Dad nodded. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
“We’re going biking,” I said. “Okay?”
“Your mother and I need you inside.” And he clapped his hands. I ran inside, humiliated. He sat me down at the kitchen table. Mom stood by the sink while he grilled me: “Why did those boys call you ‘Prophet’?”
I played with the fringe of the tablecloth. “I don’t know.”
“Hands on the table,” Dad said.
I put my hands on the placemat and rubbed my fingertips over the cotton weave.
“Now then,” Dad repeated, “why did they call you ‘Prophet’?”
“You know why,” I mumbled.
“Yes, I know why. But I want you to say it.”
I closed my eyes. “It’s because of my name. Mohammed.”
Dad sucked in air through his teeth.
“Dad, it’s just a nickname.”
“I know about nicknames,” he said slowly. “‘Prophet’ is not just a nickname.”
“Dad, it means they like me…. It means I’m their friend.”
“You don’t need friends like that.”
Mom put a hand on his shoulder. “They didn’t mean anything, Arman. They don’t know any better, that’s all. Mohammed will set them straight. Won’t you, Hammed?”
My ears burned. “Yesterday, you were so proud about fitting in,” I said quietly. “Well, what about me?”
“Belonging isn’t the same as fitting in,” Dad replied. “Your mother and I have never compromised who we are. And we never will, Inshallah.” He sat beside me and put his hands on mine. “If you don’t respect the Prophet, Hammed, you don’t respect who you are. And if you don’t respect who you are, no one else will either.” He paused. “Those boys. They were with you on the golf course, weren’t they?”
I stared at the center of the place mat.
“Without trust there is nothing,” Dad said quietly. “Don’t ever lie to us again.”
“I’m sorry.”
He gave me a squeeze. Mom kissed the top of my head.
Later, I went over to Andy’s. Marty was already there. The two of them were watching Mr. J. mount the basketball backboard on their garage. I told them what Dad said.
“So what are we supposed to call you, then?” Andy asked.
“How about my name?” I said. “Mohammed. Or Hammed for short.”
Marty looked puzzled. “Don’t you have another one?”
“What’s wrong with Mohammed?”
“Nothing. It’s just kind of…you know…”
I wanted to say how there’s baseball players called Jésus. And what about all the Matthew, Mark, Luke, and Johns? Or the Mary and Josephs? The Jacob, Isaac, Rachel, and Sarahs, for that matter? But I didn’t. “My middle name’s Sami.”
Andy brightened. “Sammy. Like Uncle Sam. Great.”
Actually, no—like plain Persian “Sami,” I thought. But I didn’t say anything. Andy seemed happy, and I didn’t want to confuse him. Or maybe I just didn’t want to sound weird or get asked any more questions.
Dad wasn’t so pleased about my name change, but Mom cooled him down. “Give the boy a break, Arman,” she said. “Sami’s his middle name. Your father’s name. How can you argue with that?”
Sami/Sammy. The day my name changed is the first time I realized that The Truth and The Whole Truth aren’t necessarily the same. And how even a simple thing like a name can mean different things to different people.
Anyway, before Andy arrived, Mom used to drive me to school on her way to work at Pharmacy Value. Now I biked with my new buddies. It was a whole other world. I mean, Andy’s a born Friend Magnet. I’d gone to Meadowvale Public since kindergarten, but on his first day there, he was the one making introductions. “You know Sammy?” he’d say on the playground. “He’s my friend from next door.”
Kids who’d ignored me as “Mohammed,” the nut bar who sleeps at recess, paid attention to me as “Sammy,” the guy with the cool friend who could think up stuff to do that’d freak their folks. Marty got new respect too; he wasn’t just “the fat goof” anymore. It helped that Andy was a year-and-a-half older; he lost an early grade when his mom tried to homeschool him, and got distracted.
I’m not sure what Andy gets out of our friendship; I’m not sure he thinks about it. I just know that no matter how many other friends he’s had, we’re the ones he pals around with. The chosen ones. His biggest cheerleaders. His entourage.
