Poppycock? Ossified? I cracked a half smile. Sometimes Mom’s sharp tongue sounded more nineteenth-century London than twenty-first-century Arlington. “The Malama-whatta poetry?” I asked.
“Rabiah, Hafez…” She rattled off a half dozen more names I’d never heard, presumably dead Sufis. “God’s unruly friends,” she explained, maybe forgetting my habit of tuning her out when she got all academic on me. “Those who challenged the various paradigms of their day, political, theological. They saw virtue in rebellion and following the unorthodox path.”
I leaned over to kiss her, then stood. Thomas hopped off the bed with me.
“Interesting,” I said. Little did she know that I found her words to be more inspiring than interesting. She had planted in my brain a desire for vigilante justice. My own approach to “convalescing.”
* * *
—
Back in my cave, basement door locked, I whipped out my dual iPads and mounted them to my laptop for a triple monitor setup. The more surface area, the better. I had Mom’s words to thank. It was time for some virtuous rebellion, to follow the unorthodox path. Nearly everyone viewed me as a pariah anyway, thanks to my faith. It was time to embrace the pariah I really was, thanks to my computer skills.
The plan? To dox the principal. I would not sit around while Mom wrote strongly worded letters and Mrs. DLP raised a stink at the next PTSA meeting. That was all well and good. But it wasn’t enough. If there were parents who really wanted to oust Philip, they needed irrefutable proof of his bigotry. And I could hand it to them. Anonymously, of course. Doxing was the perfect solution. The approach is simple—hack into someone’s private files (or photos, but I wasn’t interested in accidentally discovering something that personal). All I needed was an offhand comment, something offensive and racist. Written by Philip.
As I sat at my desk investigating Franklin’s firewall, a tingling sensation coursed through my fingertips—part EDS, part adrenaline. I set up a triple VPN to secure my presence and tunneled my way into the school’s network. If anyone at Franklin found out what I was up to, I would be expelled in a heartbeat. It was best to follow one of Pulaski88’s fundamental principles: When ethically hacking, time was of the essence.
Thankfully, Franklin isn’t exactly the Department of Defense in terms of security. In under ten minutes, I had access to everything Philip had access to. I scoured his email for anything I could use against him, but it was the usual boring school administrative stuff. But then a new email popped up in his inbox.
I squinted at my laptop screen. The subject line read: Podcast 32 ready to air. The sender was a media group: the Family First Coalition. I was tempted to look at it, but if I clicked on the email it would no longer be bold, no longer appear as unread. Fine. If I couldn’t find some dirt on Philip, the very least I could do was locate the names of the punk-ass middle schoolers who’d put my sisters through hell and dox them. In person.
It was surprisingly easy to find them. All disciplinary incidents are recorded in the same database; I soon had access to their records, their grades, their daily schedules, even their after-school schedules. School had just gotten out, and both of these douchekins had Arcade Club at four p.m. It was perfect. Resisting the urge to do anything extra—say, changing all their grades to Fs—I powered down my laptop and called Amir. I told him I needed his help, a ride to school for a little payback. I told my parents that the best way to convalesce was to get a frappy-dappy. I promised them that Amir would have me back before iftar. That part was true, at least. After that I changed my outfit.
BY THE TIME Amir arrived, I was pacing the sidewalk, debating whether to call on Dora and Boots. Charge the middle schoolers with a posse of my own, care of 1-888-KICK-BUTT. No, this was my burden. This was family business.
Outfit-wise, I’d gone full Tyler Durden. Like I’d come out of the Fight Club hole. The activist geek was out in the open now: black Doc Martens, matching black jeans, black T-shirt, thick eyeliner.
In other words, I didn’t look like myself. And Amir knew it.
Windows down, car in park, he flashed me a sad smile. Even though he’d agreed to pick me up, I hadn’t shared the full plan. The plan to find the kids who’d terrorized my sisters; scare the living daylights out of them; void their Instagram points with some points of my own. Mutual Edward Norton fetish aside, I could tell that Amir wasn’t digging my vibe.
Whatever. I was pumped and ready to go.
