one with the walkie-­talkie. “Hold,” she says, and clicks off. “And this is?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“My daughter.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Any other children in the apartment?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“My son.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“And your daughter is how old?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA hesitation. “Eighteen.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ammi—­” I start, but she flashes me a cool, forbidding look.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat’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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe woman looks up at me. “We’ll have to see some ID, then.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAmmi gives her one of her charming smiles. “Can you wait just a moment?” She takes my arm and draws me into the foyer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ammi!” I whisper. “My ID says I’m seventeen! Why did you—­”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“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.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m not a baby!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer eyes dart in a dozen directions. “There’s a plan—­”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What plan?” I yank up my sweatpants, worrying the string.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I tried to call Maria Auntie but she’s not home. She’s on a shift.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Why did you say I was eighteen?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Rania!” She shakes me lightly. “You’re minors. You can’t be left on your own.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn our own? My eyes swing around the foyer. Wait. Panic starts up in my chest. Ammi can’t go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe’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.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaria Auntie lives down the hall and is our surrogate aunt since we don’t have any family in this country. She brings us foil dishes of arepas and tamales and we keep our extra keys with her. Maria Auntie is a lot like Ammi—­she’s got hustles and side-­hustles to keep her family going.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Everything okay over there?” the officer calls over to us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAmmi pulls me back to the doorway. “My mistake. My daughter is eighteen in a few months.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe woman gives us a skeptical look. “So you’ve appointed a standby guardian?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes, yes.” She thrusts the folded paper at the officer, who reads it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“And where is Maria Alvarez?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy mother’s voice fades. “Working.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe woman squints at the form. “And who is this—­Lucia Alvarez?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lucia!” my mother says brightly. “Yes, yes! She is home. Maria’s daughter.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh great, I think. Lucia. The biggest mess-­up around. She dropped out of LaGuardia College and got in trouble with some creepy boyfriend.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe officer goes down the hall and presses, hard, on Maria Auntie’s buzzer. A few other doors in the hall crack open, some still with the chain attached, worried eyes peering out. I feel a humiliating burn around my ears. We have seen this before. Men and women in these same jackets swarming up the stairs. Calling through the door. Crying and pleading and then our neighbors were gone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Who is it?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore the officer can speak, Ammi calls out, “It’s us! Sadia and Rania!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe door swings open. Lucia’s eyes are smeary, one side of her curly hair flattened. “Yeah?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the officer explains the situation, she rolls her eyes, as if to say, You guys are always a pain. I’ve heard her complain to Maria Auntie that they shouldn’t get involved with other people’s problems.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere’s a footfall behind me. Turning, I see Kamal in his rumpled pajamas, rubbing his eyes. “Ammi?” he mumbles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy mother looks crushed. Everything she does is to never let Kamal know this could happen. Me, I’m always supposed to go along with her, even if it makes no sense.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Take him back in,” the walkie-­talkie woman says to Ammi, firm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“May I say goodbye?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe woman sighs. “This isn’t a good idea.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy whole body clenches. Every part of me wants to scream: Then don’t take my mother.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAmmi kneels down. She’s in slacks and a crisp shirt, as if for an office, even though she’s been driving all night for Uber. Kamal stretches his thin arms around her neck and nestles in her hair. She’s murmuring to him calmly. I’m furious—­and scared. Then Ammi wipes her eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ma’am?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Just a minute.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ma’am, don’t make this harder.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe stands. She puts something in my palm—­cool and bumpy—­it’s her keys, to the car, to everything else. She draws me close. I smell sandalwood and a trace of coconut oil in her hair, the stuff that I use for my unruly waves. My mother is so young, it’s as if we’re sisters, not mother and daughter. “You can drive,” she whispers. “Remember that.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTrue. Ammi made sure I took driver’s ed, even though I use buses and the subway everywhere. She never lets me drive the car. But she’s always ready to flee. We keep a suitcase packed with a set of overnight clothes and toothbrushes in the bottom of our closet; we never buy too much for the apartment—­one wok, one tawa pan, silverware for four, so we always have to wash our forks and knives after eating. The story of our life, for so long.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut this time, it’s not the three of us, packed up, sprung and ready to go. Just her. I call out, “Wait! It’s a mistake!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAmmi pulls back. Her face has gone hard. “Not now, Rania.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI whimper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In the morning, call Lidia. She knows what to do.” That’s our lawyer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy mother and I stare at each other. A staticky voice comes through the walkie-­talkie. “We need you down here. Another group. A van.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Roger that,” the woman says. “I’ve got some collateral here too.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCollateral.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAmmi.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe woman gestures to Lucia, who grudgingly comes and stands by our door. “You’re over eighteen?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLucia looks defiant. “Just turned the big twenty.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Can I see ID?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere Lucia’s bravado falters. She’s undocumented. The whole family is. She fishes out an ID, the woman scribbles down the information, then gives it back. “Okay, you’ll need to stay with them. We’ll send someone to make sure your mother is serving as standby.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe officer gently takes my mother’s elbow and guides her past half-­opened doors and frightened faces. Kamal flings his arms around me, presses his head into my stomach.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLucia nervously picks at her fingers. Behind her toughness, she’s scared. Just like us. She puts her hand on Kamal’s back. “Thanks,” I whisper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd then we are watching stunned as Ammi disappears down the stairwell, swallowed up in a mound of heads and shoulders. It’s only after she leaves that it sinks in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis was a raid. An ICE raid.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wrench Kamal into our apartment, slam the door, and push down a sob. No. I can’t break down in front of Kamal. Back in our bedroom, I nudge him into bed. Even though he’s trembling and confused, he slides his bare feet under the blanket and turns his back to me. I rush to the window. Down below, several ICE agents mill in the hot glare of lights. One puts a palm on Ammi’s head, steering her toward the back of the van. She glances up at me, to our window. I see her mouth move.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRun, I’m sure she’s saying. 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