You Can't Tell by Looking

by Russell J. Sanders

  “You settling in at school?” he asks.

  “Yeah. Easy-peasy. Not a bad teacher on my schedule, and I’m keeping up. Swim practice starts next week, and that always makes me happy.”

  “There’s something I want to ask you. You can say no. But I’d really like you to say yes. It would be a good way for you to meet some great people, and you and I—” He stops.

  “Ask away.” I don’t know why he stopped, but if I can encourage him to talk, maybe I’ll find out.

  “You know I’m class president, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So the senior class has a class project. Which really means the class officers and a few others have a project. Throughout the year, we’ll be raising money for the victims of this past summer’s floods and tornadoes. When the year’s complete, we tally up our earnings, announce the total at graduation, and then we donate it all. The first fund-raiser is Friday night.”

  “But Friday’s the first game. Won’t everybody be busy?”

  “We decided to get started right away. We’ll be having a bake sale at the game. The concession people’re willing to let us sell after the game, as people’re leaving. We’ll have a table right outside the stadium, with signs and people trying to steer buyers to us. We figure we can make five hundred dollars or so if we have enough baked goods. You could help us, if you want.”

  “I want.” The look on his face is like sunshine breaking through clouds. “And I’ll even hit my mom up to donate baked goods. She spent all afternoon in the kitchen baking today, so doing it again on Friday won’t be a problem.”

  “What was she baking?”

  “You name it, she baked it. Offerings for the neighbors. She’s trying to buy their love. By the way, expect a knock on your door this evening. If you see a beautiful blonde woman through the peephole, it’s not a Jehovah’s Witness. It will be Mary Food Network Dillon.”

  “Wonderful. But don’t forget we pray at sunset, then again later. Steer her over around eight. That would be perfect. And—”

  “I know—no pork.”

  “I was going to say no alcohol flavorings. We stay away from strong drink too. And I ask you, who puts pork in cookies?”

  “My mom. Well, not cookies, but she was planning bacon maple scones for you. Which, in case you’re wondering, are delicious.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. And thank you for warning her.”

  “You, my friend, will be getting a basket of red velvet cupcakes.”

  “Yum. Now, back to the bake sale. You wanna go to the game together? I may cut it close getting there after prayers, but we should be able to make the kick-off.”

  “Sounds great. I hear there’s a party after. Shaun told me.”

  He grimaces, and it’s very noticeable. Was it the mention of Shaun or the party that triggered it?

  “Those parties are always drunken messes. Not my cup of tea, which is an odd metaphor to use when speaking of beer parties. Everybody gets tanked and does things they wouldn’t do otherwise. I would stay clear of that even if my religion permitted me to drink.”

  “Me too. There’s nothing worse than an idiot choking on a beer bong. Shaun wants me to go, but I’ll tell him I have a higher calling—raising money for a worthy cause.” I can only hope that appeases Shaun.

  “Fantastic. It’s getting late, and sunset will be here before we know it. We need to start back.”

  We rise from the bench in tandem, and we walk. We don’t talk. Something tells me it’s okay not to. We enjoy. That’s all. Two friends walking.

  When we get back in front of our respective homes, Ker starts to speak. I put my finger on his lips. And feel a rush, by the way.

  “Salaam Alaykum,” I say.

  “You remembered. Wa-Alaykum.” He smiles.

  And he has brought peace unto me.

  Chapter 5

  Kerem

  CHOCOLATE CHIP cookies, oatmeal raisin cookies, chocolate cupcakes, lemon bars, peanut butter fudge, and much more fill half the table with second and third containers awaiting as our stock depletes. Gabe’s mom has outdone herself. And the other officers have baked goodies themselves and gotten their mothers, grandmothers, and even dads to contribute to the sale as well. My vice-president’s dad owns a restaurant, and he’s had his pastry chef whip us up some amazing napoleons and eclairs. Our fund will start off with a bang. I can feel that five hundred in my hand before a sale is made.

