Three days later, I’m sitting in the school cafeteria at the Murder Corner (that’s what Dan calls it) under the water stain. The room smells strongly of greasy cheese and overcooked vegetables. Even though I’m here every day, it still takes effort to think around the sounds of plastic trays banging and students talking. Last week, Mrs. Mulligan said she could make arrangements for me to stay on the playground or in the library instead of being in here, but I don’t want to create a fuss. Besides, Dan sits with me now during the lunch period.
Dan returns, carrying his tray piled with pasta in a thick yellow sauce (evidently a school favorite—I’m curious to try it after Ramadan), a carton of milk, and a small ice cream. He dumps his backpack on the floor, sits across from me, and tears open the ice cream first. “I brought my dad’s old combat boots for our trade. Mom said that I should get rid of them.”
“You sure he won’t mind?” It seems strange to me that anyone would want to give up a pair of good combat boots. Those shoes can last years if they’re treated well. My plar was always proud of his.
“He doesn’t care.” Dan rolls his eyes and rubs his sleeve against his nose.
“All right…” I pull my legs up on the bench and tuck my feet under my thighs. “I have the Game Informer magazines. We’ll swap at practice.”
“Cool. Any news from Layla about the figurines?”
“Yes.” The table next to ours breaks into crazy laughter, and I have to lift my voice to a shout. “Layla said Mr. Byrne gave her fifty dollars for the fisher boy, forty-five for the kids holding hands, and fifty for the shepherdess.”
“Nice!” Dan lifts his hand for a high five.
I hesitate, then half stand so I can reach across the table to lightly smack his palm. As I sit again, I can’t help feeling a bit pleased. My third trade—iPod for figurines—and fourth trade—selling them to Cobwebs—are done. We’re nine days into Ramadan, and right now I feel more clearheaded than hungry. Baba brings home plenty of nice food from the restaurant, so we have enough to eat in the evenings. I have to stay up later than normal for iftar and tarawih prayers, which means I’m more tired during class, but I’m doing okay. Baba is still quieter than he used to be, but he doesn’t seem to be much worse, so if all goes according to plan, he’ll be back to normal after Ramadan when I give him the rebab. For once, everything feels like it’s falling into place.
Between bites, Dan asks about our game plan for the soccer match this afternoon. We brainstorm ideas—me drawing diagrams in my notebook—until the first bell goes off with a loud bbbbrrring. Students burst into action, and the cafeteria volume lifts another notch. Two teachers start giving orders.
“Be right back,” Dan says, taking his leftovers and hurrying to the washer lady. While he is fighting his way to the window where they return their trays, I stand and tug on my backpack, thinking, as always, about my trades. I tap open my note app and look through them again. Layla will be bringing the money from Mr. Byrne to practice. I’ll have to hide it from Baba—maybe under my mattress? And I’ll have the boots from Dan—I could stash them under my clothes in the closet to keep them a secret.
Someone separates from the mob by the door. It’s Peter, coming toward me. My stomach sinks, and I glance around for Dan, wanting to leave. He’s passing his tray to the lunch lady now. It would be rude to go without him, but Peter’s getting closer.
“How’d you like that iPod, Samantha?” Peter calls. He’s carrying his backpack by the strap, and he flicks my Man United key chain with his other hand.
I keep my mouth shut. Teachers say if you let people like Peter speak their minds, they’ll leave you alone. That isn’t how it worked in Turkey or Afghanistan, but maybe it will work in America. If I ignore him, Peter might just move on.
I can’t help glancing at the key chain again. Baba’s eyes were so sad when I told him I’d lost it. If the money weren’t for the rebab, it would not have been worth the cost.
“What? You not talking to me anymore?”
I stare past him, wearing the blank expression I used during the smuggling and border crossing. Peter’s between me and the door. I have no exit. My neck starts to sweat, but I concentrate on staying mute.
“I just want to know, what have you been listening to on the iPod? The audio is great, right?”
His taunting voice begs me to react. He wants to crow. If I agree that the iPod worked, he bullied me and he wins. If I say that the iPod didn’t work, he tricked me and he wins. If I do nothing, maybe he’ll find someone else to goad. I won’t look at him.
Dan hurries over, grabbing his backpack from the table without a glance at Peter. “Come on, Sami. We’re going to be late.”
“Your best bud was just about to tell me about his favorite bands,” Peter says, turning his attention to Dan. He flicks the key chain again. “Assuming they have bands in whatever desert he crawled from.”
“Back off, Pete.”
