One swing later the course was hers. She hilariously imitated my every move—from the prolonged stretch, to the slow and methodic setup, to the whack-and-miss. Not surprisingly, her execution was equally as…well, awful. On hole six she hit the ball so hard she nearly struck an elderly couple who were quickly catching up to us—the only other people dumb (stoned?) enough to come out for mini-golf on a day when thunderstorms were practically guaranteed.
“SCORE!” Vanessa yelled as the ball ricocheted off the windmill and shot toward them. “I mean, FORE!” She dropped the rent-a-club and covered her bloodshot eyes with her hands.
I watched, grinning, as the ball sailed over their heads and landed in an artificial mini-pond, green with algae. The woman straightened, puzzled. She glanced toward the splash, then shrugged and concentrated on the next putt. I started laughing.
There was another rumble of thunder. Vanessa dropped her hands and blinked up at the sky. The clouds were turning a sickly mushroom gray.
“You can look now,” I deadpanned. “It missed, but that lady might be onto you.”
Vanessa laughed, too. When she fixed her stoned gaze on the couple, though, her laughter faded. She turned back to me, suddenly somber. “She’s never going to stop, you know.”
“I know. They’re catching up. It’s about to start pouring—”
“No, not her,” Vanessa interrupted. “Michelle. And her Douche-Lord boyfriend. I mean, I get your strategy. I know you like to fly ‘under the radar.’ ” She made air quotes, then bent down to pick up her club. “But you’ve got skills, Salma. And I know you know I know.”
“Eloquent,” I cracked. She was right, though. She had me, too. And to be honest, at this particular moment I was surprised she’d remember a conversation we’d had four years ago, let alone four minutes ago. But it was one of our first. I was such a nerd then, with even fewer friends than I have today. So when Mrs. Duffner made me Vanessa’s tech buddy in computer class—aka her free sabilillah tutor (though Duffner wouldn’t put it in those terms)—I bragged a little about my budding “under the radar” hacking skills. Using those same dorky words. Thereby being as on-the-radar as possible.
“Are you thinking of the latest Unicode virus?” I teased, knowing full well she’d have no idea what I was talking about.
“Unicorn virus?”
I smirked. “Close enough. It’s the character-encoding system for writing in any language. I could send Michelle and Chris a Trojan horse. Shut down their phones completely.” I sighed, ruminating over all sorts of malicious pranks I’d never pull. “Or send them both forty nonreturnable pizzas…”
“Are you hungry?”
“Are you stoned?” I answered automatically.
We both giggled. She dropped the club again and started rooting through her cargo pockets.
“Here,” she said, handing me her phone. “I’d gladly be the front for this Unicorn thing. You know, just in case it can be traced. It’s for a good cause.”
Small raindrops tickled my nose. I reached out and squeezed her hand as I shook my head. “Nah. But thanks. You better put your own phone away, though. That model iPhone isn’t waterproof. And…as much as I want to ditch Mrs. DLP today, I probably shouldn’t. I’ll have my mom come pick me up. She’ll give you a ride home, too.”
Vanessa smiled and squeezed her eyes shut, tilting her face toward the rain. “Nah. I’ll just stay with the car until this brownie wears off.”
* * *
—
Mom dropped me off curbside since we were running so late. She also very thoughtfully decided not to ask why Vanessa had chosen to hang out alone at a mini-golf course in the middle of a thunderstorm. I wondered how much she really knew or suspected about Vanessa. Maybe she just knew I needed all the good friends I could get right now, so she focused on the weather. The rain was intense but quick. The skies were already clearing by the time I hobble-hopped to the front door.
I took a quick second to collect myself. Miss Clementine Watkins, Mrs. DLP’s shrunken post-retirement-age assistant (not nice but accurate), loathed disruptions. And tardiness. I was already guilty of the latter. So I held my breath as I opened the door…Ever. So. Slowly.
