I turned and looked at my coaching partner. “Quick thinking, oh great sneaky one,” I said, when I was sure Thompson was out of earshot.
When we arrived at the glass door marked “Workroom,” she pulled it open and I walked through. As I started across the small room to the single pop machine, I found my path blocked by another colleague, and I use that term loosely. Sprawled across two of the few chairs in the cramped room sat Rob Holden, social studies teacher. Two chubby hands held the sports section in front of him and all I could see was the shiny top of his head, but I knew whom that pate belonged to.
Believe it or not, Rob Holden had been my American History teacher when I attended high school more than twelve years before. I remember little from his classes except the many times he enjoyed pontificating on politics. Lately he had taken to reminding anyone who would listen that he had taught for thirty-three years, all at Hammerville. But, to be more precise, based on what I knew as both his student and his colleague, he had taught the same year--thirty-three times. Years ago Rob had been the football coach for Hammerville, and not a very good one at that from what I had heard. So he had been induced to resign from coaching, as they say, and decided to take up periodic residence in the lounge, er, workroom, occasionally giving the same lecture he had for thirty-some years.
Over the years his indolence had done his appearance few favors as he had developed a rotund pouch and chubby legs. He looked like an oversized elf who had amassed sufficient fat to survive several harsh winters. I doubt that he could walk the length of the football field any longer, much less jog it.
“Rob, don’t you have something better to do than sitting here reading the sports page?” Christie asked with just enough edge to wrestle his attention from the award-winning journalism of The Sporting News.
“What?” he mumbled and glanced over the paper. He arched a pair of bushy black eyebrows that would’ve given Andy Rooney’s serious competition.
“Well, some of us have some real teaching work to do,” she said. “You know, little things like planning lessons, doing research for our classes and grading papers.”
“Bite me, Christie,” he snarled back, snapping the paper and retreating again behind the printed page.
“Only in that rich fantasy life of yours, Robert,” she said.
Trying to regain some semblance of his dignity, he folded the paper in a show of defiance. “You ought to show a little respect for those of us with experience around here!” he blustered and was out the door. Before the door had shut all the way, Christie and I collapsed on the chairs in twin fits of laughter.
“Here, have a Diet,” I said as I got two from the machine. Between laughs and sips, it took us a full three minutes before we were able to speak without giggling. We used the time to retrace our steps back to my room.
“Well,” I finally managed, “give me your report. I can take it. What’d you really think of the class?”
Christie stopped her laughing and said, “Oh, that.” She made a deal of having her eyes glance around my room. “I guess, I might as well give you the bad news.” She opened the small notebook I had seen on her lap in my room and, flipping past a few pages, she studied her scribbled handwriting. Her eyes scanned her notes and her forehead wrinkled, but she didn’t say anything, raising my anxiety.
“Come on, let’s have it.”
“Actually,” Christie started and then made me wait a full five seconds before continuing. “I loved the hook.”
“What?”
“The hook. You know the bit about adults trying to prohibit kids from reading Huckleberry Finn. That was brilliant. There’s nothing these kids hate more than being told by adults ‘you can’t do that.’ I wish I’d thought of it.”
“Well, it’s true,” I said.
“I know it is, that’s the beauty of it,” she responded. “It actually woke them up. Not easy for this group during seventh period.”
I squinted at her, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Stop looking at me that way. I meant what I said to Thompson. It really was a great lesson. Nearly all the students were engaged, from what I could see.”
“Okay, give me the rest.”
“Well, of course, you know, some of them still won’t read the book, even with your great motivation,” Christie said.
“I’m a teacher, not a magician.”
“And there were three students in the back who were not on task most of the period.” She pulled out the seating chart I had given her. “Tami, Jake Harton and Eli,” she read from the chart. “You didn’t seem to notice. Did you?”
“No, I didn’t that much. Eli’s mom is home dying of breast cancer and he’s got all he can do to just show up. So I’m cutting him some slack. Tami and Jake sit in front of Eli and I guess I hadn’t been looking that way enough.” I paused and then went on. “Besides, Tami’s pregnant and Jake is the father ... maybe. So in the back of my mind, I might’ve been thinking that they’ve got more to be concerned with than Huck and Jim, but you’re right, I still should’ve been paying more attention to them.”
She shook her head at me, her blond tresses flipping across her face. “Dee Dee, I don’t know how you know so much about your students. I know I’ve been pretty preoccupied with all the wedding plans lately, but I’ve got all three of those guys in my biology classes and I didn’t know any of that.”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I guess I got more time than you and I’m a pretty good listener. Sometimes they need someone to talk to.”
“It’s more than that. You seem to know all your students pretty well. You even handled that Rashid pretty well,” Christie kept on. “I knew that we had a student from the Middle East, and I’d seen him in the halls, but today was the first time I really watched him. Have you talked with him? What’s his story?”
“I’ve tried, but he hasn’t talked much...”
As the door swung open, we heard Jose’s unmistakable off-key singing. Once inside, he stopped in the middle of the second chorus of “Take This Job and Shove It.”
“ ‘Cuse me, ladies. I just need to empty the trash.” He moved to the side. In the middle of emptying the can, he turned and looked at Christie. “Did I overhear you mention Rasheed?”
