“Oh.” He laid out his prayer rug. “Yes.”
I knew he wanted me to stay with him and I felt the pressure of guilt and obligation in my chest. I wished he understood how I wanted a different life from his. I wanted to fit in with my friends—to belong to the culture that I had grown up in. I stood, waiting.
“The keys are in the hall,” Father said, his eyes sharp on me.
“OK.”
I peeled Rakia out of my arms and handed her to Fatima, her nose in her book again. Rakia made a face and reached her arms out for me.
“Where did you leave it?” I called to Father.
“In the outside parking lot.”
I made a dash for the door before Rakia began to wail. I was kind of a favorite of hers because I played a mean game of peek-a-boo.
I burst out of the apartment into the hallway, right into a large man with big ears and a red nose.
“Watch where you’re going, you little A-rab.” He grabbed my arm. Beside him stood a tiny girl with long messy blond hair.
I gasped. Not again. Not like those bullies at school. When would these people leave me alone? “Go home terrorist!” the bullies had called to me outside after school. Between classes, they bumped me in the hall and gave me the finger. It was the hatred in their eyes that scared me most.
“So sorry.” I had learned not to talk back. I tried to back away but the man held my arm fast.
His face was twisted in anger. “We never asked you A-rabs to come here. Why don’t you go back where you came from?” He squeezed my arm until I gritted my teeth.
Let me go, I thought. Just let me go.
“Sorry.” I whispered through the pain.
“Yeah, you should be sorry. Now get outta here.” He released my arm with a push that sent me sprawling.
“Ha, ha, ha,” he laughed, then stepped over me and walked away. The little girl watched me with big frightened eyes, like I was some kind of monster.
I know who the monster is, I thought, clenching my fists. Yet I didn’t dare return the attack. Father had told me enough times that violence was not the way to solve problems.
My ears were still echoing with the man’s laughter when I left the Building, so the quiet of the city night was a relief. There was only the sound of cars, the wind pushing brown leaves around, and some kids yelling in the far distance.
I dodged between the two shopping carts abandoned near Father’s rusted gray mini-van. As I unlocked the door, I checked my reflection in the side window. I had worn clothes that I thought would help me fit in, but I was still a target. Thick black eyebrows, brown eyes, a straight nose, brown skin. What did it matter how I looked or where my family came from? I’d lived here for as long as I could remember. When would I belong?
I cranked the van’s engine a little too long and it protested. The radio whined with a song from Father’s Arab station. I twirled the dial until I found a new dance tune, then swung the van out of the driveway, bopping my head in time to the beat. I began to relax and enjoy myself.
Few cars were out—as if it were the middle of the night. The streetlights flashed a rhythm of light and dark on the dashboard. Minutes later I parked the van neatly against the curb opposite the bank. It was right across from the subway stop, so I was glad to find a place to park. Just a quick trip in for some money and I’d be off. I didn’t have a part-time job, but at least Father gave me money occasionally in return for “fulfilling my family responsibilities.”
On the way in, I passed a skinny, pale woman and some kids, but not many others were around. The wind was too cold. It sliced through my jacket and chilled me.
I slid my card through the scanner to open the door. In front of the bank machine, I couldn’t decide how much money to take out. We were going to meet at a fast-food place then go to an all-ages dance club. I squirmed around, trying to decide how much to withdraw. Until a woman behind me said, “Hurry up, kid.”
I jumped at the sound of her voice. The woman was wearing a long, dirty, burgundy coat, and she was breathing in deep noisy gulps of air. Was she a weirdo or just a late-night banker? I decided to treat myself generously, grabbed my money, and headed for the door.
On my way back to the van, I started to think about my friends. I’d just met them at school, although they’d been friends for a while. Saied, who was slick and had a way with the girls. Travis, who would belly flop into any sign of trouble, then scream at us to get him out. And Raz, who could flip a quarter off the table and catch it in his teeth. I was wishing I could go out every night, like my friends did, so I hardly heard the small voice.