Luckily, she was on the phone, so she couldn’t verbalize her displeasure. Instead she lowered her bifocals and leveled a glare at me that spoke volumes. I flashed a lame I’m-so-sorry smile, then crutch-tiptoed past reception toward the Treatment Room, making sure to be extra quiet. But it wasn’t for her sake. I had to pretend to sneak up on Mrs. DLP. It wasn’t a choice, really; it was a silly ritual that dated back to when I first started seeing her. I would enter the Treatment Room, clasp my hands (perpetually cold) over her eyes, and shout “Gotcha!”
Predictable and corny, yes—and useless, considering I had to first put my crutches away to pull it off. But after all these years, she still begged for it. She was the only grown-up I knew who sat with her back to an open office door. Mrs. DLP was a proud, self-proclaimed comic book nerd. Her office walls were plastered with life-sized posters of Marvel’s finest. Black Panther. Spider-Man. The Wasp. According to her, the Wasp would have no trouble sitting with her back to a door, either….
“Gotcha!!”
With a laugh, she flicked my frigid hands away and spun around.
“Hey, girl!” Her wide brown eyes fell to the crutches, and then to my knee. The smile quickly fell from her face. “Lisa told me what happened,” she murmured in disgust. “The whole thing. But I had to see it to believe it.” After a moment she lifted her head. “I am so, so sorry, Salma B.”
“I’m fine, really,” I lied. “It’s nothing. Stupid kids. Every school’s got ’em.” I tried to laugh, hoping she’d laugh in return. She didn’t. As if to agree with my general disappointment, my knee began to throb. (Perfect timing, considering where I was.) I didn’t need another glum and outraged grown-up in my life. I needed the fun-loving auntie-by-proxy who always made me giggle, who managed to make me forget about my EDS even while she was working overtime to ease the symptoms.
“You doing okay?” she asked me pointedly.
I slumped down in the chair, suddenly exhausted—from my chronic disease and from everything else. “I’ve been better,” I admitted. I winced slightly and leaned forward to massage my sore knee.
“Did Franklin punish the creeps who did that to you?”
I laughed again, miserably. “Not yet. It’s not exactly at the top of Principal Philip’s agenda.”
She frowned. “Wait. Let me understand you, sweetie. There haven’t been any repercussions?”
“No, because they don’t even know which creeps did it. I mean, I have my suspicions, but I don’t have any actual proof. Not that Principal Philip is even interested in finding out…” I shoved the memory of those two detectives from my mind; I didn’t want to get into it with Mrs. DLP and have to relive that whole surreal nightmare. “Anyway, the only proof that it even happened is this.” I got out my phone and leaned forward to show her the photo that had been anonymously tossed up on Instagram. There I was, in an agonized heap at the bottom of a Franklin stairwell. Even looking at it now, for the umpteenth time, I found myself silently asking the same questions: Who does that? Who can live with being that cruel? Who sleeps at night after pushing a girl down the stairs and sharing a photo of it?
Mrs. DLP’s eyes turned to slits. “So nobody knows who did this to you,” she said quietly. “And there’s been no follow-up from the school. None whatsoever.”
“Not that I know of,” I grumbled.
She sat up straight. “Is there anything else?” she whispered.
I swallowed. She took a deep breath. And in that moment, her eyes opened wide once more: a pair of glittering brown butterfly pupae emerging from their chrysalises. Maybe it was some sort of Reiki treatment to absorb my pain and send me light, but it wasn’t New Agey phoniness. Not
from Mrs. DLP. Everything about her was 100 percent genuine and authentic; this was how she showed me that she was present, every part of her being—for me, here, now. Then again, the window to her soul was always open. I doubt she could draw the curtains even if she wanted to. My own soul was locked in a vault. But in moments like this, she always knew how to crack it open.
“Salma, anything you say here stays here,” she gently prodded. “You know that.”
Without warning, the floodgates burst, and out it came—chronologically if not coherently—the whole story about hearing my name over the loudspeaker, about the apology that never came, about Detective Tim and the Silent One, about what happened earlier this morning with Barbie and the Bot, about how my new neighbor swept in and de-escalated the confrontation with his brave and strange behavior…about how I was worried for him now because he’d taken a stand against Franklin’s Grossest, its Alt-Right fringe.
