Andy and Marty text me around midnight. They’re so lucky. The cops came by their places too. But they’re not grounded. Andy’s mom was fried on Xanax and vodka chasers. She kept telling Lanky how good he looked in his uniform, and actually asked Scarface what happened to his face. Battery acid at a chop shop raid, apparently.
Over at Marty’s, Mister Bubbles went for Lanky’s ankles. When they left, Marty’s mom went bananas, till his dad reminded her how they were arrested for skinny-dipping in a public pool after their high school graduation, and burst into a rousing rendition of “Thanks for the Memories!” Me, I can’t picture my folks skinny-dipping, ever. Naked parents? I’d rather go blind.
Anyway, life’s cool at casa Johnson and casa Pratt. But at casa Sabiri, forget it.
Dad doesn’t say a word to me at morning prayers, breakfast, or on the drive to the Academy.
We arrive in the office at ten to eight. Mr. McGregor fills Dad in about me running away when I was called to his office. He says the incident on Roosevelt Trail is being investigated, and he’ll try to keep it out of my official record.
Dad apologizes for my behavior. “He wasn’t raised this way. Please let us know if he’s involved in any other mischief. My wife and I will support whatever punishment you see fit.”
I want to scream how it’s all garbage, but what’s the point? Eddy can shovel bullshit till the cows come home, and his father eats it up. My dad? No way. He won’t even believe the truth.
“My wife and I appreciate your efforts with our son,” he says, all stiff and grave like he’s holding it together at a funeral. “It’s always a shock when one’s child…” He pauses, collects himself. “We’ll do our best to see that he’s never a problem for you again.” He tries to look at me, but he can’t. He walks out of the office like I’m dead.
I survive morning classes. But when I step into the cafeteria, I smell trouble. Eddy and his gang are hunched over their table, staring at me. For once, I’m glad Mom makes me a halal lunch; I don’t have to be a target in the serving line.
I head to my place in the far corner with the Loser Lunch Bunch. They eat fast and head to the library before the paper bags start flying. But today they’re AWOL, except for Mitchell. He buries his head in his book and pretends he hasn’t seen me.
When I reach my chair, I know why. Two words are carved in the table where I sit:
SABIRI SUX
The gashes are scribbled in with magic marker. There’s no way to get them out. They’ll be there forever.
I want to throw up. I mean, I always knew I was hated. But this makes it real. Real for everyone to see. I have to leave. Now. I can’t let them see me cry.
I turn to go. Eddy’s gang gets up. They’re grinning. I sit down. They sit down too. I spend the rest of the period trying not to think about the carving under my lunch bag, or Eddy’s gang staring at me from across the room.
The bell rings. I dash through the cafeteria doors to Science before Eddy can catch me.
I don’t hear anything Mr. Carson says. Just stare at the yogurt that dribbled into his beard at lunch, and worry about how I’ll get to History without being nabbed by Eddy.
Somehow I make it.
Mr. Bernstein’s moved on from ancient witch trials to “the witch hunts of the Cold War: a time of terror that destroyed the innocent along with the guilty.” He talks about the nightmare of being falsely accused. The horror of knowing you could be damned by circumstantial evidence and classified secrets based on fears, rumors, and lies.
It makes me think of everything that looks true but isn’t. Like Andy’s happy family. And mine. And about things that are partly true, except that the untrue parts turn the true parts inside out. Like what my folks think happened on Hermit Island. And I think about Dad. Things that I know, and things that I don’t know, except in my heart.
All of a sudden, I don’t feel so good. I raise my hand. “Can I go to the washroom?”
Mr. Bernstein nods. As I head out the door, Eddy asks to go too.
“I don’t think so,” Bernstein says drily.