“I’m just trying to have a conversation! Why did you even pick this guy for the team?”
The team. Even though Dan told Peter I’m not a replacement, Peter’s angry that I took what he sees as his spot.
Peter pokes me in the chest. I let him. “Is there an on switch somewhere?”
Dan smacks Peter’s hand down. “I said back off.”
The air has tightened, an explosion ready to happen. Other kids separate from the crush by the door to come our way. They look curious, excited—spectators hoping for a scene. If Dan doesn’t cool off, we’re all going to get in trouble. My mor used to say, Once you lose your head, you’ve lost the battle.
“Dan, stop,” I murmur under my breath.
“What are you so wound up about, Danny Boy?” Peter goads. “You’re both such retards. An iPod for a key chain? You were totally asking for it!”
“You’re a flipping jerk!” Dan jabs a finger at Peter. “But guess what, loser?”
I sense what Dan’s about to say. I try to cut in. “Dan—”
“I fixed the iPod, and Sami just made over a hundred dollars off it.” Dan crosses his arms and grins. “So who’s the real idiot?”
Frustration crackles through my chest. “Dan.”
“What?” Peter scowls. “You did what?” His eyes turn back toward me.
About ten kids have gathered in a semicircle now, trapping us in the corner, Dan and me with our backs against the wall. They jostle each other, and Peter notices his audience.
“What’s happening over there?” Mrs. Mulligan calls, spying our huddle. She shoos the last of the other students out. “Time to go to class!”
“You’re a dirty cheat!” Peter shoves me so hard I stumble. “If the iPod works, I want it back. That’s not a fair trade!”
Dan pushes Peter away. “He can’t get it back, bacon brain.”
“Then give me the money,” Peter demands, looking straight at me instead of Dan.
I shake my head.
He leans in. “You wanna know what we do to people like you, bomb lover?”
Bomb lover. A loud rush swells in my ears.
Glass shattering across the yard, Baba’s face as he reaches for me, a hollow roar that freezes me in place, and my plar—my mor—
“Shut up!” Dan snaps.
“What’s going on?” Mrs. Mulligan says, making a gap in the kids.
I shrink back from her, from them all. My throat has gone drier than dust.
“We’ll see who’s the idiot,” Peter hisses at Dan. His eyes flick to me. “You don’t belong here, terrorist.”
“The Taliban have claimed the attack,” the Afghan policeman says. Baba’s fingers dig into my shoulder …
Peter raises his voice. “Give me my iPod!”
“Hey, everyone, calm down.” Mrs. Mulligan steps between us. She’s wide enough that Peter has to retreat. “What’s this about? Why aren’t you all in class?”
Some of the watching kids sneak away. It takes concentration for me to focus on what’s being said. My skin turns prickly and cold, and I rub the scar on my arm again and again.
“He stole my iPod,” Peter says, nodding toward me. “He stole it and won’t give it back.”
“You’re a filthy liar!” Dan shouts.
“Calm down, Dan,” Mrs. Mulligan scolds. “Everyone, take a deep breath.”
She waits, hands on hips, for a few seconds. I try to breathe, but it’s hard. Is being accused of stealing enough to get me deported to Turkey—or even Afghanistan?
Mrs. Mulligan inhales and exhales loudly. “So he stole it, did he, Peter?”
“I saw him going through my backpack last Thursday. I just didn’t realize he’d taken it until today.”
“Is that so?” Mrs. Mulligan lifts an eyebrow at him. “Peter, do you know where I was sitting on Thursday?”
“Uh…”
“Right where I always do. There.” She points to a nearby table, the one that gives a good view of the whole room. “I saw you hand over an iPod.”
“Uh…”
“Ha!” shouts Dan, triumphant.
My heart gives a feeble beat.
“However”—Mrs. Mulligan shoots Dan a look—“you all have created a significant disruption. We need to talk to Principal Myers about this.”
“But—” Dan protests.
“That’s not—” starts Peter at the same time.
“No complaining. Come on.” Mrs. Mulligan points us out the door.
As he falls into step beside me, Peter leans over to whisper, “Who do you think they’re gonna believe caused this—me or ISIS Junior?”
When he straightens, he’s already smiling.
TRADE LOG
Days: 20
Have: $145
Need: $555
PLANNED TRADES:
Game Informer magazines for combat boots (Dan)
COMPLETED TRADES:
1. Manchester United key chain -> iPod
2. Coins -> Game Informer magazines
3. iPod -> Figurines
4. Figurines -> $145