“Thanksgiving confuses me,” said Mohammed.
“The turkey and the Pilgrim and the cranberry. Where does it lead, and why are we dancing?”
Mohammed was a Ten and a Half. Possibly even an Eleven. Nobody could better fit the horoscope ideal of a tall, dark, handsome stranger. Laura had often imagined herself dancing the night away with Mohammed.
Now she could see that Mohammed was excellent in all ways, but she could no longer see why this might matter.
She wanted very much to speak to God. How did you decide that a Mohammed or a Kyrene gets to go on living, but not Billy? she would demand of God.
The answer came as clearly as if He had spoken. A terrorist made that decision, Laura, not me.
She thought of the terrorism that had happened in Oklahoma City, and the bombing of the Federal Building, where vicious, selfish, evil doers had murdered tiny children and ordinary office workers. She looked at her ordinary classmates. She could not see them clearly.
What Laura saw, instead, were those who had left L.I.A. Guilty people fled. Were the absent kids, therefore, guilty? Did they know something? Or not want to know something? Or were they just prudent—going while they could?
Is who left important? she thought. Or is who stayed important?
The collection of kids at this table was most unusual: Con, Andrew, Tiffany, Jehran, Eddie, Kyrene, Mohammed, Jimmy, and Bethany. Jimmy had a different set of friends; Jehran wasn’t fond of Americans; Tiffany was too snobbish; Kyrene had always been with Michael.
“You don’t usually dance for Thanksgiving, Mohammed,” said Con.
What a lot of thinking Laura had accomplished between Mohammed’s question and Con’s answer. She must be getting her thinking capacity back. That was good; she had a terrorist to find—but where to start? There were no clues here, just people whose routines had been interrupted, whose friendships had ended, and for whom crowding together for lunch felt better than sitting alone.
“I’ve never heard of a Thanksgiving dance, actually,” Con continued. “It’s because we aren’t home, and turkeys are hard to find in London groceries, and not everybody can go over the river and through the woods to Grandma’s house, so on Friday they’re having a dance to make up for it.”
The Americans grinned because they knew what Con was saying. Nobody else understood a word. Foreigners would never sort Thanksgiving out. It was an All-American secret.
The old sweet tune sang in Laura’s head: “Over the river and through the woods to Grandmother’s house we go …”
Grandma was begging them to come home for Thanksgiving. She herself wasn’t well enough to fly to England. Grandma had to use a walker now because her knees buckled. Every morning she gulped down trays of medication to keep her ailing heart and lungs and joints working. And now her only grandson was dead, and Laura’s parents refused to leave London.
“Because,” Thomas would say hopelessly. “Because … Billy’s still here, somehow.”
Jehran was listening intently to the Thanksgiving discussion.
Jehran had fascinated Billy. Not her perfume, hair, clothing, speech—all of which were exotic and beautiful—but the fact that she arrived at school in a bulletproof limousine. Billy loved that. One of his lists had been Students Who Come to School in Limousines. To Jehran’s limousine, Billy added bullet-proof.
The police had Billy’s lists. Laura was suddenly afraid Mr. Evans would lose the lists; this important part of Billy would drop behind some gray desk and vanish. Her breath caught in her chest, and she had difficulty swallowing and needed to find a telephone and tell Mr. Evans to drive over here with the lists.
Handsome, blond, American Andrew (a definite Ten) leaned across the table and steered among abandoned sandwich crusts to touch Laura’s hand. People were being social workers around the Williamses. The advice from American friends to her mother was: do normal things. Bit by bit you’ll find yourself back in a routine.
Why would anybody want a routine without Billy?
Actually, now that Laura thought about it, Billy had had many routines; he was a person who loved repetition.
“Laura,” said Andrew, giving her a sweet, grave smile, “if you’re ready to get out of the house a little, I’d love to take you to the Thanksgiving dance.”