“You’re only going to talk to them, right? Nothing crazy?”
Talk? Nothing crazy? Did he even hear himself? I had every right to go crazy on those obnoxious little twerps. Then again, Amir was Mr. Kareem. He couldn’t help himself…so I bit my lip and nodded. “Of course,” I said, clicking my seatbelt.
Amir bit his nails. I could tell he was thinking something he didn’t have the nerve to share.
“What?” I groaned.
“Nothing.” He slid the gear shift into drive. “It’s just…getting soft isn’t the worst thing.”
* * *
—
We drove in silence the entire way to Franklin. Only when we turned the corner into the school parking lot did Amir shake his head and put his foot on the brakes.
“Amir—”
“Salma, wait.” He pulled the key from the ignition and shifted to me in his seat, his dark eyes on mine, serious. “Just listen to me. I talked to Mr. Epstein about what happened. He’s not happy about it. He thinks the ‘Yasmin B. Incident’ is an opportunity. He used those words. He and Mr. Peck and a couple of other teachers are planning a sit-down with Principal Philip. There’s a laundry list of issues. Did you know that Philip has threatened to suspend anyone who participates in gun-control walkouts, you know, like the one that went down at T.C. Williams?”
I shook my head. Sadness washed over my body, an invisible weight. It pushed me down into the seat cushion. My little sister’s name was now a label, a catchphrase for an agenda. Exposing the unspoken bigotry at Franklin was a positive thing, yes…but it had nothing to do with what really happened to Yasmin. The person. The ten-year-old girl. The human being who’d been scared into the woods. The student who’d had her work destroyed.
“Amir?” I heard myself say. I turned to him and laid my hand over his. “I’m not going to wait for some ‘Kumbaya’ moment that might never come. I know Mr. Epstein cares. I know he’s a good guy.”
“Exactly, so—”
“So let me finish. Yasmin isn’t his sister. She’s my sister. I need to do something about it.”
Amir stared out the window, gnawing on his thumbnail, avoiding my eyes. “Do what, though?”
“Something that will help my family,” I said, unbuckling my seatbelt and opening the door.
“Salma, wait.” He reached for my shoulder. “Listen. I get it. I do. Just…I’m worried, okay? I don’t want you to get in trouble. I don’t want to give them more of an excuse to hurt you.”
“But this isn’t about me.” I turned around and shook free as I pushed myself out of the car. “If you’re worried, then don’t stick around. Seriously. I don’t want you to feel you’re complicit in something you don’t agree with.”
I left the car as fast as I could without limping, making a beeline for the front entrance. I winced with each step, but my back was turned. I didn’t want him to see that I was in any pain. Because he could sweet-talk me…he could get all kareem; he could convince me to see some sunny way to fix things. Amir was the sun. And I needed that. Sometimes. But right now I was the darkness of the moon, hidden from the light, and right now that was exactly what I needed, too.
The metal doors slammed behind me. My boots clomped in rhythm down the sterile cinderblock and linoleum hall. Conveniently, Dylan Douchebag and Aaron Asshat were both signed up for Thursday’s Video Arcade Club. Room 401: the middle school computer lab. As I passed the main office, I saw that
the door was ajar. Principal Philip was standing in front of Mrs. Owens’s desk, discussing something. Both of their heads were down. Since they didn’t look up, I gave them the finger.
Childish, yes, but cathartic.
I picked up my pace. It was sort of perfect that I’d teach them a lesson here. I’d taken Cybersecurity Club with Mrs. Duffner in that exact room several years ago. I turned the corner separating Franklin High from Franklin Middle—
And I barreled straight into Sheikh Epstein.
Papers flew, scattering to the ground in a flurry. He immediately apologized and bent down to pick up his music sheets. The sheet nearest my foot was marked No Woman, No Cry. Amir for Salma. I bent down and handed it to him, my heart suddenly racing. I could feel my cheeks getting hot.
“I’m, uh, I’m so sorry,” I stammered. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
We stood up at the same time. I saw now that Mr. Epstein’s usually serene face was creased with concern. There were dark circles under his eyes. His short, thinning hair was messier than usual.