I head down the second-floor hallway to the stairwell at the rear east end of the school. My secret spot is the cubbyhole under the stairs on the first floor. I showed it to Dad at last year’s open house, told him it’s where I do my noon prayers. It’s a great hideout. Way better than the can. For one thing, it doesn’t stink. For another, it’s totally safe: Even when classes are changing, no one can see you. Best of all, it’s never checked by custodians or teachers. I know because last spring, as an experiment, I left a Mars bar wrapper crumpled up in the corner. It was still there in June.
I push open the glass stairwell doors and listen for the sound of footsteps coming up. Silence. Great. I scoot down and slide into my spot. My back slouches into the brick wall; my feet slide forward along the granite floor till my toes touch the underside of the stairs.
I pull my cell out of my pants pocket and text Andy. No reply. When Andy’s in class, he leaves his cell on pulse. I figure he must be taking a test or something.
That’s okay. I melt into the peace and quiet. There’s no one to spy on me. No one to jab me in the back, throw spit balls at me, or call me names. I’m invisible. I close my eyes. My shoulders drop. I breathe—slow, slower—and float off into the private world behind my eyelids.
I’m in the past. At my madrassa. Dad’s smiling at me as I kneel in front of my old teacher, Mr. Neriwal, and recite my first verses of the Qur’an.
And now I see Dad carrying me home. I’m even younger, half asleep in his arms. He nuzzles my cheek with his nose.
And now it’s winter. We’re on the ice rink Dad made for me in the backyard when I was two. I’m in tiny little skates, bundled up in my snowsuit, scarf, and leggings, and I’m holding onto the seat of a kitchen chair. Dad pulls the chair gently, gently across the ice. I slide along, laughing, as Mom records us on video.
Am I remembering what happened, or just remembering the movies I saw later? I don’t care. I want to stay here forever. I’m back in the days when Dad loved me and we were happy.
The final bell wakes me up.
I hear movement in the halls beyond the stairwell. I roll out of my cubbyhole, and run up to the second floor—first, so no one will see my hiding place; second, to reach Mr. Bernstein’s room before he locks up with all my stuff inside.
I pass Mitchell. “Eddy’s looking for you,” he says.
“Where?”
“Don’t know.”
Gotta move fast. I rush into Mr. Bernstein’s room. He’s at his filing cabinet. I don’t look at him, just go for my books. I’m hoping he’ll let me escape, but he doesn’t.
“Sami,” he says without looking up, “next time you need to clear your head, tell me you’re sick, and I’ll write you a note. If you just take off, I look bad.”
“Sorry.”
“And Sami…” He closes the cabinet and turns around, a sheaf of worksheets in his hand. “Sami, if you ever need to talk, I’m here. You know that, right?”
“I do,” I nod. “Yes. Thanks.” I back out of the room, shuffling and bowing.
Eddy’s waiting for me, a classroom away, slouched against the lockers on the opposite side of the hall. He puts two fingers to his eyes and points at me.
“What?” I toss my chin and head to the library. I make sure not to walk too fast; don’t want him thinking I’m scared. Still, I go fast enough that he’ll have to run to catch me. He won’t do that, will he? There’s too many teachers around, aren’t there?
I want to look around to see if Eddy’s catching up, but I don’t. To stay safe, you gotta stay cool.
I keep my eyes focused straight ahead till I reach the library. Inside, I take a study nook by the wall near the book checkout, and start doing my homework.
Eddy watches me through the glass doors. He’s grinning. “You’re trapped,” he mouths on the other side of the glass.
I laugh and blow him a kiss. That pisses him off good.
I can’t wait to see his face when Dad comes to pick me up. A parental limo service: the one good thing about being grounded.
Eddy keeps his distance Wednesday and Thursday. But I see his BMW outside the Academy gates each morning when Dad drops me off and in the afternoon when he picks me up. Dad doesn’t notice. He’s too busy being silent.
Friday morning I find an envelope wedged through the crack of my locker. Inside is a one-sheet, computer printout:
THINK DADDY CAN SAVE YOUR ASS?
WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE.