Tap…tap…tap, tap, tap.
Amir’s drum roll grew louder, faster. Leave it to a musician to make a coffee table sound like a real instrument. I would have laughed if it weren’t so irritating. I needed something to throw at him.
“Okay, okay,” I said, turning around. “Wait one sec….”
I hesitated. There was a piece of furniture I’d somehow missed in our single-minded Edward Norton mission—a gaudy, brightly woven Middle Eastern floor pillow. But how? I’d never seen it before. Faux coins dangled from the trim. It definitely wasn’t Crate and Barrel. I bent over and picked it up. Or tried.
“Heavy,” I grunted, attempting to hurl it at Amir’s head.
He ducked, laughing. “Hey, watch out! Could be valuable. That’s Dad’s. He just got it out of the attic. I think he wants to sell it on eBay. Or maybe that’s Mom’s wishful thinking.”
“Part of his GTFO plan?”
Amir’s smile wilted. “Don’t get me started. He’s got cash and passports stashed. I’m serious.”
Ugh. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. It was Mariam’s fault. It was Mariam’s joke. Back when she still believed that she was here to stay. When we all believed.
I sank down beside Amir, trying to ignore the emptiness in my chest. I wanted her to be here. I wanted to hug her and then punch her and then hug her again. I could hear her voice, dripping with sarcasm; I could see her shaking her head at me with her crooked grin. “Salma, this isn’t about Islam or America. Every chiropractor on planet Earth has a GTFO plan.”
Too bad the joke wasn’t funny. Not when it came to Amir’s dad. He had already gotten the F out of one country. Amir’s oldest sister was just a baby when Mr. Ammouri packed up the family and left Syria. He’d been smart; he knew the inherent instability of dictatorships. But he paid a price for that wisdom, forced to watch from afar as civil war tore his birthplace to pieces and set everything ablaze: people, places, history. Amir once told me that he’d never seen his father cry, really weep, until he realized he couldn’t go back to Aleppo to bury his own mother….
I sighed. Loudly.
Amir leaned close. “Hey, don’t worry about the Dad thing,” he murmured. “I tease him all the time. Like: ‘Yo, Dad, if you want a safe place to hide your money, try my pocket.’ ”
* * *
—
We settled on American History X. Or we tried. The movie stopped seconds after we loaded it. As in: black screen. The DVD player, the TV, the modem: all of it was unresponsive. Dead, actually. Amir stood up and frowned. Then he stepped toward the hall.
“The lights went off,” he said.
It was still sunny, so I hadn’t noticed. But he was right. The air conditioner had stopped humming as well. Birds chirped outside.
Amir glanced out the window. “Wanna get some fresh air? We can sit in the hammock.”
I stretched my neck. “Yeah, that sounds great, actually. It might help with this lovely little headache that has creeped up on me.”
“EDS?” he asked, turning toward me.
“Honestly, I have zero clue. Sometimes my condition is that mysterious.”
He stood and placed his hands on my head. “Poof. Be gone, shitty headache.”
I laughed, closing my eyes while his callused fingers rubbed my temples. “Man, I wish it were that easy.”
“Me too.” His voice was light and tender.
My eyes still closed, I stood and hugged him, resting my head on his chest. “This especially helps,” I whispered. He was taller than me, tall enough that when I stood next to him my ear was at the level of his chest. I listened to his heart. I felt the rhythm.
“Good,” he whispered back.
I stayed there, wrapped inside his arms, wanting to say more…to tell him I loved him, but my mouth remained closed. On one level, I almost didn’t need to. It was like he was saying it to me. And I to him, without vocalizing it—
A floorboard creaked at the top of the stairs, followed by footsteps.
We jumped apart. Amir’s dad appeared in the hallway as we settled back into our adjacent spots on the L-shaped sofa. He looked as if he’d just woken up from a nap. His graying hair was rumpled, his blue dress shirt untucked. But he flashed a bright smile when he saw me. “Salma! How are you?”
“Hi, Mr. Ammouri.”