“You don’t have to apologize,” he said gently. “For anything. You and your family are owed an apology. Several, in fact. And you’re—” He broke off as he took in my outfit. “Salma…you’re not alone. Just, please, promise me that you won’t do anything that might get you in trouble.”
Trouble. It was the exact same word Amir had used. And in the same way: code for the right deed with the wrong execution. I blinked at him. All at once I burst into tears.
“I won’t,” I croaked. The words stuck in my throat. “I promise.”
“Glad to hear it.” He reached out and patted my shoulder.
I wiped my eyes. No doubt I smeared my ridiculous makeup all over my face. Still, I forced myself to return his gaze. Amir was right. Because somehow his sunlight had reached me anyway. I saw it right now. It was reflected in Mr. Epstein’s weary face, in the compassion he couldn’t hide.
“Thank you.” I sniffed. “For, um…actually, never mind. Probably best if you don’t know.”
Mr. Epstein smiled. “Hey, I’m just glad you ran into me. Feel free to run into me whenever you need to. I’m happy to wear kneepads.”
I laughed through my tears at his dorky joke.
“Bye, Mr. Epstein,” I said, then turned and shambled toward the exit.
I suppose I should have known all along that my revenge plan was a fantasy. I felt regret and relief in equal measure as I rehashed it in my mind one last time before letting it go. Step one: remove Aaron and Dylan from room 401. Step two: pin their scrawny necks against the wall. Step three: scream “Fayn kayn l’bit del’ma?” angrily, emphasizing all the scary guttural letters and gesturing wildly. Step four: leave them soaking in their tighty-whities, sopping wet. The beauty of it was that “Fayn kayn l’bit del’ma?” wasn’t a threat. It literally means “Where’s the restroom?” in colloquial Moroccan Arabic. A good phrase in case they did, indeed, piss themselves….
What wasn’t a fantasy? Amir.
He was still there, in the parking lot, sitting in his Jetta. Waiting for me. I’m sure there were a million things he’d rather be doing. Like getting in a Ramadan nap. Yet, in spite of everything, he was still there. In spite of the fact that if I’d gotten in trouble, he would have gotten in trouble, too.
I opened the door and slid in beside him. “I didn’t do it,” I whispered. “I…” My throat caught, and I couldn’t go on. A tear rolled down my check. Without a word, he reached for my hand.
I held it tight in return. When my breathing evened and I managed to collect myself, I finally let go. “There’s no way I could ever let anything happen to you, too,” I choked out.
He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. Then he started the engine.
* * *
—
We drove in silence, and the dark cloud slowly lifted. Ten minutes later, when we pulled onto Mason Terrace, I felt like myself again. I even felt good. My knee wasn’t throbbing. I vowed not to entertain any more revenge scenarios. I would stay off my screens and be with family, spend time with my sisters, bring Titi joy. But as I climbed out of the Jetta, I spotted Mrs. Turner leaving her house with Drexler. She shuffled out their entryway, paused, and answered a phone call. When she got off, she immediately sank down, sitting on the last step. She buried her face in her hands while Drexler sat there, sniffing the air.
“What do you think that’s all about?” Amir asked.
I shook my head. “Not sure. Why don’t you go in and say hi to my family? I’ll see what’s up with her.”
“Cool.”
By the time I made it across the street, Mrs. Turner was patting her eyes with a handkerchief and looking up to the sky, lost in thought. She seemed…overwhelmed. Broken. The way Mom and Titi had when it seemed we would never find Hala and Yasmin again.
“Hi…Kate,” I said, forcing myself to use the name she insisted upon. “Is everything all right?”
“Oh!” Her face flushed. She hadn’t even noticed I’d been standing there. “I’m fine, dear.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes. I just need to hurry back inside. I forgot to pack Mr. Turner’s dinner. He’s got the late shift and I completely forgot.” She stood up, turning toward the door. “Sorry, Drexler. Your walk will have to wait.”
