Borderline

by Allan Stratton

  Hermit Island! Piloting a boat! I can’t wait.

  And now I can’t sleep.

  It’s three A.M. I’m going out of my mind. I’m excited about Andy’s cottage. But I’m scared about Dad. My folks always talk things over before I get permission for anything. This time Mom’s gone solo. What if Dad finds out?

  Well, what if he does? It’s not like Mom and I are being sneaky, is it? I mean, she didn’t tell me not to tell him, did she? And if it’s important for him to know, she’ll tell him herself, right? Who am I kidding? After their fight?

  Anyway, how would he find out? I’ll be back Sunday; he’s gone till Monday. And if he calls, Mom can say I’m out or in bed. Still…

  Maybe I should tell him before he leaves. No, it’s too late. He’d say we snuck behind his back. I’d have snitched on Mom, and my permission would be canceled on the spot. Especially given the vibes since supper. Like, evening prayers were from the Land of Get Me Out Of Here! None of us looked at each other. We didn’t even say good night after.

  I hear someone in the kitchen. It’s Dad. He’s pacing in circles, top of the stairs, murmuring from the Qur’an, verses about peace, justice, and mercy. I know because I left my room door open, so I could hear if he and Mom got into it in the middle of the night. The cupboard door opens, closes. Now the fridge. Now the cutlery drawer. He’ll be mixing a spoonful of molasses into a glass of milk.

  I leave my room and crouch in the dark basement hall at the foot of the stairs. I hear Dad place a kitchen chair back from the table to sit—he never drags the chairs, says that could scratch the tiles. I hear the spoon rattle against the glass as he stirs, hear it clink on the small saucer where he always sets it. And now I hear a low groan, and the sound of Dad struggling to control his breath.

  I go up the stairs, stop in the doorway. “Dad?”

  He sits bolt upright. “Sami?”

  “I got up to pee. Thought I heard something.”

  He tries to smile. “Just me and my milk and molasses. You should get back to bed.”

  “Can’t sleep.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  I stand there, not knowing what to do. Then I edge over to the table and slip onto the chair opposite him. His eyes are red.

  Dad catches me staring. “What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing.” I glance at the calendar on the side of the fridge, embarrassed.

  Silence.

  I try to think of something to say. I can’t. Dad can’t either. So we don’t say anything. Just sit there, very still, for what seems like forever.

  Finally, Dad says, “About our weekend…Are you okay?”

  I shrug. “We can see the Yankees some other time.”

  “Good.” He clears his throat. “Maybe you and your friends can get together, Inshallah. Do something fun.”

  I shrink a bit. “Sure. Maybe.”

  Dad reaches across the table. He grips my hand. “Sami…” His throat’s so dry the words barely choke from his lips. “Sami, there’s things I can’t talk about. Things I can’t explain. Understand?”

  “I guess.”

  “Good.” Dad gives my hand an extra squeeze. His knuckles are white. “Now go back to bed. Get some sleep.”

  I turn at the railing. Dad’s staring after me with this haunted look. I want to say, “I love you,” but I can’t. He gives me his fake smile and his tight little wave.

  I disappear into the dark.

  Five

  Dad’s gone when I get up.

  Mom and I do morning prayers, then have a quick breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast. It’s as if last night never happened. But it did.

  “Mom,” I say, “about the fight…about the cottage…”

  She raises her hand. “What’s done is done.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t go.”

  “Don’t be silly.” She takes a no-nonsense sip of coffee. “You were promised a trip, and you’re getting a trip. The cottage is a great chance to be with your friends. And the Johnsons are good parents; you’ll be well-supervised, Mashallah.”

  I doodle a piece of egg with my fork. “So what do we tell Dad?”

  A slow sip. Pause. “About what?”

  “You know what. The cottage.”

  “Why say anything?” Mom says carefully. She spreads her toast with raspberry jam. “Do you tell your father every time you blow your nose?”

  “This is bigger than that.”

  Mom bites into her toast, as if I haven’t said a thing.

  “He’ll find out, Mom.”

  “How, unless you tell him?”

  “I don’t know. But what if he does? Not telling will make it worse.”