  As I expected, the only other volunteers are my fellow officers, and two of them, even, are missing. My secretary turned her ankle at her dance lesson this afternoon, and my historian was committed to a trip to her grandma’s in the country. So while the remainder of my cabinet drums up sales, steering people to us, Gabe and I man the sales table.

  “That’ll be five dollars even.” I take money from Ms. Hunselman, one of the assistant principals, and hand over a baggie of the infamous bacon maple scones. “You’re gonna love these. I’ve heard they’re incredible.” I smile as I conclude the sale and put the fiver in our stash.

  “Mom’ll be so happy. Her stuff’s selling like hotcakes. Those are the last of her chocolate chip cookies, and we’re low on those cherry chip cookie bars too. And I figured the napoleons and eclairs would go first.”

  “Having the restaurant logo on them helped. Everybody knows that Le Gran Eiffel is the best restaurant in our city.”

  I straighten our wares and reach down for items to fill the empty spots from sales Gabe is currently making.

  I look up to see Gabe’s cousin Shaun hovering over us.

  “Well, well, well,” he says, contempt dripping, “so this is the charity you blew me off for? And where’s Mary? I guess telling me she would be with you was a lie, huh? She’d cramp your style, now wouldn’t she?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, Shaun, but my mother—your Aunt Mary—baked a lot of these things. That was her contribution to a very worthy cause.”

  “What cause? Funding the Taliban?”

  “Low blow, coz. You can read. The sign says we’re raising money for flood and tornado victims.” Gabe’s voice has an edge to it.

  “So it does. But don’t fool yourself. Johnny Jihad here will siphon off all or part for his own devices. You can be sure of that.”

  I’m surprised that Gabe is holding his temper. I’m used to doing that. Luckily most everybody at school knows me, knows my family, and they are great. But out and about, sometimes, prejudice can rear its ugly head when you least expect it. My looks alone can set someone off. Baba and Mama have taught us to walk away, turn the other cheek, as the prophet Jesus, PBUH, teaches.

  “C’mon, Shaun, you wanna buy something, or do you wanna just stand there being a butthole and block everybody else from buying?” Gabe challenges his cousin, and I wait to see how this plays out. Please, Allah.

  Shaun shakes his head from side to side. “I spent my entire summer trying to acclimate you to a whole different world. Not only do you not appreciate it—witness the fact that you blew me off; you couldn’t even go to the first game with me—but you betray me by hanging with”—he nods to me and stares at me like I’m pond scum—“him.” There is so much hate in his voice that I feel it coat me like a barrel of motor oil overflowing.

  Gabe moves from behind the table and steps so close to his cousin, Shaun’s dragon breath must be enflaming him. He looks Shaun straight in the eyes and is about to raise a fist when—

  “What’s going on here?” It’s our principal, Mr. Zynco. “Shaun, Gabe, you two have an unresolved issue?”

  Amazingly Shaun instantly backs down. “No, sir. I was just buying some cupcakes for our pizza party we’re having.”

  I can’t imagine how someone who had, a moment ago, been so angry, so hateful, can switch to Mr. Kiss-Up so quickly. And lie through his teeth, because both Gabe and I know Shaun is heading to a drunken blowout, not an innocent pizza party.

  Shaun turns to me and says, “The strawberry cupcakes, Kerem, please.” He
pulls a ten out of his wallet and hands it to me for the five-dollar container of cupcakes I hand over. I reach down to get his change but I hear him say, “Keep the change. It’s for a good cause.” And he walks away.

  Gabe looks at me with relief and apology, and then he once again joins me behind the table.

  “How’s the sale going, guys?” Mr. Zynco asks. “A lotta delicious things here. My wife has a sweet tooth. Tell you what, what can I get for a fifty?” He pulls out a fifty-dollar bill. He must have planned this because he had it right there in his front jeans pocket.

  “Ten items. You name ’em,” I tell him.

  “Let’s see: got any more of those strawberry cupcakes?” I reach down and pull up the last container. “Wonderful! And I’ll take those and those and those.” He points to three more things, then stops a moment, pondering. “If you have it, I’ll take three of the fudge. Peanut butter fudge is my daughter’s favorite. And let’s top the order off with one each of the lemon bars, the oatmeal raisin cookies, and the scones. There’s an older couple at our church who are from England. I’d bet they’ll love those scones with their afternoon tea tomorrow.”