I smiled back. After a few awkward seconds I began to twist my butterfly ring in obsessive circles around my left pinkie. (My version of Amir’s compulsive nail-biting.) When the silence became painful, I grabbed a magazine from the glass coffee table. Big surprise: Amir’s mother didn’t subscribe to The Hacker Quarterly or Phrack. I feigned interest in the New Yorker. No way would I ever get used to a parent who rarely supervised. The Bakkioui family had ruined me.
“No power down here, either?” Mr. Ammouri asked.
Amir shook his head.
His dad peered up at the dead hall light. “How’s the knee, Salma?”
“Better,” I said, as loudly as I could without shouting. “I have PT early next week.”
“Oh, good. Mind if I steal Amir to check on the circuit breaker?”
“No! I mean of course. Not at all.” I put the magazine down and glanced at Amir.
He’d already started chewing his thumbnail. I got why: he wanted some alone time with me, but now his dad needed him, and he was pissed about it. Not at his father per se, just about the timing of the power outage. I was bummed, too. Alone time in the hammock would have been nice.
Mr. Ammouri frowned. “Ya’llah, now. Upstairs.”
“Salma, you didn’t hack into our electrical system, did you?” Amir joked under his breath.
I couldn’t help but laugh. His father laughed, too. Amir arched an eyebrow at me, a sad twinkle in his eye. His father hadn’t heard a word; he was only laughing because I was laughing.
All at once I felt a pang of guilt. Here I was having fun at his expense—a guest in his house intent on making out with his son.
“You know, it could be a fiber cut?” I suggested, raising my voice a little. “It’s funny that most people don’t know about this, but my dad told me that there’s this whole system of wires underground that are totally unprotected….” My voice trailed off.
Mr. Ammouri patted Amir hard on the back. “You two are such comedians,” he said.
He hadn’t heard a word of what I’d said, either.
Amir shrugged. Our eyes met. This time, there was only sadness. The twinkle was gone.
* * *
—
It didn’t take long for Amir and his dad to conclude that there was absolutely nothing we could do except to call the power company. Now it was just a matter of waiting around for the technician. With his workday shot, Mr. Ammouri used the opportunity to become our third wheel—planting himself in the middle of our hang time. On the other hand, he was standing in front of the fridge, taking out leftovers. Like me, Mr. Ammouri can’t fast. He’s been a diabetic all his life. Anyhow, the cool thing about Syrian food is that a lot of it doesn’t need to be reheated, especially the dips. Amir excused himself for a second and ran upstairs.
My eyes bulged when he returned with his oud.
Okay, this was a treat. Totally worth a power outage and loss of Edward Norton binge-watching. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d seen Amir play—and all were in the early days, when he was still willing to operate outside his comfort zone to win me over.
“You’re really going to play for us?” I asked.
“Well, I have to run my material for Yasmin’s project by somebody,” Amir replied dryly, avoiding my eyes. “And if I’m going to conquer my stage fright, this is a good first step.”
I had to laugh. “Oh, I get it now. This is a directive from Sheikh Epstein.”
Mr. Ammouri glanced over at us from behind the kitchen i
sland, confused. “Sheikh who?”
“MR. EPSTEIN, DAD,” Amir answered loudly.
Mr. Ammouri shook his head, confused.
Amir put his oud down and walked over to talk to his dad. “Hey, Baba, it’s just us.” He spoke sweetly, deferentially, kareem. “Turn your hearing aids back up.”
His father flashed me a grin, like a naughty schoolboy. I chuckled as he reached behind his ear. He must have known that Amir had confided in me that he’d developed a habit of turning his hearing aids down—or off—when Mrs. Ammouri was around.
“So who’s this sheikh?” he asked.
“Epstein, Dad,” Amir said, lowering his voice now. “My music teacher. I told you: he wants me to get in the habit of playing more in front of people.” Amir returned to the sofa and slumped down in the cushions, picking up the instrument and cradling it in his lap. His hair flopped in front of his face. “I also told you that Salma here thinks that I revere him like a guru. Keep in mind that this is an adult who wears tie-dyed ponchos. But, like you said, Salma is a real comedian.”
I had to laugh again. “Touché,” I whispered.