I stepped back a bit. Mrs. Turner clearly didn’t want to talk about whatever was really bothering her. And this was the best she could do—under the circumstances, whatever they were—without telling me that it was none of my business. I knew I shouldn’t pry. But I wanted to help her, to repay the favor she had done for us. The many favors. Drexler tilted his head up at me, his droopy brown eyes seeming to reflect his owner’s sadness. “Um…Mrs. Turner?”
“Yes?” She was so distraught that for once she didn’t even insist on being called Kate.
“I’d be happy to take Drexler for a walk. He can hang with us, too. Until you get back.”
Her worried face softened slightly. “Oh, I couldn’t trouble you—”
“It’s no trouble,” I gently interrupted. “You would actually be doing me a favor. By letting me thank you for what you did for my sisters.”
A fleeting smile crossed her face. “Well then, thank you.” She nodded. “What a godsend.”
As she passed me the leash I got a quick look at her wrist. There was a brownish-yellow bruise that wrapped around it. She pulled her sleeves down and went inside.
AH, SATURDAY NIGHT. Or in certain parts of Arlington: the Night When High School Couples Pick a Parentally Approved Activity as an Excuse to Go Somewhere Safe and Make Out. Or at the very least, attend a party at Vanessa’s. (Of course she was having a party, and of course Dora and Boots were in; they’d already bugged me to come.) But I didn’t even have a full night to myself, so for me the choice was simple. Amir. Just Amir.
The clock was ticking. Two hours from now I would be with Titi, babysitting my sisters. Mom and Dad had their own Ramadan “date”—their word (lame). Then again, they absolutely deserved it. They needed a kid-free break. I even told them as much. Though if I were like Mrs. DLP, if the window to my soul were wide open, they would see that I craved a break from them, too. Honestly, I was relieved. There was still so much they didn’t know, and so much I didn’t want to share. Anyway, I was lucky even to get this time. Since Mariam had moved away, I’d almost forgotten how permissive my parents were.
Amir and I had to make the best of Saturday afternoon. As I approached his house, I vowed to make the best of it. I owed him. For a lot. For waiting for me in the Franklin parking lot after I’d been saved from scaring the shit out of those two little morons. For giving me a ride back home. For not calling me out for being a jerk when a lesser person would have. For letting me help Mrs. Turner with Drexler.
For being able to see through the curtains, just a little.<
br />
* * *
—
After ten seconds of incessant doorbell ringing, I finally heard approaching footsteps—at a sprint. I grinned. Definitely not Mr. Ammouri.
“Surprise!” yelled a familiar voice as the door swung open. It was Mona. Child number four.
“Oh my God!” I screeched back. “What are you doing here?”
“I drove down for the weekend,” she said. “You know, to make sure in Mom’s absence that Baba and Amir don’t starve to death.”
“Oh,” I said, not realizing that Mrs. Ammouri had already left town for baby duty. “Did Marwa have the twins?”
She laughed. “Marwa definitely did not have the twins. Actually, it’s Maya that’s having the babies. But whatever, at least it’s not me.” She pulled me inside. “Come on in and have a seat.”
I could hear the faint strains of a drumbeat in the basement. Ah, so Amir was listening to music. That explained why Mona had answered the door. But I was happy to have a little time with her. She’s the older sister I’ve always wanted—loyal, witty, hella badass.
In the living room, she pushed aside her graduate school books and patted the couch. “So, how are you and Amir doing?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.
“We’re good,” I said, eying the coffee as I waited for it to cool. “Actually, he’s the good one. I’m the head case. Loud, emotional, angry. Not at him, I mean. But at the world—or our world. Franklin really. Specifically our White Power Principal.”
“Oh, don’t get me started on Philip,” she groaned. “He was only an assistant principal and the lacrosse coach when I went to Franklin, but…” She left the sentence hanging.
“What?”
Mona swept her curly brown hair over her shoulder and looked at me. She had the same dark eyes as Amir; all the Ammouri kids shared them. “He escorted me out of a game for cheering when my boyfriend—well, my boyfriend at the time—hit a shot at the end of the second quarter.”
No True Believers Page 13