  Thank goodness I brought some large grocery bags. I fill two of them with all he’s bought and hand them over.

  “Thank you very much, Kerem. And Gabe, I’m glad you’re helping. Jumping right into the deep end I see. Charity is always a blessing.”

  As he walks away, I say, “I wonder if he planned that metaphor, you being on the swim team and all.”

  “I’d bet my weekly allowance he did. He strikes me as a very smart man.”

  “He got here just in time from what I was seeing. Did you plan to deck your cousin, Gabe?”

  “If he didn’t shut up, I suppose I might have. It’s good the bomb was defused by our very insightful leader. I didn’t see him lurking nearby, but my guess is he was. That’s what principals do. They’re always on the watch for an uprising. At least the one at my old school was. She could smell a fight brewin’ before the fighters knew.”

  “Is Shaun always that volatile? I don’t know him very well, and apologies if I offend you, I’m not sure I like what I see.”

  “Shaun’s a good guy. With a blind spot. I don’t know why. And, of course, lots of times, there’s never a reason why someone’s prejudiced. They have their reasons, and you can poke a zillion holes in their arguments and never make a difference. People are going to believe what they want to believe. With Shaun, though, I’ve seen the goodness in him, and I’ll keep working on his attitude about you. Or I’ll die trying.”

  “What he called me—Johnny Jihad. I hate that for one reason only. I told you this before, but it bears repeating. The haters think a jihad is a hostile act, but it’s not. The Quran teaches that we spend our lives in jihad, a search for meaning for our lives. What we’re doing here, charity, is a jihad.”

  “Well, then, let’s get this jihad restarted. I think your cowboys have herded another group of cattle our way.” And indeed, five or six people are approaching the table.

  In the end, we sell almost everything we have, and my cabinet members, sweaty from all that herding they’ve been doing, show up to devour the one remaining container of cookies. We celebrate, Gabe saying, “I wish we had some milk to dunk these in.” Everybody agrees, although I’m sure one or two of them will end up at the big party where milk will not be on the menu.

  They fold up the table and put it in one of their cars while Gabe guards me and the money as we head to my car.

  Hiding the money box in the center console, I start the engine and leave the stadium parking lot.

  On the short drive home, Gabe says, “Starry, starry night. Reminds me of that famous painting. What artist was it? Van Gogh? But this magnificence. Better than any picture. Allah is a talented artist. Look at those stars twinkle.”

  I smile at him. “You know, God and Allah are the same. We may be in my car, but you don’t have to call Him by his Arabic name. God is perfectly acceptable.”

  “I know. I just like saying it. There’s something very special about it.”

  “Not it, Him. Allah is indeed quite special. But a warning, when you attend your Methodist church on Sunday, you might not want to lead the congregational prayer by starting with ‘Allahu Akbar.’ You might start a holy war.” I laugh.

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  I pull into our drive. “Want to come in and count our plunder?”

  “Don’t you have evening prayers?”

  I look at the dashboard clock. “Not until about an hour from now. Come on, you can meet Baba and Mama.”

  We head into the house, and three-fourths of my family is sitting in the family room.

  “Baba, Mama, Tim, this is Gabe, our new neighbor.”

  Mama leaps up from her recliner and rushes Gabe, enveloping him in a hug. “So good to meet you, Gabriel. I met your mother the other day. What a lovely woman. And those cupcakes—they didn’t last long around here. Timur ate half of them.” She nods toward my cousin.

  “They were very good,” he says, staring at Gabe like he is appraising him.

  “Tell your mother that she can bake for us any day,” Baba says. “We are quite grateful for her gracious gift. Please thank her. If I know my wife, though, a written thank-you note is on its way to your house.” He looks at Mama with the love he always showers down on her.

  “It probably arrived today, Aram, my love. The prophet, PBUH, teaches us to be grateful, and my own mother taught that a written thank-you note is required when a gift is given.”