It’s been great. But right before graduating to Meadowvale Secondary, I had that thing with Mary Louise Prescott and her mother’s little club, and Dad stuck me in the Theodore Roosevelt Academy for Boys, where I’m part of the class leper colony. I still hang with Andy and Marty when I can, and we text, and sometimes play video games online, but after a year it’s not the same, us being at different schools and all.
I think about that as the three of us splash our feet in the park fountain opposite Mr. Softy’s, and talk about the new year coming up—eleventh grade.
“We’re gonna get Bonehead again. How’ll we cope?” Andy groans to Marty—Mr. Boney being the math teacher who landed him in summer school. Andy and Marty have all their other teachers in common too, thanks to arranging identical schedules.
Marty pokes Andy in the ribs. “Bonehead has nothing on Calhoun.” He imitates some teacher who apparently walks bow-legged, with his knuckles dragging on the ground.
Andy practically pees himself. “That’s him! Remember last year when his foot got stuck in the wastebasket?” Whoops of laughter from the two of them. Me, I just sit there with a pasted-on smile. Who’s Calhoun?
It’s like I’m a ghost: I’m here, but they don’t see me. They’ve moved on. I’m nothing but air. A wave of sickness washes over me. “I better go.”
They look up, sort of surprised. “It’s not even eight,” Andy says.
“Dad.” I roll my eyes. I feel bad using Dad as an excuse, but hey.
They drop me at home and take off. I watch the Deathmobile disappear around the corner for adventures unknown. Part of me wishes I was still with them; the other part of me knows if I was, I’d be feeling even worse.
Three
Mom passes me the chick-peas. “So, Sami, what are your three Events of the Day?”
Welcome to my family’s dining room, a.k.a. The Interrogation Chamber.
The Johnsons eat in front of various TVs, depending on who’s watching what. The Pratts eat together in their kitchen. What a zoo! Marty, his parents, three younger sisters, widowed grandma, and her aging rat-dog Mister Bubbles, everyone elbows up, yakking, sticking their forks into each other’s food, while Mrs. Pratt frisbees fresh platters off the stove, and Mr. Bubbles hops onto laps to lick noses and beg scraps. Honest, the Pratts could charge admission.
We Sabiris, on the other hand, are “Civilized.” That means we sit at the dining room table, Mom and Dad at either end, with china plates, linen napkins, butter knives, and candles, and discuss the Events Of The Day, meaning three things that’ve happened to us since breakfast. Dad says this builds families. I say it sucks my brains out.
The three Events Of The Day ritual started my first day back to school. Now, three weeks into the term, every day is same-old-same-old, and what used to be an Event is so old it ought to be buried. I mean, the only Event in my life worth mentioning happens tomorrow: my trip to Toronto with Dad. But okay, if Mom wants to drive me Skippy, I may as well have some fun.
“My three Events Of The Day.” I pause, scoop chick-peas onto my plate, and pass the bowl to Dad. “Event Number One.” I swivel the serving spoon through the rice dish, catching as many raisins as I can. “Today in the caf, three juniors barfed the lasagna special.”
Mom closes her eyes. “Sami, please, we’re eating.”
“So were we.”
“I thought we agreed our events would be positive.”
“This is positive. Last year, guys were hurling on day one.”
Mom looks to Dad for reinforcement.
“Arman?”
Dad grunts absently, lost in his chick-peas.
I decide not to press my luck. “Okay, something positive. As of period three, I’m no longer the biggest nerd in school. The title’s gone to Mitchell Kennedy.”
“Ah, Mitchell.” Mom brightens. “The friend from your noontime study group.”
“Mitchell’s hardly my friend. And we’re hardly a study group. More like the Loser Lunch Bunch. Anyway, Mitchell’s already read our entire science textbook. And today he told Mr. Carson. In class. It went over real well.”
“Maybe he shouldn’t have bragged,” Mom says. “But it never hurts to work hard. You should invite Mitchell over sometime.”
“Why?”
Mom sighs. “So don’t.” She offers me the tray of pistachio chicken. “And event number three?”
I take a breast. “Mr. Bernstein’s had a miracle.”
“Mr. Bernstein. Your history teacher, right? The older gentleman we met at the Academy open house?”