Although a little surprised by the interruption, Christie said, “Yeah, Jose. I just observed Dee Dee’s 7th period class and we were talking about some of her students.”
“Well, if you ask me,” Jose went on, “ I think Rasheed is okay. I talk to him some and I think Arabs are getting bad rap. Rasheed not a bad boy.” He grabbed the half full trashcan liner and replaced it with a new black one.
“What makes you say that?” I ventured.
“Oh, nothing. Just what I think,” said Jose. “But what do I know? I’m just a janitor.”
“What was that about?” Christie asked me after he left.
“I don’t know,” I responded, shaking my head. “He’s been acting strange lately. Have you noticed?”
“Stranger than the normal Jose? Can’t say that I have, but I haven’t given it much thought.” Christie looked around and said, “Okay, you were talking about Rashid?”
I settled back into my chair. “Well, he told me he’s from Pakistan and his mother and dad died fighting against the Taliban,” I said.
“His mom and dad?”
“That’s what he told me. He said his father was in the Afgan police and was killed in a battle in Kabul. He also said his village was raided by the Taliban and every woman was taken out and shot. He was off with relatives when it happened. He also told me he came to this country only a few weeks ago and he’s living here with his uncle.”
“Have you met his uncle?”
“No, I haven’t had any reason. He’s been a good student. Knows the work as well as any of my students, better than most. Comes prepared. Heck, I wish my other students were half as studious.”
Christie turned pensive. “I don’t know, Dee Dee, but there’s something about that gu
y that bothers me. While I was sitting in the back of the room, I found myself watching him. It wasn’t planned or deliberate or anything, I was back there studying the class and would end up watching him. You know the rest of the kids were pretty well tuned into you and paying good attention.”
“Rashid was contributing along with everyone else,” I said.
“I know he was,” she started back again and then paused a second. “And I thought you did a good job of both correcting him and allowing him to participate in the discussion.”
“But?”
“Well, I never actually caught him doing it and I could’ve imagined it, but I could’ve sworn he was watching me. It was creepy.”
“Maybe, my friend is letting her imagination get the best of her. Rashid is from a culture where women are second-class citizens and they are always covered. He’s probably never seen a woman as attractive as you who wasn’t being kept hidden behind a burqa. I’m sure all this is a little much for him. I’m probably a little much for him. It’s obvious he’s not used to forceful women.”
“I don’t know...”
“Besides, my rule of thumb is always give students the benefit of the doubt.”
She raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows.
“At least, until they give me reason not to,” I concluded.
“Maybe, I’m just being paranoid...”
“You think?”
“But don’t you think it’s a little coincidental,” she argued, “that Asad, the super terrorist, is set to be executed here and the first Arab student in forever enrolls at our school?”
“Coincidences are some of life’s little mysteries,” I said, as if I had the answer.
Chapter 12
Yassim used the fingers of both hands to massage his temples, struggling to keep the encroaching headache at bay. The pain crawled relentlessly across his forehead like a desert scorpion, stinging a trail across his crown. He didn’t have time for this, he told himself and tried to shake it off. He had to think and act quickly. Another car would be speeding by any second and then, because of the flashing blue light, would suddenly brake and see what? Three Arab men standing next to a police car!
The squawk of the cruiser’s radio jerked him back. “Harry, come back.... Harry, are you there?” The high-pitched voice of the female dispatcher called out. Listening, he took some comfort in the fact that the woman’s tone conveyed more annoyance than worry.
“Harry Birch, if you left your radio on again while you pulled over to take a leak, I’m going to kill you. I’ve got another call. I’m signing off. If you can hear my voice, Harry, you call me when you get back in your car. Vel, out.”
Yassim yanked the front door open. As the last words were out of the speaker, he reached in and twisted the volume knob down. Then, his fingers probed the buttons and levers on the dash panel and found what he was seeking. He flipped the switch and the strobe sputtered one last blue burst and died. The push of one more knob extinguished the headlights, plunging the scene into darkness. Scowling at his men as he backed out of the car, he noticed their eyes, barely lit by the dome light of the cop car. Before he closed the door extinguishing all light, Yassim noted that both men’s eyes were red, bloodshot.
Forcing a fierce calm upon himself and trying to drive the migraine from his consciousness, he assessed the situation. The men smelled of alcohol, but as he wheeled to face them, the sound of an approaching car came from around the bend. All three men crouched involuntarily. The car, a black outline behind a salvo of blinding white, sped around the curve, igniting the scene briefly like a white hot flare and then barreled down the road away from them. When he was certain it was gone and no immediate threat, Yassim barked his order, “Mohammed, tell me what happened!”
Before Mohammed could open his mouth to speak, the back door of the Blazer opened and the Western woman crawled out, nearly on all fours. The dome light outlined her silhouette and even thirty feet away Yassim could make out the shape of a liquor bottle dangling in her right hand.
“Hassan, honey, is everything all right?” she said and giggled. When she was able to extricate herself from the seat, she took a wobbly step forward. “Say hi to the nice policeman for me and come back,” she called in the direction of the men.