  “Don’t I know it,” I spout. “You’ve had me writing thank-you notes since I was old enough to spell.”

  “And you’re a better person because of it,” Mama says. “But enough, have a seat, boys.”

  “Can’t. We’re heading up to my room to count our loot before evening prayers.”

  “How was the sale?” Baba asks.

  “Very successful. We sold out. And believe me, there was plenty of baked goods. Gabe’s mom must have spent hours in her kitchen.”

  “Mary said she was contributing, but I figured she’d simply do a batch of cookies or something. Now I feel like Aysel’s and my contributions were meager. Forgive me, my son.”

  “Nothing to forgive,” Gabe answers for me. “My mom loves to bake, and you will soon learn that she goes overboard with everything.” He laughs.

  “Never laugh at your mother, Gabriel.” I can’t believe Mama is admonishing a virtual stranger. But mothers are like that.

  “Of course, Mrs. Uzun. Thank you for reminding me.” Gabe’s upbringing certainly outshines his cousin’s.

  “Where is Aysel? I’d hoped to introduce her to Gabe too.”

  “Her first official date with Hasan,” Baba says. “She was giddy. But I don’t know how it will go. Apparently his grandmother is chaperoning.”

  “As it should be,” I hear Tim mutter.

  I turn to Gabe. “My sister has a new boyfriend, and he is orthodox. Dating alone is not allowed.” I sigh. “So let’s head up. I wanna see how well we did.”

  We climb the stairs to my room.

  “Nice room,” Gabe says. He walks to a framed piece of calligraphy I have hanging above my bed. “What’s this?”

  “A verse from the Quran. You know how Catholics hang crosses above their beds? Sort of the same thing.”

  “My gram has a portrait of Jesus above hers.”

  “Forbidden. We do not believe in making images of the prophet, PBUH. In our mosques, there are no statues, no portraits. But you will find calligraphy like that one.”

  “What’s it say?”

  “I seek protection in the words of Allah from the evil of which He has created.”

  “You believe He created evil?”

  “Of course, everything in the world was created by God. Without evil, we would not know what good is.”

  “Makes sense. I like that verse.”

  “I’m glad. It’s comforting to me.” I sit on the
bed and pat the place next to me. “Sit.”

  He does. I open the box of money, and hand him half of it. “Count.”

  There is silence as we each tote up our piles of cash. I look to make sure he is not still adding in his head. He nods. “I’ve got two seventy-five. You?”

  “Three fifty.”

  “Wow! More than we hoped for. And there’s still a ton of change at the bottom of the box.” I look over at my alarm clock. “But that will have to wait. Almost prayer time.” I stand, and he follows suit.

  As we descend the stairs, I say, “I really enjoyed tonight. I hope we spend a lot more time together.” I feel so awkward. I want to grab him and kiss him, but I don’t know if he feels the way I do. And I certainly don’t know how Mama and Baba would take it if they caught us.

  “I do too,” he says. At the front door, he touches my shoulder and says, “Sunday?”

  My heart skips.

  “After afternoon prayers,” I answer.

  As I shut the door after him, I am startled by Tim’s “You two have fun?” The question has no emotion in it.

  I look at him. “Yeah. It was a great game, and the sale was a success, so, indeed, it was a lot of fun.”

  His face is set. No emotion whatsoever. “Prayers?”

  “Sure.” And I join him and Baba. Mama often skips evening prayers, but Baba says that is between her and Allah. She was brought up differently than Baba. Her family was much more lax in their practices. But Baba says everyone has his or her own relationship with Allah.

  At the end of the prayers, when it is time to offer up our own requests and such to Allah, I pray silently, not wanting Baba or Timur to hear. It’s not that I’m ashamed of what I beseech; it’s that I am not ready to reveal my innermost self to my family.

  I pray that Allah bless this friendship that’s formed so quickly with Gabriel, and selfishly—forgive me, Allah—I pray that Gabriel will become interested in me in a closer way.

  As we finish prayers, Aysel comes bounding in the front door. Mama greets her at the foot of the stairs.