Until I’d said that last part out loud, I hadn’t even realized how I felt, myself.
Out of breath, I stopped talking.
Mrs. DLP sighed. “Let me tell you something, Salma B. Well, two things. The first: you’re the only patient I’ve ever had I’ve approved of as a friend for my daughter. A real friend.”
I stared at her. “Whoa. Seriously?”
“Seriously. And I see plenty of her teammates.”
My eyes fell to my lap. Lisa had always been a jock. It made sense; Lisa’s mother was in the best shape of any human being I’d ever known, young or old, male or female. I’d always been fairly certain that Kerry and I were Lisa’s only two non-jock friends. Truth be told, I’d had a hard time not feeling resentful every now and then. God (and Mrs. DLP) had gifted Lisa with all the collagen and energy I would never have, times twelve. All work is easy work was their mother-daughter mantra. Literally. I was certain I’d be hearing it more than once today….
“The second thing is that Principal Philip won’t get away with this,” Mrs. DLP said. “I promise you. He’s a bigot, plain and simple. He’s just better at hiding it than most. It’s how he’s kept his job.”
I sniffed, still staring down at my legs, at the soreness inside them that never fully disappeared. “What do you mean?”
“In practical terms, I mean he’ll be hearing from me—and from several other members of the faculty—at the next PTSA meeting. This isn’t the first time he’s turned his back on a student.” Her tone softened. “And don’t even think about asking me who that student is, because like I told you, anything anyone tells me here is strictly confidential. I know you, Salma B. You’re a nosy one.”
At that, I had to laugh.
“You probably know what I’m about to tell you,” she added.
“ ‘There’s no time like the present and no present like the time,’ ” I quoted.
“Smart girl. And all work is…?” There it was: the mantra. She waited for me to finish.
“Easy work,” I repeated dully.
“Salma, look at me.”
I lifted my head.
“I want to tell you something.” Mrs. DLP leaned forward and laid her hand on mine, tapping my butterfly ring with her forefinger. “I know how strong you are. The truth? You’re stronger than I am. What you told me about being worried for this boy who moved into your friend’s house…You are a special sort, Salma B. In your shoes, I wouldn’t be as strong. I wouldn’t be thinking about my new neighbor’s safety. For all my lecturing, that’s a fact.”
I swallowed hard. “So now what?”
“That’s easy,” she said, her smile returning. “Now I help you get stronger.” She patted my hand and stood, nodding to the row of stationary bikes. “Let’s start simple, with quad sets and heel slides and leg raises. Then we’ll move on to a little cardio. No negotiations, Missy Miss.”
* * *
—
I was spent after two minutes of biking. Lame, I know. Mrs. DLP clucked her tongue as my legs slowed to a stop and the machine quieted.
“What’s up, Salma? It’s on the lowest resistance. I know you can do this. All work is—”
“Don’t say it,” I groaned, cutting her off.
“Then don’t make me say it!” she shot back with a laugh.
I wiped my forehead with the towel hanging from the handlebars. “But should I be doing this so soon after the accident?” I asked, trying not to sound whiny. “I mean, it’s not like I’m training for the Olympics or anything.”
She snorted. “Please. Everything you want is on the other side of that pain.”
Now I was annoyed. Her platitudes echoed Mom’s. “The only way to ease your pain, Salma, is to accept it. The Prophets knew pain, a lifetime of pain. It’s a path to clarity, to a sound heart. That’s a blessing.” Enough already. Why do adults have to lay it on so thick? I was seventeen. Enlightenment wasn’t my goal. An occasional win in mini-golf was enough for me.
Mrs. DLP tapped her foot. “Haven’t got all day, cupcake.”
I pushed out my bottom lip, pouting.
“Ha! That worked when you were five, Missy Miss. But it won’t work now.” She smiled. “You’re tired. But you’ve got this. I know it…and she knows it.”
She pointed at a poster of Wonder Woman.