“Right.” I hold the tray for her. “Mr. Bernstein’s hair has been gray since forever. But overnight it magically turned black.”
Mom laughs. “I like Mr. Bernstein.” She takes a thigh. “He’s so gracious. So fit. So stylish. He has a lucky wife.”
A wife? Mr. Bernstein? Yo, Mom, get with the program. I set the tray beside Dad.
“Your turn, Arman,” Mom says. “What’s new in the world of microbes?”
Dad looks up from his chick-peas, frowns, takes a chicken leg, and places it in a nest of rice. “Well…” He pours orange gravy over it. “Well…” He carves a bite, sticks it in his mouth, chews slowly, swallows, and pats his lips with his napkin. “Well…”
“Yes,” Mom says, “we’ve heard that bit.”
Dad sets his napkin aside and plants his hands on either side of his plate, “All right. Here it is. About tomorrow, Sami. Our weekend. My colleague, Auggie Brandt, was scheduled to speak at the Saturday night dinner. But he’s sick. He’s asked me to fill in.”
“You told him no, of course,” Mom says.
“I wanted to. But Auggie’s done me a lot of favors. So…”
“There is no ‘So,’” Mom’s eyes narrow. “Saturday, you’re taking Sami to a doubleheader. The two of us discussed this. We planned it. We agreed it was important.”
“I know. And it is,” Dad says. “But I can’t.” He turns to me. “Sami, I’m sorry.”
I shrug. “There’s still the Leafs game tomorrow night. And Saturday I can go to the ball games on my own.”
Dad shakes his head. “Not possible. Tomorrow night I’ll be preparing. And I don’t want you out alone in a strange city. We’ll do our getaway some other time.”
“You mean the whole weekend is canceled?”
He opens his palms, like it’s out of his hands.
The bottom drops out of my stomach. “No, Dad, please! I’ve told everyone. Besides, it’s Canada. Nothing bad ever happens in Canada. It’s safer than day care.”
“I have a solution,” Mom interrupts. “I’ll call Deb right now, trade my shifts at the pharmacy, and come along. It’ll be a family trip.” She gives me a nod. “While your father works, I’ll take you to the games.”
“But you hate sports,” I say.
“This weekend will be an exception.”
Dad’s face clouds. “It’s a nice idea, Neda, but not practical.”
“Who cares about practical?”
“Not in front of Sami,” Dad signals.
“Arman,” Mom says evenly, “if you can’t accompany Sami, I will.”
“Impossible. I’ll be working. I’ll need to concentrate.”
“Then Sami and I will stay in a separate room.”
“Out of the question.”
“What do you mean, ‘out of the question’?”
I wish I was ten so I could slide under the table.
“I mean it’s too late,” Dad says. “I’ve released the tickets.”
“You’ve what?” Mom rocks back in her chair. “Without talking to me?”
“There wasn’t time.”
“There’s always time. A simple phone call.”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s okay, Mom,” I say.
“No,” she whispers. “It’s not.”
“I’ll make it up to both of you, Inshallah,” Dad says. “The first free weekend I have, we’ll all go to New York. How’s that? Neda, you can do some shopping. Sami, I’ll get us tickets to the Yankees. What do you say?”
I turn to Mom. “May I be excused?”
She nods. We both get up.
Dad’s stunned. “Neda?”
But Mom’s already halfway to the family room. It’s the first time she’s left a meal with dishes on the table. I hear the French doors close, the sound of the TV. I grab my plate and head to the kitchen.
“I said, I’ll take us to New York!” Dad pleads.
“Yeah, right, whatever.”
“Sami…”
I spin around. “Look, Dad, just forget it, okay? It’s no big deal. You obviously have way more important things to think about than me.”
Four
Holy shit. What just happened? Mom and Dad—they never fight, aside from private discussions in their bedroom. Plus Dad didn’t order me back when I stormed out. Is there a full moon or something?
I go to scrape my meal into the pail under the sink, but the pistachio chicken still looks tempting. I bring my plate downstairs to my bedroom—which I’m officially renaming the Asshole Relief Center, in honor of Dad—and slip behind my computer.
