When I get home, there’s a note on the kitchen table: “I’m upstairs with a migraine. Please do not disturb. Stuffed peppers in the fridge. Love, Mom.”
The phone light’s flashing. Two messages. The first is from Mr. McGregor: “I’m sorry to inform you, blah, blah, blah, school fees cannot be refunded.” I press DELETE.
The second is from the pharmacy: “Neda, Deb here. Don’t take it bad. You know how people are. I’m sure Frank’ll get your shift back once things have settled down. Call me if you need me.”
Frank’ll get your shift back? I play the message again. I heard right. Mom’s lost her job.
I throw open the fridge door, really mad, but before I can get anything, I go dizzy. I sink into a chair at the kitchen table and drop my head between my knees. Mom’s unemployed, Dad’s in jail. Where’s our money going to come from? How’ll we pay for Dad’s lawyer? Will we have to sell the house? Will we end up on the street?
I press my hands against the back of my head. “It’s going to be all right. It’s going to be all right.” Oh yeah?
I forget about supper and go to bed. I have to be rested for tomorrow. I have to clear Dad’s name. Not just for him, but for Mom and me. Our lives depend on it.
Sometime after midnight, I eventually drift off. I wake up at four, drenched in sweat. For the first time since I can remember, I have this need to pray. I wash my hands, face, and feet in the laundry tub. Lay a blanket on my bedroom floor as a prayer rug. Face Mecca, and begin to bow, kneel, prostrate myself, praying in Arabic for God’s blessing.
I’ve prayed the first chapter of the Qur’an so many times, I’ve stopped hearing the words. But now, in the predawn dark, they ring clear. Each syllable connects me to a power bigger than myself, a world of others praying the same words. My forehead tingles. I’m not alone. I’m not afraid. I’m going to save Dad, my family, Inshallah.
Five thirty. Dead quiet. I’ve packed a change of underwear, shirt, socks, and a toothbrush in my knapsack. I leave a note for Mom by the coffee maker:
“Hope your migraine’s better. I’m with Andy and Marty. Couldn’t ask for permission cuz you were asleep. If I’m not back tonight, don’t worry, I’ll call. Everything’s fine. Love, Sami.” I feel a bit guilty about the permission bit. I mean, it’s true, but I wouldn’t have asked for permission even if she’d been awake.
I hear Andy’s car.
I grab my knapsack and split through the backyard. A wriggle and I’m through the hedge, onto the golf course. There’s no moon. In my black jeans and hoodie, I’m next to invisible. Even so, I crouch low and skitter like a ferret to the shadows by the rough. I zigzag across fairways, through sand traps, around water obstacles. Head for the elms on the twelfth fairway. Scramble over the fence. Race to the street.
No Andy.
A heartbeat, and the Deathmobile swings onto the crescent. I dive into the back before it stops, and lie flat till we’re out of the subdivision.
Andy’s pumped, like he’s mainlined a quart of espresso. Before we split up yesterday, I gave him Hasan’s address. He got directions from the cottage to Hasan’s doorstep, courtesy of Google. He also downloaded a ton of stuff: points of interest along the way, Toronto maps and transit routes, things to see if the mission’s a bust, and a list of youth hostels in case we stay over. It’s all stuffed in a file folder code-named Geography: Independent Study Unit: Toronto Field Trip.
“On top, I’ve put a map of the downtown for each of you,” he says. “Note the red star at the corner of Yonge and Dundas Streets. There’s an open-air plaza there, opposite this big mall, the Eaton Centre. It’ll be our rendezvous point if we get separated. Put your copy in a pocket now, before you forget.”
We do as we’re told. Mine goes next to the ballpoint pen in the front pocket of my jeans.
“If you spent as much time researching essays, you’d get straight As,” I say.
“Yeah, well, that’s not all I’ve got us,” Andy winks, his voice a tickle of mystery. As we turn onto the State Thruway, he reaches across Marty and pulls a heavy-duty paper bag out of the glove compartment. “Check my little surprise.”
“What is it?”
“Protection,” he grins. “There’s one for each of us.”
“No way, Andy!” I freak. “No guns.”
“Don’t wet your pants. Cell phones.”
“But our folks returned our cells in case of problems at the cottage,” Marty says.
“Yeah, with instructions not to call Sammy. And don’t think they won’t check.” Andy drives with his left hand while reaching into the bag with his right. He tosses us each a piece of plastic crap. “These are burn phones from Dollar Value. They come with a little time. No subscriber ID. You use ’em and ditch ’em. Untraceable. Exactly what we need to keep in touch, in case Sammy gets in trouble.”
Way to make me feel good. Not.
What with it being midweek, fall, the Alexandria Bay marina’s pretty dead. Just a few retirees in jackets and wool caps, hunched over their fishing poles at the end of the pier.
“Think normal,” Andy whispers.
We buy bait from a vending machine, to make it look like we’re out to catch fish instead of terrorists. Then we make our way to Pier 4, Well 22.
“There she is,” Andy says. “Good old Cirrhosis of the River.”
We stash our stuff, get the life jackets out of the storage bins, loosen the moorings, and cast off. The old man that Andy always waves at is here again, stomping his feet in the sharp morning air. He gives us a nod, blows into his hands. A squint at the sun, and we’re skipping into open water.
I feel queasy. Not sure if it’s fear or the drive-thru McBreakfast. I call to Andy to slow down. He makes like he can’t hear me over the bay breeze. I cling to the side of the Catalina and pretend it’s tomorrow, today’s already happened, and we’re safe.
I’m better by the time we dock at the cottage. Marty commandeers the can for his morning extravaganza. Minutes later he runs out, screaming, “Bats! Bats!” Turns out he disturbed a baby bat hanging off the curtain rod. And this idiot’s going to help me track down a terrorist ringleader? What am I thinking?
Andy goes to the kitchen. When they’re away, the Js disconnect the Chevy’s battery and store it in a cookie box over the fridge. It keeps the battery charged and the car from being a thief magnet. By nine thirty, Andy’s got it hooked up. The tires are a little soft, but good enough to get to the gas station up the road.
He opens the trunk and takes a wrench and a tire iron out of a plastic crate. He whaps each of them against his hand. I hope he’s not planning to play hero. All the same, he’s the only one of us who can take care of things in a jam.
Andy’s pants are a maze of zippers and Velcro; they’re the Swiss army knife of khakis. He slips the wrench down a side pocket along his calf, and slides the tire iron under the driver’s seat. I pretend not to notice.
We lock up the cottage and double-check the dock to make sure the Catalina’s secure. I take a last look at the waterfront. Will I ever see it again?
“Sammy, get your ass in gear,” Andy hollers.
And we’re off.