“Hey there!” a girl’s voice called.
Who had spoken? I glanced at the woman and kids. They were huddled against the wall next to the darkened windows of the dentist’s office. A baby was sleeping in a stroller beside two young girls with worried eyes. The woman—their mother probably—looked like somebody had pulled her plug and drained the life out of her.
“Did you say something?” I asked, although I didn’t want to get involved.
“Yeah,” began the oldest girl. She had long blond hair like the girl in the Building but she wasn’t scared of me. “Uh, sorry to ask you but…” She spoke in hesitant, faltering bursts. “We, uh, took the bus and the subway from the other side of the city because we heard that the Church of Saint Martin had a food bank.” The girl gestured down the street to where the church was. I passed it every day on the way to school.
“But when we got there,” she continued, “it was closed. Please, do you have some money so we can get home on the subway?”
I stood there, staring at them. The girl pleaded with her eyes. The mother, who wore a thin green jacket over tight purple pants, started weeping with her head hung down to hide her face. The younger girl was gripping her mother’s arm as if she were trying to hold her up. As I stared at her, the mother’s sobs grew louder.
I looked at the baby bundled in a grubby blanket. Rakia would be snug inside our apartment, gulping back her last bottle in a warm crib with more toys than bed.
Then the baby woke up and started crying a waterfall. He looked a bit older than Rakia, but he wasn’t so chubby. His howling was bothering me. I wanted him to stop.
My brain danced with thoughts. They had no food. Their clothes were so worn. They needed to get home. Yet these were the kind of people who hassled me all the time. Like the boys at school. Like the rough man in the hallway. Like the girl who had spit on my sister. These were the people I had learned to avoid. Should I help them now? What would Father do?
I took one of the scrunched twenty-dollar bills out of my pocket. It was either that or a few coins. I tried to put the money into the mother’s hand, but she was sobbing so much that she didn’t see me. I offered the money to the older girl.
“Here you go.”
At the same moment I handed over the money, the baby stopped crying. It was like he knew he was taken care of now.
“Thanks!” The girl’s voice gushed over me with a sweetness that was for real. The mother, seeing the money, nodded her thanks through a blanket of tears.
“OK,” I mumbled.
I walked dumbly across the street toward Father’s van and opened the driver’s door. The inside of the van was so worn that the rug was scruffy and frayed. Then the question hit me like a kick to the head—why had they come all that way without any money to get home? Had I been conned? Did the mother teach her kids the right way to look and just what to say to fool people out of their money? Were they laughing now and calling me a stupid A-rab?
I was an easy target. My friends loved telling me lies that were so tall and mixed with the truth that I swallowed them whole. I fell for it every time. It was a running joke with them. I always felt foolish afterward, hating them for teasing me. Like the time that Saied convinced me that the police had arrested Travis for disturbing the peace. They hadn’t, of course, but my friends had a good laugh. And now, had I been tricked again?
I got into the va
n and watched the family trundle down the sidewalk. They had just realized how much money I had given them. A windfall for them. A spot of bad luck turned good. They saw me tracking them with my eyes, so the whole family stood waving and shouting at me from the edge of the sidewalk.
“Thank you. Thank you.” Their eyes shone with relief, and they were grateful.
Grateful for twenty dollars. It was enough money to do something. Maybe a subway ride home and a few meals, if they worked the money right. What was twenty dollars to me? I could go back to the money machine for more.
Then I remembered how, every year, Father made me give some of my money away. “Charity is required of every Muslim,” he would say. I had always resented Father for making me give zakat, and I had never gotten the point—until now.
As I watched the family head for the subway—still waving at me—I should have been proud. After all, I had performed an act of charity. Yet I could offer so much more. Maybe if I had volunteered to baby-sit. Or asked Mother to send them Rakia’s old clothes.
The family was about to fade into the night—into the noise and traffic of the city. The food I was about to eat would be a real feast to them. I had to do something.