  Mom chews slowly, fussing the odd raspberry seed with her tongue. She dabs her lips with her napkin. Then she strokes my hair above the ear. “Sami,” she says, “last night I acted in haste and anger. That was wrong. But why toss a match in a dry field? If your father finds out about the cottage, I’ll handle it. Till then, let him stay a happy man, Inshallah. Agreed?”

  I nod, but I’m not so sure.

  We clear the dishes and get dressed. Dad said I’d get used to wearing the Academy uniform: navy blazer with school crest on the breast pocket, gray pleated flannels, and red tie. Who was he kidding? The blazer’s stiff, the flannels itch, and the jocks think that choking me with my tie is major entertainment.

  I bring my duffel bag and backpack to Mom’s car, the duffel crammed with stuff for the cottage, the backpack with school books. Mom’s driving me to the Academy on her way to work; cycling with everything would be crazy. Usually she’s quick out the door, but not today. If she doesn’t get a move on, we’ll be late and I’ll be on Vice Principal McGregor’s radar; there’s nothing he likes more than giving detentions.

  I check my watch. It feels weird hanging around for a ride, like when I was little. But it feels even weirder when Mom steps out the door.

  She’s wearing her head scarf! Her green silk hijab! She never wears it in public except at mosque. Why now? I don’t have to ask. It’s about Dad and last night and the weekend. As we drive down our street, I slide lower and lower in my seat.

  Mom reads my mind like I read hers. “Sami, it’s just a scarf.”

  “Tell that to the guys. They don’t understand head covering.”

  “Right,” she says. “In their caps and hoodies.”

  We turn out of our neighborhood onto Oxford Drive. Ride past Meadowvale Plaza, construction, box stores, make a left onto Valley Park Road.

  I see Academy Hill in the distance. Allah, God, kill me now.

  “Please, Mom. Take it off before we get there?”

  “I can’t, Sami,” she says. “Not today.”

  “Then let me out. I’ll walk from here.”

  “What?”

  “Really, Mom. I get razzed enough. You don’t know what it’s like.”

  “Oh, don’t I?”

  But she pulls over. Puts on her flashers. Stares straight ahead as I grab my stuff from the back seat. It’s like I’m an ax murderer.

  “Mom,” I say, “it’s not my fault you feel guilty.”

  “And it’s not my fault you’re ashamed to be you.”

  “You sound like Dad.”

  “What if I do?”

  Cars are backing up behind us. Somebody honks.

  “We’re holding up traffic,” Mom says. She tries to smile. “Have a nice weekend.” And she drives off.

  I make my way to the Academy’s front gate and head along Roosevelt Trail toward the school. Maybe it was a trail in the old days. Now it’s a paved road lined by a trimmed boxwood hedge. An Olympic-sized track surrounds the football field on the left; the principal’s residence, field house, and three baseball diamonds are on the right. I catch my breath at the foot of Academy Hill. At the top, a statue of Teddy Roosevelt on a charging horse stands guard between the Middle School and the Upper School. The horse has the biggest balls in the world. Last Halloween, somebody painted them bright blue. We lau
ghed ourselves sick watching them get scrubbed. Vice Principal McGregor had this big assembly about how it wasn’t funny. That made us laugh even more.

  Despite the blue balls prank, the Academy has this rep as one of the best private boys’ schools in upstate New York. When it started in the mid 1900s, there was nothing around but cows and country, and kids got shipped here for the term. Now it’s surrounded by urban sprawl, and half of us are day boys. According to the brochure, it’s got everything except girls. Which is exactly why Dad stuck me here. Thank you, Mary Louise Prescott.

  Mary Louise sat across from me in eighth grade at Meadowvale Middle School. Her mother was the parent volunteer for this after-school group called Living with Joy; Mary Louise was secretary-treasurer. It was basically a Christian club with donuts, Coke, and tambourines.

  Anyway, Mary Louise started smiling at me in class, and at lunch she had this magic way of always being around whenever Andy and Marty were distracted by some girl, which in Andy’s case was practically always. Mary Louise wore puffy sweaters, and smelled of peaches and starch. I didn’t mind. She shared her chocolate bars with me.

  But that’s not all she wanted to share. One day she gets me alone at the edge of the tarmac, all serious like somebody’s died. She says she hasn’t slept for weeks and really needs to talk to me.