Even in the outline cast by the interior light, Yassim could see that the buttons of her dress were unbuttoned down the front. She took another unsteady step, as if the ground had shaken beneath her, and the bodice of her dress flapped open, revealing the clear shape of a naked breast. “Oh, hi, Yas-s-sim.“
Yassim fought to control his anger. “Mohammed, tell me what happened. There is not much time.”
“Hassan and I bought something to drink back at restaurant,” Mohammed answered between puffs on the Turkish cigarette, “and he and Patti were sharing the...” he paused momentarily searching for the right word ... “liquid,” he filled in. Both men glanced over at the woman who smiled childishly.
“Hassan, did you purchase the drink?” Yassim asked
“Yes.”
“And the policeman?”
“He just appeared behind us with his lights flashing,” said Mohammed. The sickle scar on his face seemed to pulse in the faint light, an angry purple slash.
“He was weaving,” whined a squeaky voice from the ground.
“Hassan, get up!” hissed Yassim. Hassan used the blade of the jambiya to push himself up, his strong, compact body rising with ease. As he rose, he raised his knife so it was propped menacingly in front of Yassim. He took his time, wiping the glinting steel blade, and although the smile never left his mouth, his eyes were hard.
“He was weaving, and I was telling him to watch his driving. Before I could get him straightened out, the cop appeared behind us with that…that flashing light. Mohammed had to pull over.”
“Then the cop came over to Mo’s door and told him to get out,” said Patti, who had stumbled over to where the men were standing. “Hassan and I scrunched down in the back seat,” she looked over to the short man and smiled, “which wadn’t too hard since we were pretty far down in the seat, anyway.” She giggled once. “Then the cop started to ask a lot of questions so Hassan snuck out the other door quiet-like.” She put her index finger to her lips and laughed again. “He snuck around the car and the cop never even saw him.” Her finger slid crookedly across his throat.
“Patti, get back into the car,” Yassim said between clenched teeth.
“But...”
“Patti!” Yassim repeated.
The woman stumbled across the distance back to the car, dragging the booze bottle. Time was slipping away and he had to deal with this godless woman. Yassim turned to the other two men, “We must act now. I will address all this later. Mohammed, can you drive?”
“Yessir!” came the quick reply and Mohammed seemed to sober up and regain his tall, lanky stature again.
“Get back in and slowly turn the car around. We will head back the way we came. I’ll drive the police car and you will follow me. Hassan, help me get the body of the policeman into the back seat of the patrol car.”
Without comment, Hassan put his knife away. He and Yassim grabbed opposite ends of the limp body and slid it across the cushion.
“Now, Hassan listen to me carefully,” Yassim said, his face inches from Hassan. “Follow this row of trees around the bend and you will find my car. Get into the back seat with the boy and tell Fadi he is to drive and follow me.”
Hassan hesitated and then complied.
Forcing himself to focus only on the next step, Yassim climbed behind the wheel of the police cruiser and was relieved to find the keys still hanging from the ignition. As he turned the key and the massive engine roared to life, he thought that at least something was going right. He turned the car and angled it back around toward the pavement; he saw a car coasting around the bend and stop. He recognized the headlights of the Trans Am and edged the cruiser carefully onto the road and accelerated. When his scan of the rearview mirror
convinced him that both cars were lined up behind him, he pressed the accelerator.
The immediate threat had passed, but he knew they had only a few minutes before “Vel”--whoever she was--would be calling back to check on Harry. His concentration on a solution was almost stalled by his anger at Hassan and Mohammed. How could they be so stupid? To jeopardize everything because of alcohol and a woman!
“Do not concern yourself overmuch with future obstacles; solve the problem at hand,” the Sheik had taught them. Yassim tried not to think ahead and continued on autopilot, unsure of his next move when the sign came into view again.
“Findlay Lake, 3 miles.”
He remembered and slammed on the brakes and turned the wheel furiously to make the ninety-degree turn. The tires squealed loudly in protest and the sound echoed off the rows of trees. Looking quickly in the rearview mirror, he was grateful the cars behind him made smooth turns around the corner and their headlights were again lined up behind him. Flipping on his bright beams, he peered at the road and, as far as he could make out, the ribbon of asphalt stretched ahead straight and flat. Aloud he gave thanks to Allah and pressed the accelerator. As he watched the speedometer needle slide to the right, he stole a quick glance at the odometer and made note of the mileage and calculated the distance to his destination. Then his eyes returned to the rearview mirror. He would not let the others out of his sight again
Yassim tried to assess their chances of success. They were not good, he decided. Even though he was furious with Hassan and Mohammed, he did not blame them. It was his own guilt that stung most. After the Sheik’s meticulous planning, to have everything blown away by a moment of foolish distraction, all because he was indulging his memories. His Imam had been proven right again. “Alcohol and women mixed together are only for the weak of mind and will.” He was the cell leader and knew of the men’s weakness. Why hadn’t he been more wary?
Just as he was becoming desperate, he saw the second sign and sighed with relief. He flicked on his turn signal and eased the big car onto the right fork of the road. The others followed.
Leave No Child Behind Page 9