Seriously? If Mrs. DLP was hoping to motivate me, it wasn’t working. I hadn’t even seen that movie, for one thing. Plus, I couldn’t get past that woman’s skimpy attire. It’s not like Hollywood has superhero men traipsing around in their undies. (Or do they?) Whatever. I lived in the real world. And while it may be true that God blessed us with pain, he hasn’t blessed me with any superpowers. Mrs. DLP must have caught me glowering, because she reached into a nearby cabinet and pulled out a brand-new Pro-Tec Gel 400—metallic blue with black bands and reinforced stitching for extra support. And unlike my brace, it was sleek and light, everything a girl with EDS and a butterfly obsession might dream of. I knew the brand because, nerd to nerd, she knew me. She’d pulled this same trick on me the last time I’d had a knee issue (with the other knee, six months ago).
Now it was useless trying to hide my smile. Honestly, Mrs. DLP had her own superpowers; she was telepathic. She dangled the encouragement in front of me like a buttered scone.
“If you do this, Salma B., you can leave behind the crutches and the brace. You can ride a bike again. You know, come to think of it, that’s a great idea. You should do some biking this summer—”
“Got it,” I grunted. I shut my eyes and envisioned a different sort of hero. I envisioned Dihya. She wore a red turban and a matching robe. Undies were not part of her equation: my secret blow against Mrs. DLP’s Marvel Empire. I laughed.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said, eyes still closed, still on Dihya. I forced everything else out of my mind. I focused on Dihya’s face, her dark eyes and the indigo tats on her cheeks and her forehead, images of the land and the sky—sacred, but also practical, like code. Protection from nefarious forces.
* * *
—
On the ride home, Vanessa texted. I shifted in my seat so that Mom wouldn’t see what she’d written.
Good news: Found Michelle’s info and Chris. Ordered 40 pizzas.
I burst out laughing. Then my phone buzzed a second time.
Bad news: She wants revenge 4 what I did 4 u. Check this out. Isn’t that f’d up?
Attached was a screenshot from Michelle’s Instagram account. It was a flyer. A challenge, actually, called “Punish a Muslim.” Apparently May was an unofficial monthlong holiday devoted to punishing Mooslims. A time when oppressed white people got to push back, stand up against their civilizational foe. It got all cheerlead-y, too. “Do not be a sheep!” “Fight back!” “Protect your people!”
My phone buzzed a third time, another screenshot:
1
0 points: verbally abuse a Muslim or vandalize property
25 points: pull off head scarf
50 points: push a Muslim down the stairs
75 points: beat a Muslim up
100 points: burn a mosque
200 points: kidnap, torture, and kill a Muslim
500 points: bomb Mecca
Nice. Thanks to me, Michelle was racking up major points. I could live with that, though. I’d expected that. What sickened me more was how much attention this flyer had garnered. A total of 978 viewers had liked it. Vanessa texted again: Hey, you there? You ok?
I shot off a quick reply: Here. Fine. Sort of. Wish I had a magic wand. It’s time to rid the world of these evil people.
I added a montage of emojis. The cursing emoji. A poop-faced one. A string of flexed biceps. Anything to vent.
At the stoplight Mom lightly tapped me. “Such a busy social life,” she teased.
She probably assumed Amir was texting me love notes. I couldn’t bear to look her in the eye, or even respond. I turned my phone off and stared through the window. It was still raining. A drizzle, not a downpour. But the clouds were darker now. Hungrier. They threatened to swallow the day and the light that remained.
VANESSA’S TEXTS REMINDED me of something: I still hadn’t thanked Kyle for what he did for me.
It wasn’t as if I’d been avoiding him. Or procrastinating. I just hadn’t seen him. On the other hand, two days had passed since he’d stood up for me. Now it was Wednesday, and I still hadn’t made the effort. Even if “kindred spirit” was pushing it in terms of what I knew of Kyle—and I had to keep telling myself that I didn’t really know anything at all—he’d gone above and beyond. Good people deserved goodwill. There was one thing I did know: he’d done more than I would have done. Maybe a part of me just wanted to prove to myself that Mrs. DLP was right, that I could be strong. So after the final bell on Wednesday afternoon, I waited near the doors to the parking lot until I spotted him.
No True Believers Page 10
