Laura was cross. She hadn’t even been born when Samira’s grandfather was advising this shah. How could such ancient history figure in Billy’s death?
“The day will come,” said Samira, “when my family will be restored to power. Then I can go home.”
Home, thought Laura. I bet she wasn’t even born there. She’s my age; I bet the whole family left in 1979 and she’s never even set foot in this place she calls home.
In America, when governments changed, people just lost their jobs. They gave a TV interview, left Washington, and went back to being lawyers in Texas.
But in Iran or Iraq—or Guatemala or Cambodia—the risk is higher. The next government may kill you. So the wealthy move to London.
I’m getting warm, thought Laura. People who murder are the ones I want.
But even as she traced the Arabic script Jehran had written, Laura reached another dead end. Terrorists would select those people to kill—Samira’s grandfather, who supported the wrong guy. They wouldn’t take Billy.
But they had.
Andrew felt responsible for Laura; attached to her in some deep, terrible way.
Only moments before the bomb went off, Andrew had emerged safely from the Underground. He had felt the explosion through his feet and heard the sirens through his heart. Because of Chris and Georgie, who could identify clothes and book bag, it was quickly known that the victim was Billy Williams.
L.I.A. teachers and London transport police had ordered the students to go into the school building. American kids (not known for their obedience) had stayed where they were.
Andrew had stayed where Laura would get off the bus. Why? Had he hoped to be her knight in shining armor? He sure hadn’t saved Billy, who had needed armor.
Or was terrorism exciting? And had Andrew wanted to be in on it?
It made Andrew’s skin crawl to think that his mind could possibly be that crawly.
Andrew was struck by Laura’s ignorance. How could Laura not know who the shah was? How could Laura not know what it meant that Samira’s grandfather had supported the shah? Samira and her family could never go home. They had lost land and buildings and fortune, and very likely, lives. They had lost, period. They had no country.
Andrew’s stomach heaved at the thought of having no country.
But Laura, making her little lists, understood nothing. She had no idea what terrible histories her classmates had. No idea that it was reasonable for such people to move about in bullet-proof cars.
Laura’s unsophisticated, Andrew thought. And that’s dangerous. She doesn’t know enough. And that’s dangerous.
Laura reminded Andrew of the continuous, metallic broadcasts at airports. “Do not leave your luggage unattended.”
Laura was an unattended suitcase, waiting to be picked up. Picked up by who? A good-hearted neighbor like Andrew? Or a terrorist like …
Like who?
Laura stood with Eddie, waiting for the bus.
Billy had loved London buses and sat in the top front seat of double-deckers. Laura had heard an Englishman call that the tourist seat, so she refused to sit there because she wanted to look like a Londoner, not a tourist.
Billy liked to swing off the steps, or dance on the tiny stairs that led to the upper level, or corner a perfectly innocent rider and demand that the poor woman admire his latest card trick.
“Last time I took the 113 with Billy,” said Laura, “the conductor said Billy needed a thump.” The driver had been Jamaican, with a swingy musical voice.
“Did he thump Billy? asked Eddie.
“No, but there were plenty of volunteers.” Laura actually smiled, remembering Billy’s agreeable laughter, how Billy introduced himself and yelled good-bye to the driver, whose name was Peter, and how Peter called, “Cheerio, Billy!” instead of thumping him, and Billy said, “See? I make friends with everybody. I never get thumped in the end.”
Eddie picked up a newspaper from the many stacks at the kiosk next to the bus stop. Today, each London paper—the Standard, the Telegram, the Times—was headlined “Terrorism.”
Oh, no, please! What’s happened now? With stiff fingers Laura handed coins to the vendor, who said “Cheers,” same as “have a good day” in America. “Cheers,” she said, wondering when she would ever have a good day again, and the headlines blurred when she tried to read the print.
“When I grow up, I’m going to do that,” said Eddie.
“Do what?” Laura felt dizzy.
“Destroy Israel.”
“What are you talking about?” said Laura.