Laura could not get over that her friends did not see the gaping, shrieking hole of rage that Billy’s death had ripped in her heart. Everybody at this table (except Jehran, whose Muslim family would never condone such an Americanism as dating) was still thinking of boy-girl activities, while she, Laura, was thinking of revenge.
“Why would she want to do that, Andrew?” said Tiffany crossly. “It’s way too early. Billy’s hardly in his grave.”
Laura did not like Tiff, but there was some annoying requirement when you were out of your country that you had to be nice to your fellow Americans. Even if, like Tiffany, they were worthless fellow Americans.
On the other hand, you could be worthless and still be right.
“She’s gonna dance around the room when her brother’s just been splatted on a moving stair?” demanded Tiff.
“I’m sorry,” said Andrew, horrified. “I didn’t mean Laura should celebrate. I meant going to the dance could be a rest.”
A dreadful thought stood up in front of Laura’s eyes. She did not see Andrew turn for forgiveness and she did not see Tiffany turn for confirmation.
What if Billy’s killer was somebody in school? Somebody right here at L.I.A.?
After all, school had been the majority of Billy’s life. He’d been headed to school when he died. His lists were mostly school lists, and his friends had been entirely school friends.
What did she really know about these kids?
This international set had lived all over the world, not just Hong Kong and Paris and Helsinki, but also stints in Houston and Cincinnati and Atlanta. Plenty of kids from different nations were as good at being American as Laura. Andrew, who seemed so American: Did she know for sure? Andrew could be lying. With that white-blond hair, he could be from Scandinavia, not an American descended from somebody from there.
But did you have terrorists from Norway?
Weren’t terrorists sort of country-specific?
Where was Mr. Evans when she needed him? She had a thousand new questions to ask.
“Where is Billy buried, anyway, Laura?” asked Tiffany, who was on a roll. “You ship the body back to Massachusetts? You didn’t bury him here in England, did you? I mean, won’t you want to be able to visit the grave after you get home?”
Everybody was shocked, even people who expected the worst from Tiffany.
Con, the diplomat’s child, rushed to share a bag of Cape Cod Potato Chips, flown in by her aunt. Airmail potato chips worked out to about fifteen dollars a bag. People crunched gratefully, covering Tiffany’s rudeness and Laura’s silence.
Why was Tiffany full of questions? What if everything Tiffany had said about her family was a lie? And Eddie? And Andrew? And Mohammed? Even her best friend, Con? Who were they, really?
Laura’s eyes burned, dimly seeing the outline of killers where before she had had friends.
CHAPTER 7
AT LAST LAURA WILLIAMS had an Extracurricular Activity. Day after day she pursued her new interest.
Bet “Finding My Brother’s Killer” doesn’t show up that often on college admission essays, thought Laura, knowing the essay would be worth writing only if she found him.
School gave Laura a fever. She was hot and shivery from staring at her former friends. She tried to turn them inside out; inspect their secrets and their pasts. There was no time to eat lunch, only time to sit in the cafeteria and examine faces.
Jimmy Hopkins, for example, seemed worth pursuing. He looked Japanese, but his name certainly didn’t fit.
The eyes of a terrorist should be cold and amoral, unblinking and uncaring. Eyes to be afraid of. But in the eyes of Jimmy Hopkins, she could see only curiosity and pity.
“Jimmy,” she said sharply, “where are you from?”
“Los Angeles,” said Jimmy courteously. He ate his chips like a Londoner: squishing the head of each french fry into a puddle of vinegar and salt.
“But what are you, really?” said Laura. “What nationality?”
“I’m American,” he said, trying to be patient. Laura had interrogated almost everybody; he had known his turn was coming. “You want the whole nine yards? A Hawaiian grandmother who was part Japanese and part New England missionary married an Irish grandfather. That’s my mother’s side. I have an Italian grandmother and an origin-unknown grandfather on my father’s side.”
“That’s not enough Japanese blood to look as Japanese as you do.”
“So speak to my gene pool,” said Jimmy irritably. He took the remains of his sandwich to the trash can and got in line for dessert.