Leave it to a smart-mouthed musician to play a coffee table like a drum and to make his girlfriend take back everything she’d ever said about the dorky teacher who kept stealing away our time together. The piece that he wrote (for my sister, no less) was…strident. Repetitive. Deliberately so, in the best and catchiest way. It sounds absurd, but it was Yasmin. It was also Yasmin’s subject, Muhammad Ali. It was defiance with a bounce. Best to leave the descriptions there; it’s impossible to do justice to the haunting beauty of an ancient instrument played live.
Even the shape of the oud recalls some long-forgotten era when music was something sacred: a time before recordings, when music could only be enjoyed live, for a lucky elite. Its body is like a hard-boiled egg cut in half, though the inlay on the flat part is what makes it special. It’s much more ornate than what you see on a lute or guitar. At least Amir’s was. Also, the end of the neck—the piece with the tuning pegs—skews at an odd backward angle. Like a guitar with EDS, the way a person can look when a limb is removed from its socket. But in the case of the oud, it’s a more sensible design; the player doesn’t have to reach too far to make any adjustments.
As Amir played, I snuck a quick glance at his father. Mr. Ammouri’s eyes were closed, brow furrowed in concentration. He was fighting to listen. I prayed he could hear what I heard—
Amir abruptly stopped.
Someone was pounding at the front door.
“Dad!” Amir shouted.
His father’s eyes popped open. He gathered himself off the couch and hurried, discombobulated, to answer.
Amir flashed a sad grin. “Oh well.”
I blew him a kiss. “Thanks for playing that for me,” I said. “Yasmin will love it. I love it.”
He blew one back. “I’ll send it to Yasmin tonight. If the power comes back on.”
A moment later Mr. Ammouri returned with a man in gray coveralls and a utility belt. I was honestly tempted to take advantage of the distraction to sneak off with Amir. But the man’s profile caught my attention. He smiled politely and began to survey the room, checking out the power outlets. My eyes narrowed. There was something familiar about that smile. I stared, rudely—worse, knowing it was rude—but unable to help myself. I knew this technician guy. He was solid. Muscly. That sunburned neck…My eyes zeroed in on the small tattoo on his left forearm: 1493.
“Mr. Turner!” I said out loud.
He turned and met my gaze, then broke into a smile and straightened. “Salma!” He removed his cap, revealing the telltale buzz cut. “Well, I’ll be.”
“You two know each other?” Mr. Ammouri asked.
Mr. Turner nodded. “My family just moved in next door to the Bakkiouis,” he explained, “and Salma and your son…” He paused. “I take it Amir is your son?”
Mr. Ammouri nodded.
“Yes, these two, you see,” Mr. Turner continued, “they were kind enough to deliver a housewarming gift to my family. You’ve done a fine job raising him.”
Amir’s own smile grew strained. Few things made him more uncomfortable than being complimented as if he weren’t present. It was a mark of his true shyness, the natural flip side of wanting to remain invisible. I knew this for a fact because my parents and Titi did it all the time. He began backing toward the hallway, clutching the oud against his chest.
“Please, I don’t mean to interrupt,” Mr. Turner apologized. “Keep playing. My son Kyle is a musician, too. So I get it. Practice. Practice. Practice. It’s good discipline, too.” He raised his voice again. “So where’s the router?”
Mr. Ammouri motioned him back toward the hall. “This way…”
“Good to see you, kids,” Mr. Turner said. Then he paused. “Can I trouble you two for a favor?”
I glanced at Amir and nodded reflexively, at a loss.
“Kyle Jr. is transferring to Franklin High on Monday,” he explained quietly. “It’s hard being the new kid and he’s never been to a big school before.” He bit his lip. “It’s just…He’s homeschooled. We’ve moved around a lot. I’d be grateful if you could keep an eye out for him. It puts my mind at ease knowing he has such good neighbors at his school. Good kids.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. Amir was silent, too.
“Of course,” I said as politely as I could.
“Thank you,” Mr. Turner said. “I really—”
“Can I pay you by check?” Mr. Ammouri interrupted. “We rarely keep any cash around.”
Mr. Turner flashed a big smile. “We’ll bill you, sir. You don’t have to worry about that at all right now. I’m just here to fix your problem.” He turned away from us.
“My dad’s not kidding,” Amir grumbled to me. “He doesn’t know how to use an ATM card.”