He tapped the headlines with the back of his hand, like a drumroll. “Israel has no right to exist.”
Laura managed to read some words. A bombing in Tel Aviv. Too far away for a Billy connection. “You’re going to be a terrorist?” said Laura.
“No, I’m going to set Palestine free.”
“You’re Palestinian?”
“Certainly not,” said Eddie, as if insulted. “But I hate Israel. Israel will end. I will assist.”
A painful rasping quiver crept over Laura, as if Eddie’s words had scraped the flesh off.
“Here’s the bus,” said Eddie with a smile. He gestured for her to precede him.
How nice, thought Laura, a terrorist who lets girls go first. But Eddie didn’t hand Billy a bomb. Eddie was on the bus with me. So if Eddie’s involved, somebody else actually threw it.
Could Eddie have waved to me that morning, and shared a seat, and talked about lunch, knowing that somebody was arranging for Billy to die?
Do I ride to school every morning with my brother’s killer?
CHAPTER 9
“JEHRAN IS RIGHT,” SAID Laura’s father. “You do need to perk up, sweetie. I think you should go to the slumber party.”
“Perk” sounded cute and freckled, as if Billy’s death were a complexion problem. Laura tried not to be angry with her father. She was angry at so much now, she couldn’t be angry at home, too.
“Is Jehran the little girl we ran into at the Museum of London?” asked Laura’s mother.
Laura was startled. She thought of Jehran as older, with that sophisticated wardrobe, and worldly air, and the several languages she spoke. But to strangers, Jehran looked too young for high school. “Yes, that’s the one.”
“She reminded me of Billy,” said Nicole. “Same coloring. Is it safe to go to her house?”
“Mom, she’s the one who comes to school in her own bullet-proof limo.”
“That makes me worry more, not less! Thomas, I don’t want Laura hanging out with kids whose parents know there’s going to be trouble!”
“Now, Nicole,” said Laura’s father. He telephoned Jehran’s number and asked to speak to her father. Thomas discovered that for adult supervision of young girls, you could not beat an Arab household. There was probably no place in London, possibly the world, where girls were less likely to get in trouble.
“You know what Eddie said today?” said Laura. Here she was, actually close to terrorism, and all she wanted was for her parents to set the idea aside. When Eddie’s words echoed in her brain, they sounded like blather—except when they sounded true and real.
“What?”
“He said when he grows up, he will participate in the destruction of Israel.”
“In that student body, he’s not the only one,” said her father.
Laura braided her hair in front of her, watching the blond strands turn into a rope. “Do you think,” said Laura, “that Billy—well, that Eddie—well—”
“No,” said her mother. “I don’t. Eddie is a jerk. It took intelligence and planning to kill Billy, and Eddie can hardly get on a bus. Anyway, he was on the bus with you when it happened. If Eddie was involved, he paid someone else to do it. Why would he do that?”
How sturdy her mother sounded. What a relief to hear that certain-sure tone again.
“Besides,” said her father, “I can’t place Israel in this. We’re not Jews, we’re not Israeli. If i
t’s part of a plan to destroy Israel, why Billy?”
“That’s the whole problem,” said Laura. “Everything I come up with, Billy doesn’t fit into.”
Her parents nodded. “I could get through the days better,” said Nicole, “if we knew why. I don’t want it to be random. I don’t want it to mean nothing.”
But they were drawing closer to the conclusion that Billy’s death meant nothing.
Oh please, thought Laura that night, trying to sleep. Please don’t let Billy’s death be nothing. Please let there be something. Something in life, something in death, something in God …
Something.
Jehran lived on a “crescent,” a pretty British word for a short private street. Tall black iron fences rimmed front gardens. The tips of the fences were gold, like spears dipped in molten blood.
A soldier opened Jehran’s door as Laura came up the walk. His olive drab was decorated with ribbons and medals, as if he had just finished up a little war. He had too much mustache. A drooping mustache always seemed threatening to Laura.