  I go, “Sure.”

  And she takes a deep breath and says, “Sammy, I have to tell you about Jesus.”

  “I already know about him.” I shrug. “He’s one of our prophets.”

  “No!” She shakes her head. “He’s not just a prophet. He’s the Savior.”

  I’m like, “Okay. Fine. Want some gum?”

  “I mean it, Sammy. You have to believe. How can I be happy up in Heaven if you’re burning in Hell?”

  Needless to say, I tried to avoid her after that. Only Andy told me I was crazy, that she was really into me, and he’d heard stories, and I should go for it. I’d never had a girl after me before—or since—so I’m thinking, hey, maybe he’s right. And next time I bike by her place and she waves me over, I stop.

  “Want to come in for some Ben and Jerry’s? Meet my mom?” she asks.

  The mom part freaks me out, but I’m up for the ice cream. Only Mary Louise takes me in through the attached garage. Before she opens the side door, she turns to me. “Sammy,” she says, “would you like to touch my boobs?”

  “What?”

  “If you promise to come to the Living with Joy Club, you can touch my boobs.”

  “Isn’t that against the rules or something?”

  “Nothing’s a sin if you have a pure heart and do it for Jesus,” she says.

  Next thing I know, my hand’s up her sweater groping her bra, she’s speaking in tongues, and I’ve developed this Seriously Big Problem. Which is exactly when Mrs. Prescott opened the garage door and caught us.

  Well! Mrs. Prescott made Mary Louise confess her sin to the Living with Joy Club. Mary Louise cried, and everyone said a prayer, and apparently God forgave her.

  I, on the other hand, was some heathen sex pervert. For months, any girl seen within a mile of me lost her reputation on the spot. Andy and Marty thought it was stupid; I hadn’t even touched skin. But the rumors were way more exciting than the truth, so they’re what people believed.

  My parents included. Mrs. Prescott called them immediately after chasing me down her driveway with a rake. According to her, it was only a matter of time before I’d end up in a juvenile psych ward. I got sat down at the kitchen table and screamed at for what seemed like forever. The same old blah, blah, blah about how I’d shamed the family, ruined our good name, and made it hard for Mom and Dad to show their faces in the neighborhood.

  I thought I’d get off the hook by telling Dad that Mary Louise had tried to convert me. It just made him madder: “How dare that school have a club for religious recruitment? And how dare you try to use that to shirk your responsibility? You know what the Prophet says about fornicators!”

  Excuse me? I touched a bra. On invitation. You’d think Dad was Mrs. Prescott.

  Mom tried to remind Dad about “the challenges of puberty,” but he went on this rant about Girls and Temptation, and how I needed to learn Discipline and spend less time with Bad Influences—meaning Andy and Marty, only he couldn’t mention them by name because they’re neighbors, and he had no intention of moving.

  Long story short, I got stuck at this dump, a school supposedly free of Distractions, i.e., girls, that lead to Impure Thoughts That Defile the Soul.

  The clock tower blasts “Reveille.” Five minutes to homeroom. Then English, Math, lunch, Science, History, and finally the bell—freedom.

  I bust my ass up Academy Hill. And into Academy hell.

  Six

  Last period. History. Cottage countdown.

  Mr. Bernstein’s at the front of the class, trimmed and gelled, in a cream suit and a yellow-striped tie. As per usual, he starts with a short lecture full of personal opinions guaranteed to get us talking. Sometimes he gets heat from parents for straying off the course curriculum or saying stuff that’s controversial, but he doesn’t care. “I’ve taught here since the dinosaurs,” he jokes. “You’re stuck with me.”

  Today he’s riffing on witch hunts in colonial Salem and medieval Europe. “Terrifying times for anyone different,” he exclaims with a sweep of his hand. “Leaders traded in fear. People spied on each other. And rumors got people burned at the stake.” Mr. Bernstein’s pretty entertaining, especially when his arms get going, but there’s forty-three minutes to go, and I couldn’t care less.

  I look over at Mitchell Kennedy. His lips are moving. Mitchell repeats everything teachers say as soon as they say it. He says it helps him remember things. Whatever.