I whirled the van around to the other side of the street until I was alongside them. Switched into park, opened the driver’s side window, and stuck my head out.
“Do you want a ride home?” I said, then I wished I hadn’t. What if they thought I was trying to hurt them? What if they looked at me as if I were a terrorist? I held my breath.
The older girl glanced from me to her mother. The mother wiped one eye clear of tears.
I had to make them understand who I was. I had to make them see that I was not a threat. Father had told me that my name meant “protector.” Asim, the protector. Not a terrorist. Not a victim. I leaped out and slid open the side door.
“I’ve even got a car seat for the baby.” I showed them. “It’s my sister’s.”
The mother smiled through her tears. The girl spoke for her. “Thank you.”
“Hop in,” I said.
It was only one night. My friends could wait.
The Many Faces of Men, Boys, and Pigs
cori
Apt. 111
AT BREAKFAST, MY MOTHER ANGRILY COOKED eggs for my father. “What am I, the family slave?” she asked.
Her back was straight and stiff, and she was poking at the eggs with sharp jabs of the spatula. Considering I just set the table and got my own breakfast, I didn’t agree with her. Yet she was hissing like a teakettle, so I said nothing.
“Cori,” she said. “Remember never to become a servant in your own home. A slave to one man’s desires.” Then she announced in a loud voice, “Men are pigs. Never forget that.”
This was what my mother had to teach me—that all men were pigs and all women had to somehow survive them.
I looked at my father. He had a small coffee stain on the front of his dress shirt. His easy brown eyes swallowed me whole.
“What did I do?” His eyes almost made me sorry for him, but he didn’t move to help. Instead, he unfolded the newspaper and scanned the front page.
Mom slammed the eggs down in front of him. Dad ate in big gulps before he rushed out the door to work, with Mom pulling on her coat right behind him. They raced to see who could get out of the apartment first.
From behind the smudged glass doors of our first-floor walkout, I watched them zoom out of the underground and away with squealing tires and burning rubber. Dad drives a dented red sports car with two seats. When he gives me a ride I have to squeeze between old newspapers and empty coffee cups. Mom’s car is a faded green station wagon with fake wood on the outside, but it is always spotless inside.
* * *
THE FIRST TIME A BOY TOUCHED ME in that sort of way was a few weeks later in media studies class, after Mr. Rollo had turned out the lights and put on a show. We sat at round tables in media class, with four to a table. At my table was Cheryl the boring non-stop talker, Patrick the too-tall geek boy, and Ron the beautiful brown-skinned wonder.
At first, I couldn’t figure out what was tickling my leg. Then I realized that Ron was reaching his foot under the table and oh-so-gently stroking my calf. I didn’t know whether to move away. Was this an accident? Was he trying to scratch an itchy toe against the table leg? I looked into beautiful Ron’s face, and he smiled a sweet smile without showing his teeth. Perfect. The soft stroke of his toe shot fire through me. I fell in love.
After that, every time Mr. Rollo turned out the lights for a show I longed for Ron’s touch, and every time, Ron reached under the table toward me. We didn’t talk, unless we were assigned a group project. It was as if that one probing toe and an accepting calf said it all.
Yet all was not right. I started to have dreams at night about Ron. Not dreams of bodies dripping desire. I dreamed that Ron was trying to sneak a peek at me while I was in my bedroom, changing my clothes. I pulled down the blind, but he was still outside my window, trying to peer through any tiny crack he could find. In my dream, I hid in the closet to dress, then sneaked over to the window and snapped up the blind, surprising him. What I found wasn’t Ron, but a plump, pink pig with deep chocolate eyes like Ron’s. He snuffled his snout at me then ran away. I woke up. I hate living on the first floor. When we moved to the Building, I told my parents not to take an apartment on the first floor. Even when Petra got kidnapped, they wouldn’t listen. They just had to have that first-floor walkout.
In media class, our tablemates, Cheryl and Patrick, couldn’t help but watch our silent talk. Patrick surprised me with the pig-side of his nature on the way into class one day, although I should have expected it.