I tried to laugh, but I felt a little queasy as Mr. Turner followed Mr. Ammouri upstairs. Mr. Turner’s manner was so plainspoken and earnest. He probably wouldn’t have thought of me as a “good neighbor” if he could see inside me right now, stewing with a litany of whiny complaints. My lower nafs was being a total jerk. Here was a decent non-Muslim actually wanting his kid to hang with the Muslim kids, seeing us as a way into the Franklin social scene—and yet my antisocial, I’ve-got-my-own-crew self was shutting the whole thing down. Does that mean I have to be Kyle Jr.’s friend? Does that mean I have to introduce him to my friends? Do I have to invite him to Vanessa Richman’s parties? What if he’s a jerk? Do I have to report back to you?
Maybe he’d just forget about it. Or maybe I’d just have to avoid all three Turners. As these uncharitable thoughts began to fester in my mind, the house whirred to life. Power restored.
I WAS GRUMPY Monday morning. Amir had driven early to Franklin and Mr. Epstein. Here I was, lurching out of the house to take the bus.
Apparently Amir’s tie-dyed sheikh had phoned the Ammouri family last night. The reason? To ask if his favorite oud player would be willing to help out with an upcoming “gig”—the word Amir actually used—and maybe perform a song with Mr. Epstein’s nerdy all-teacher band, “Public School Funk-a-Delic” (the name Amir actually quoted). Good thing Amir hadn’t seen me cringing. The upshot? He and Mr. Funk had to rehearse, and the only time that could possibly fit both their schedules was first thing in the morning. My door-to-door school chauffeur service had come to an end.
Astaghfirullah—may Allah forgive me—I shouldn’t complain, especially this month. Besides, even though it had only been a week since “the accident,” I’d followed the initial orders: rest, elevate, ice. My knee was less swollen. The pain was subsiding. Tomorrow I had a PT appointment with Mrs. DLP, and I was confident she’d let me ditch the crutches.
Furthermore, Amir has been nothing short of awesome this entire week. He’d gone above and beyond with his piece for Yas
min. And yes, credit was due to Mr. Epstein. As much as I made fun of the guy, I knew that Amir was lucky to have a mentor like that, to have someone so invested in his talent. I also knew that it wasn’t luck. Amir deserved it. If Mariam had been the bright side of the Salma-Mariam moon, then I was the lucky one; Amir was the sun—more radiant than ever.
And yet the crap mood persisted.
Mostly it was because once again, I had to share the bus with Michelle Mayor. Whatever. At least she’d kept her mouth shut since that horrible day. There was also an upside: now Vanessa and I were able to sit next to each other again in Davis’s class. (Apparently socializing in Pre-Calc was preferable to fearing one’s neighbor.) As long as Vapid Barbie left me alone, I would let sleeping dogs lie. Besides, I could tune her out. Outside, balancing on the left crutch, I reached into my knapsack pocket for my headphones. Ah, the many miracles of recorded music: unlike the days of the original oud, I could create a wall of sound between the world and me.
My fingers came up empty.
Shit. Yasmin must have taken them to listen to Amir’s piece. Why in God’s name she thought it was okay to take my stuff without asking was beyond me. Injured or not, I’d made it clear to her and Hala that I’d kick their little butts if they did…whatever.
Onward.
* * *
—
Halfway down the block, I spotted two teenagers turning the corner from Oak Street.
I squinted in the morning sunlight. Was that Michelle?
Yep, definitely. She was walking shoulder to shoulder with Chris.
As they approached, I remembered Amir’s expression when he told me he’d seen them laughing after I’d been questioned by those asshole detectives. It suddenly occurred to me that the bomb scare at school could have been their idea. I’d be willing to bet on it. I could see them planting the idea in Warren’s drug-addled brain, getting him to call the school and the police from an outside line, all to heap suspicion on me. It would be typically thoughtful of them, considering everyone’s valid fear. Considering there had really been a terrorist scare, along with what we heard on the news every night—considering that the authorities were still hunting for domestic operatives. And even though the facts still weren’t known, the rumors about “radical Islamists” persisted.
No True Believers Page 8