“Stop testing people, Laura,” murmured Con, tilting back in her metal chair until she was so close to Laura that conversation was muffled in each other’s hair. Con, as always, looked perfect. She was not beautiful or even pretty, yet she was a Ten in any numbering system. “Billy wasn’t killed by anybody at school, Laura. I know you’re upset, but don’t be melodramatic.”
“Murder,” said Laura, “is melodramatic. When you’re murdered by being handed your own personal bomb, it is very melodramatic. Billy was somebody’s choice, Con! He was handed his own murder weapon! He had to carry his own death up a stair.”
Every time Laura imagined it, she wanted to yank Billy to safety; her muscles seemed to believe there was still time to do this.
Con nodded understandingly—as if a person who used the word “upset” for Billy’s death could understand. “I’m sorry, Laura,” said Con. “You’re right. It is melodrama. It could be on stage, or be a movie.”
“No! You don’t get it! It isn’t a screenplay. It’s my brother!”
The whispered conversation exhausted Laura. Her strength was dwindling away, just when she needed it most. She had lost rest completely. Her sleep had become a strange shallow thing, a mere trembling on top of sheets.
“It makes me angry you even thought of anybody in school,” scolded Con. “I love this school. It’s terrible of you to think that way.”
The only way outsiders could tolerate the way Billy died was to make it ordinary. People who could not make Billy’s death ordinary had left.
Laura knew that she was ending friendships left and right. Her life used to be based on making, keeping, and strengthening friendships. No longer. She had abandoned sleeping, eating, and friendliness.
“Practically speaking,” added Con, “who could pull it off, Laura? They don’t teach a class in bombs.”
“Well, then, the bomb was made by their father, or their uncle, or their president, or their dictator.” Mentally Laura examined a geography class globe. Peeling away the three quarters that were ocean, she sorted through land. How many countries was she talking about? How many fathers, uncles, presidents, and dictators?
It was too big a task. Laura could never do it. They had beaten her before she began.
For a moment, she had no energy with which to go on. Then she remembered the only time you don’t have the energy to go on is when you’re dead. So only Billy did not have the energy to go on. She, Laura, must go on for him.
Jimmy came back with not one, but two desserts, and the second one he put in front of Laura. It was cake, European style, with many thin layers and thin, crusty icing. Billy’s idea of cake was chocolate, with soft icing an inch thick. Laura did not say thank you for the cake. She asked Jimmy for proof that he was American. His driver’s license, or his passport.
“You know, Laura,” said Jimmy, yanking the cake back, “somebody is going to mug you. Now quit this crap.”
“I have to find out who killed Billy.”
“You think somebody’s going to tell you?” yelled Jimmy. Half the cafeteria turned. “ ‘Oh, rats, Laura, you got me, I’m from a terrorist family.’ ”
Laura flushed. She didn’t know how to be a spy and find out things. She was as blunt and imperfect as Billy. Jimmy was right. Who would tell her anything? Nobody.
Laura pretended to have finished lunch, pretended to saunter off, but she was running away, and when she got into the hall, she did run. Nobody was after her; she was running away from being a jerk. She stood hidden in a corner of contradictory doorways that led in and out of the music rooms.
Laura was not musical and did not participate in choir or band, but the music rooms were centrally located, so against their will, she and everybody else knew what the Christmas concert was going to include. They had known since September.
Leila and Avram were practicing a duet. Leila was Syrian and played the violin, while Avram was Israeli and played the cello.
Weren’t Syria and Israel mad at each other? Didn’t they have different religions and different politics and argue about their borders and hate each other? What were Leila and Avram doing playing a Christmas carol together? Laura thought of Syria as primitive and Israel as sophisticated, and both had terrorists.
What nationalities were in Billy’s grade? Had he gotten mixed up in some Israeli-Syrian mess? Some Irish-English mess?
In the months she had lived abroad, Laura had not made the slightest effort to understand what those messes were, or which side stood for what.