“Getting it on with Ron?” he asked.
Flustered, and caught in the act, I sneered at him in a way I hoped was sophisticated. “You’re such a pig, Patrick.”
He chuckled, then folded his long body into his chair and under the table. As I took my seat across from Ron, I could feel Patrick’s heavy-lidded eyes on Ron and me.
When the lights dimmed, I moved my legs far away where Ron couldn’t reach. Ron shot me puzzled, hurt looks. Come back to me? his eyes said.
In the hall after class, Cheryl battered me with words without even taking a breath. “So, are you and Ron an item? Everyone is talking about it and I just want to know firsthand what is going on. Has he asked you to be his girlfriend? Are you going steady? Have you slept with him yet? You know, Jackie Markham went out with him last year for one month. She won’t talk to him now, and she won’t say why. I figure that he must have done something really bad. What do you think he did? Has he done anything to you?”
Other people’s romances excited Cheryl, if you could call a toe probe a romance. She’d never been out on a date or anything. No one could stand her endless gab.
“Ron?” I tried to act surprised, and I talked loud enough for him to hear. “Why would I go out with Ron?”
As soon as I said the words, I desperately wanted to go out with him. My leg longed for his touch. At night, my dreams were no longer about disturbed pigs. Instead, I dreamed fairy-tale romances of lifelong love. I woke hopeless, though, sure that I had lost my chance with Ron.
In the next media class, I again offered him my leg when the lights dimmed. I scrunched my eyes and waited for his caress.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Damn it, nothing.
He made me wait until almost the end, when Mr. Rollo was heading for the light switch. I was ready to cry, so it was with relief and astonishment that I felt the soft lick of his toe.
I decided to make a move for Ron. I told Cheryl I liked him, and she did the rest. She told Ron’s best friend Steve about it, and Steve told Ron. At least, that’s how I guessed it happened, because Steve found me just before drama class.
“So I hear you like Ron.”
He was the messenger so I couldn’t tell him to mind his own business. I shrugged. “I might.”
Steve the messenger said, �
�Well, Ron says he’ll go out with you if you’ll sleep with him.”
Just like that. Like it was a simple deal to make.
I skipped drama class, and cried in the bathroom instead. I decided men really were pigs. My mother was right.
* * *
I MANAGED TO STOP CRYING LONG ENOUGH to walk to my locker, shove my books into my backpack, and head for the exit. Two classes to go, but I’d rather get caught skipping than stay in the same building as Ron. I pounded down the stairs, stomping out Steve’s words with each step. I imagined the metal door was beautiful Ron’s face, and I kicked it open with the bottom of my high-heeled boot.
I was never so glad to see the Building; all I wanted was the safety of my own apartment. By the time I got to my door, I couldn’t see past the tears to slide the key into the lock. I wiped my eyes furiously. Ron the pig couldn’t have this much control over me. Finally, I got the door unlocked and pushed it open with my shoulder. On the other side of the door I was surprised to find my mother with enough tears to match my own.
“What happened, Cori? Oh, baby, are you OK?” My mother tried to wipe the sorrow from my face with her own tear-stained fingers. She didn’t even ask if I was skipping school.
I pulled away. “What happened to you?” We stared at one another with puffy, red eyes—the color of love.
Mom was the first to turn away. “It’s your father,” she said with a slump of her narrow shoulders. “I met him for lunch. He threatened to move out. He’s tired of the fights.”
I noticed her auburn hair then, cut in short feathery strands close to her face. Her almond skin and fine bones. Her smart crimson business suit. She was a tidy package. I also saw myself in her. Small weak bones, frail flesh, and red hair the color of heartbreak. A squawk like a strangled chicken escaped from my throat, and more salt water beat a path down my cheeks.
My mother forgot to ask about my tears—she was too caught up in her own. She headed for the bathroom to tidy herself up, and I ran to my bed to share my heartache with my pillow.
Take the Stairs Page 9