Andy and Marty are already online. I fill them in about Dad and the weekend.
ANDY: tht sux!
ME: u sed it. mayb we can get 2gethr insted?
ANDY: cant. were off 2 my cottage.
They’re going to the cottage without me again? I want to heave all over the keyboard.
ME: y dnt u tl me???
MARTY: u wr bzy.
ANDY: its not 2 l8. can u come?
My heart somersaults.
ME: w8 1 sec.
I race upstairs. Mom’s left the family room for the kitchen, where she’s putting Saran Wrap over the leftovers.
“Where’s Dad?”
“Up in his office,” she says briskly. “He got a call. Don’t bother him.”
No kidding. I made that mistake last week. The door was closed. He was on his cell. I tapped to see if it was okay for me to have a swim at Andy’s. He went ballistic: “How long have you been listening in? What did you hear?” You’d think I’d hacked into the Pentagon or something.
Mom sees me fretting. “What’s so important you can’t ask your mother?”
I spill the invitation.
“That’s wonderful,” Mom says. “Of course you can go.”
“Thanks. But shouldn’t we check with Dad?”
She takes me by the shoulders. “Sami, I’ve given permission.”
Right. And I’m not going to blow it. In a flash, I’m back at the computer: IM IN!!!!!
Andy types the drill for our trip.
I’ll get picked up after class for the drive to Alexandria Bay, where the Johnsons moor their boat. I’ll have my passport and a note from Mom, but going over the border by water is a snap. The Js have a pass. They’re supposed to notify authorities before a trip if they have guests, and phone from a landline on arrival. They never do. On paper, there’s penalties, but nobody hassles cottagers.
Andy’s fingers explode typos: “btw” has become “blt.” We switch to webcams.
“So. Very important,” Andy rattles. “Bring rubber boots, flashlights, hoodies, sweaters, and windbreakers. It’s cold on the water.”
“Check, check, check, and double-check,” I say.
Andy grins so wide I’m surprised his head doesn’t split in two. “Wait’ll you see the abandoned hermit’s shack we found. It’s a couple of miles from the cottage, on an island the size of your thumb.”
“What’s this ab
out a hermit?”
“Okay, maybe there isn’t a hermit,” Marty corrects. “But if there isn’t one, there should be. The shack’s made out of rotted plywood, it’s caved in, and there’s garbage all around, like rusty oil bins and bicycles and smashed-up TVs. We pictured this wacked-out hermit dropping dead under a full moon, and wild animals eating his bones.”
“Not so loud!” Andy hisses. He switches off his overhead light, like that’ll make things quieter. “The thing is,” he whispers, “Hermit Island’s covered in pines. From the water, that’s all you see, plus a half-sunk dock. We stumbled onto it by accident. Key point: The island’s got a small beach, great for goofing off. It’s our own party central.”
“One rule, Sammy,” Marty interrupts. “No pouring your beer in the sand.”
“Ha ha.” When I’m with the guys at house parties, I carry a beer as a prop, so people won’t think I’m a freak. Throughout the night I pour it down the toilet on pee breaks.
“Focus, team!” Andy says, eyes twitching. “Remember to bring sleeping bags. No, never mind, there’s extras at the cottage. And a tent.”
“We’re going to camp there?” I exclaim.
“Duh. Yeah.”
“With your dad?”
“You kidding?” Andy leans into his webcam; his left eyeball fills the frame. “Dad hates camping.”
“Won’t he mind us taking the boat overnight?”
The Eyeball winks. “No way. We’re in eleventh grade now. Plus I’ve turned seventeen, remember? I’m telling you, man, it’s gonna be cool. Way cooler than the cottage. And best of all, no neighbors to get pissed if we’re out late making noise.” Andy rolls his chair back. “We’ll fish off the tires by what’s left of the dock, get drunk—at least Marty and I will—and it’ll be great. Sammy, you can be the designated pilot.”
“You mean it? Me? Behind the wheel?”
“You bet. I’ll teach you how to steer. Nothing to it. But, hey, Hermit Island is secret. No telling anyone, right?”
“Right!” I fake knuckle the screen, and laugh.
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