Jehran’s downstairs was painted concert-hall red, and it was large enough to be one. Persian rugs in explosive colors were strewn about in layers. There were several sofas in the same dark blue velvet on which jewelry stores place diamonds. Yet the sitting room was barren, like a motel.
This is not a home, thought Laura. They lease the paintings and the grand piano until they go to another haven: South America or Canada. They are not burdened with possessions. They have only bank accounts.
Jehran, smiling from a balcony, waved her guests up to her suite. Behind the stairs, Laura caught a glimpse of several uniformed men standing at the far end of a wide hall. They were silent and unmoving, like a mural.
The house had an army living in it.
Laura was sick with wishing she had stayed home. The world was spinning off in too many directions. Laura was falling behind in class. She was obsessed with her friends’ histories; she was not sleeping. The real slumber party rule was laughter. Laura did not know how to laugh anymore.
It was a relief to reach Jehran’s room. The colors here were beautiful, like ripe fruit. Deep peach, apricot, and plum. Dark wood gleamed and curved in corners.
Jehran’s bed was enormous. In America, beds were predictable: twin, double, queen, king. In Europe, they could be any old size (not that this massive bed could be termed “any old size”; if the largest American bed was king, this was emperor).
Laura could not imagine lying on that bed on her stomach, listening to some tame Brit rock station with an Australian DJ.
“Is your mother home, Jehran?” asked Con.
Jehran shook her head. “My mother died many years ago. So did my father. I live with my oldest brother.”
“I’m so sorry, Jehran,” said Con. “That’s awful! I didn’t know.”
“It’s ancient history,” said Jehran courteously. “I never think of it anymore.”
“How old is your brother?” Bethany asked.
I don’t have a brother! thought Laura, as shocked as if she had not had a month to realize this. When a stranger asks about my family, do I say I’m an only child? Do I say I had a brother once?
“He’s twenty-six years older than I am,” said Jehran.
“Your brother?”
“There were brothers and sisters in between,” said Jehran, “but they did not survive.”
Laura was horrified. She was not getting through life with one dead brother. There was no way she could stay at this awful party. Could she bail out after supper? Of course, Middle Easterners didn’t even think about dinner till nine or ten. By ten o’clock at Laura’s, they were ready for bed, or at least yelling at Billy to clean up his mess before bedtime, since Billy made a mess wherever he breathed.
She kept forgetting Billy didn’t breathe. How long would it take to know that Billy was dead? To know it completely; the way you knew the Atlantic Ocean was on the right, and the Pacific was on the left and America was in the middle?
Snacks appeared. Food was usually a good diversion, but here it was brought by an elderly servant robed in floor-length black. The fabric was coarse and there was enough for a tent. The woman struggled with heavy trays. Her hands were swollen, fingers knotted with age.
Con tried to help, but this just upset the old woman, so the girls looked away and hoped this would end quickly.
There were several kinds of olives, salads in all colors and textures, bowls of yogurt, dishes of toasted nuts, and hummus for dip. The bread was soft, as thin and round as a doily. Jehran showed them how to rip off a leaf and scoop up hummus.
Laura could not eat. She hoped Jehran would forget her plan to lift Laura’s spirits. Laura didn’t think she even had a spirit right now.
Clearly, discussion of Jehran’s family was not the stuff of which successful slumber parties are made. Con, taking on the role of hostess, turned to Tiffany, who could be counted upon to think of herself as interesting. “Where are you from, Tiff?” asked Con brightly, as if she cared. “What brought you to London?”
“We’re from Boston. We’re Irish. My father is very involved with the Cause. He raises money. But my mother thought this school would be better and safer, so we’re living here and he goes back and forth. America, Ireland, England, all the time, back and forth.”
“Cause?” said Laura, recognizing a buzzword.
“Even you must know, Laura,” said Tiffany, “that the English have held Northern Ireland prisoner for generations. Their army occupies our land. They keep our people from getting jobs. Whenever there’s trouble, it’s their fault,”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Bethany, “you’re such a jerk, Tiffany. England is doing the best it can to bring peace to Northern Ireland. And my father says there wouldn’t be Troubles if it weren’t for dumb Americans sending money.”