  Forty-two minutes to go. Fridays, Andy and Marty have a last period spare, so Mr. J should have them here waiting for me by the bell. I close my eyes, imagine the smell of fish and pine, the sight of rock crags breaking water.

  Forty-one minutes, thirty seconds to go. I count the holes in the ceiling’s acoustic tiles. I look at the poster of George Washington; I think about his wooden teeth. He kissed with those things. Did he brush them? Sand them? Did he ever get dry rot?

  Forty-one minutes, twenty seconds to go. Why does time take forever?

  Ow.

  Eddy Harrison’s jabbed me in the back with his pen. Full name: Edward Thomas Harrison the Third. Yeah, The Third. That’s why I’ve nicknamed him Eddy Duh Turd. He’s on the football team and is majorly huge from doing weights. Not to mention steroids. The ’roids have bulked him up, but they haven’t helped his acne any. His zits are big as cauliflowers. He could enter them in a contest, win a prize or something.

  Eddy waits a minute and jabs me again. Dad says, “Bullies want a reaction. Ignore them and they’ll stop.” Dad’s stupid advice has nothing to do with bullies. It’s about keeping me out of fights, which would get me into trouble, which would hurt his precious reputation. As in, “What you do reflects on this family.” Meaning him.

  Eddy jabs me a third time.

  I turn in my seat. “Quit it,” I whisper.

  “Or what?” Eddy grins. Even his teeth have muscles.

  Mr. Bernstein claps his hands. “Harrison? Sabiri?”

  “Sorry,” I say. “Just stretching.”

  Mr. Bernstein gives us The Look, then rears back his head and goes on about witch trials. “The accused could be tortured into confession. Evidence could be secret or based on hearsay. After all,” he tilts his eyebrows, “if the accused is guilty, who needs a fair trial?”

  Dave Kincaid, in the far aisle, throws up his arm. “But what about their rights?”

  “They didn’t have any,” Mr. Bernstein says. “And that’s an important point, Kincaid. Thank you for raising it. We take our civil rights for granted. We shouldn’t. They’re something our ancestors fought for.”

  Eddy pushes the seat of my chair with his toe.

  “Name the civil rights we cherish most,”
Mr. Bernstein challenges. He faces the blackboard, and scribbles down everything the class calls out: The right to free speech. Equality. Religion. Privacy. Assembly. A fair trial.

  Eddy leans into my ear. He stinks of salami. “You told Bernstein you and Daddy would be in Toronto today. Wuzzup? Your camel run out of gas?”

  I try not to hear. Try to copy the notes from the board.

  “You deaf, Sabiri? Hunh?”

  My hand shakes.

  “Yo, sand monkey.”

  I whirl around. “Go screw yourself!”

  Oh my god. Please tell me I didn’t just yell “Go screw yourself.” But I did. I can tell by the silence. The look on Mitchell’s face. And the clear, cold sound of Mr. Bernstein’s voice: “What did you say?”

  I turn to Mr. Bernstein, prepared to die. But he’s not staring at me. He’s staring at Eddy. “Harrison, I’m talking to you. What did you call Sabiri?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Think hard.”

  Eddy taps his pen. “Who cares what I said? He swore at my mother.”

  “What a cowardly lie!” Mr. Bernstein’s eyes burn. “Racism has no place in this class, Harrison. Report to Vice Principal McGregor.”

  Eddy gets up slowly, collects his books and backpack, and slouches up the aisle. “So much for freedom of speech.” He stops at the door and pulls out his cell. By the time he hits the office, he’ll have called his father with a story.

  Mr. Bernstein doesn’t care. “Where were we? Ah yes, rights. Spend the rest of the period organizing an essay on the civil right you value most, and the reasons you value it.”

  I try to work, but I can’t. Eddy’s steamed. He’ll be after me. What’ll I do?

  I don’t have to wonder long. Within minutes, he strolls back into the room with a smirk on his face. He hands Mr. Bernstein a readmit note.

  Mr. Bernstein drops it in the wastebasket. “Your assignment’s on the board.” He watches Eddy like a hawk.

  Eddy acts like he couldn’t care less. He saunters down the aisle with a wave to his buddies, “accidentally” bumping into my desk before sitting down. Mr. Bernstein clears his throat.