I’m ignorant, thought Laura. I was proud of being ignorant. I felt superior because I didn’t know anything. When you’re an American, and you’re the best and the strongest, you don’t have to worry what all those little guys are up to.
Laura had tired quickly of British television news. The BBC told you about every single political party in every single country on every single continent. Just when you thought you were going to go into a coma, you would find out about the royals. A princess was bound to have visited an old folks home, or else Australia, or else was getting a divorce. Then it was back to global news.
Time to be like the English and learn political situations, thought Laura.
So instead of being late for current events, Laura was early.
Naturally Mr. Hollober loved it that a student had come to hear his wisdom. He straddled the high wooden stool on which he liked to perch. “Civilization can vanish pretty fast,” he began. “Look at Yugoslavia. Sarajevo was a lovely town. The Winter Olympics were held there, but a minute later—as time goes—neighbors were killing each other off as fast as they could reload the rifles. Bosnia is a nightmare of terrorism against one’s own.”
Laura did not want to get into the Philosophy of Neighborliness. She wanted to cut to the chase. “Which country has terrorists?” she said abruptly.
Mr. Hollober shrugged. “Terrorists are just criminals. Evil people who kill for selfish reasons. Every country has its criminals.” Mr. Hollober folded himself up: fingers, knees, and elbows tucked in tight. His students joked that he could lecture only in fetal position. “The difference is, terrorists think they’re good guys. Terrorists believe they are changing the world, not just damaging it.”
“I don’t want details, Mr. Hollober. Just a list of who has terrorists.” Laura was normally courteous to her teachers, partly because she had been raised to speak politely, and partly because she never wanted to jeopardize a grade. I’m beyond grades, she thought, the way I’m beyond friendship.
Mr. Hollober regarded her for some time without saying a word. What if he decided not to tell her? “I have to know,” she explained, “because I believe somebody in this school had something to do with my brother’s death.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Mr. Hollober was personally offended, as if anybody at London International Academy was an automatic Good Citizen. After all, they had studied current events with him.
“Think about it,” Laura said. “What did Billy do all day long? He went to school. Right here. With these kids.”
Mr. Hollober lost it. He jumped up from his neat folds and loomed over her. His voice was shar
p and angry. “He also wandered all over London, Laura! Your parents let him do anything! He stole bricks from construction sites! Took photographs! Kept notes! Asked questions! Bothered people! Went right up to strangers! He was one very invasive little boy!”
Laura could hardly breathe. She wanted to deck the man. “Are you saying it was Billy’s own fault he got murdered?”
“No, Laura. I’m saying he could have stumbled onto anything, anywhere. Billy Williams was completely unsupervised.”
Now the man dared blame her mother and father. She would never attend current events again.
Laura turned on her heel and spun out of the classroom, ran down the ugly open stairs that belonged in a lighthouse, ran down the carpeted halls papered with art class garbage, ran toward the nearest exit, ran up to the door to shove her hand against the push bar—ran into Mohammed.
Mohammed caught the exit door before she got it open. “Laura, you of all people must not go outside without your bodyguard.”
“My bodyguard?” She was completely astonished.
“Mr. Evans,” said Mohammed.
Laura thought of Mr. Evans as a pleasant, middle-aged, fatherly policeman. Body. Guard. A person to guard your body. A person to make sure nobody blew you up.
How Billy would have loved it. His sister had a bodyguard.
“Oh Mohammed,” she whispered. And she was not angry, not vengeful. She was just tears and loss. “Billy could have every one of my Twinkies if I could just have him back.”
Mohammed nodded. “My Twinkies, too.”
She cried for a while and then she found a tissue in her pocket and mopped her face. Billy of course had never considered the use of a tissue. He loved his sleeve. He said runny noses reinforced the fabric. Little boys were so disgusting.
She smiled, thinking how much she would like the privilege of yelling at Billy for being disgusting.
“What are Twinkies?” said Mohammed then, smiling also.
The Terrorist Page 5