Yes, even Laura knew by now that all over the world, people were elbowing and shooting and hating. Everyone was convinced, like Tiffany, that if the other guy would just move to the next block, or across the river, or into the next nation, life would be good at last.
Here she was, among friends at a slumber party, and they were this quick to fight. “So, Tiff,” said Laura, “what’s your father raise money for? Bombs?”
“Oh shut up, Laura,” said Tiff. “We are not the terrorists. They are.”
Eight girls tried to think of a way to get off this subject for good, but Tiffany stomped right over them. “I know what you really want, Laura. You want Billy’s death to have meaning. You want to find out that your brother died for freedom, or some grand cause.”
Laura hated Tiffany. She hated the word “Cause.” What value did any Cause have, if it made people murder each other? “Billy didn’t have causes! He had collections. Anyway, Billy could never stop talking. If he’d had a cause, he’d have told everybody. Billy never kept a secret in his life. He was one big explosion.”
This was grotesquely true.
Con took over. “My, Jehran, what a huge dressing room you have! May we try your perfumes?”
Jehran looked startled, so Bethany said, “Key slumber party activity, Jehran, using up the hostess’s perfume.”
The girls drifted through the suite, admiring and touching. They explored scents and lotions and intriguing bottles. Only Jehran and Laura were still on the emperor bed. Jehran sat cross-legged, so small and light that the huge mattress hardly sank around her.
“Laura?” The word was hardly audible. Laura felt it instead, like Braille on her cheek. Jehran moved closer. Her face was strangely white beneath her olive skin, as if her soul had fallen out, and there was nothing behind those dark features. Laura pressed back against the pillows.
Jehran rested a finger on her lips, the universal gesture for silence, and nodded slightly toward the dressing room. “I must share a secret with you,” whispered Jehran.
Laura did not want Jehran’s secrets. Twenty-six years of brothers and sisters dead? This scary house with its rented magnific
ence? An army lounging downstairs while young girls frolicked upstairs? A pathetic old woman staggering upstairs in her black Arabic robes?
Jehran’s heavy hair fell against Laura’s face. The hair was cold, and then the room was cold. Laura was afraid.
Jehran whispered, “I need you, Laura.”
Laura could not imagine Jehran needing her.
“Laura,” said Jehran, “you can give meaning to Billy’s death.”
If only that could be true.
“Let me use his passport,” said Jehran.
CHAPTER 10
BILLY’S PASSPORT. SO MEANINGLESS back home.
So essential abroad.
“It would honor Billy,” whispered Jehran. “It would give his death a purpose.”
Honor. The word sounded proud and strong, and Laura thought of her brother, brave enough to hug that bomb to his chest instead of throwing it into the crowd to save himself. A chest where medals should hang, but that instead had been blown to pieces.
Purpose. Death. Honor. Laura could not connect these words to passport.
“But why?” Laura whispered back. She felt threatened.
Con, Kyrene, Bethany, Samira, and Tiffany sloshed perfume around. Their giggles were background music.
“My life is in danger, Laura.”
How foolish the sentence sounded. This was a slumber party. Nobody’s life was in danger; only the contents of the perfume bottles were in danger. Then Laura turned back into a person whose brother had been murdered. It was true. A life could be in danger.
“I must flee this country,” said Jehran, “and I have little time.”
Danger required flight. Had not dozens of students fled L.I.A. when Billy was killed? And now it was Jehran’s turn to flee. Using Billy’s passport? It was creepy and ghastly. Laura did not want any part of this.
“I look like Billy,” breathed Jehran. “Airport officials would believe that I am Billy Williams.”
Jehran did look like Billy. Billy’s own mother had noticed the resemblance. And beneath her elegant wardrobe, Jehran had the twiggy shape of a sixth-grade boy.
The Terrorist Page 7
