Multiplayer

by John C. Brewer

  “We’ve been here for almost a year, Hector. And you have friends, or at least you would if you’d get off that game. There’s Jordan, Blake, Deion. Tyr –”

  “I was just playing with Deion,” Hector blurted, and pointed at the TV. “And Tyra. Just now, on the game. See? That’s interaction. That’s –”

  “Human interaction, Hector. People. And what about Sanjar, next door? He’s always asking you to do things. He’s such a nice boy. And the family is so sweet. Mr. Zahedi is always offering to help.”

  “Sanjar?” said Hector doubtfully. “You want me to hang out with Sanjar?”

  Mom frowned. “What’s wrong with him?”

  Hector shook his head, not believing she was going to make him say it. “Have you seen him?” he asked.

  “Yes I’ve seen him. This has nothing to do with what happened to your father, Hector. You’ve had Muslim friends before. He just wants to be your friend.”

  Friend? Sanjar wasn’t trying to be his friend – he was thumbing his nose at Hector. Laughing at what had happened to Hector’s father. The whole family was. But anything he said just confirmed his mother’s belief that he was paranoid – imaging problems everywhere.

  “Well tomorrow,” she finally said, then paused for her own wheels to turn. “I don’t care what the psychologist said. Tomorrow, I don’t want you playing any of this game when you get home. No video games until you go outside and get some exercise. You look like a zombie.”

  Hector growled in frustration. “What do you want me to do? Sit and watch the news with you?”

  “Don’t be a smart aleck, Hector,” his mother warned. “It’s important to keep up with what’s going on in the world.”

  “But there’s nothing to do around here.”

  “Well, find something.”

  “Whatever,” he muttered as she left the room.

  When she’d gone, he glanced back at the game screen. There was a message from Mal-X that read simply, Shokran, whatever that meant. Hector felt his spine go rigid and his teeth ground together so hard he thought they would splinter. He threw his controller at the floor in rage, and it broke into pieces.

  Ch. 3

  Mrs. Reynolds reminded Hector of one of his dad’s sergeants, and had a well-deserved reputation as the hardest teacher in the school. The grizzled, old hag retrieved a stack of papers from her desk. Discontent spread across the room when the students realized what it was. “I have graded your tests from last week,” she announced. “Some of you don’t appear to have studied at all.” Her gaze swept over the students like a prison-camp searchlight, lingering on Hector who froze like an escaping prisoner caught in its beam.

  She always handed out the top five grades before the others. And the one that was usually first was, “Sanjar Zahedi,” she announced. “Well done.”

  Hector’s eyes followed Sanjar as he collected his test. Sanjar was an Iranian, like the people who had made the bomb that killed Hector’s dad. He always carried a thick, leather Qur’an with weird symbols on the front, and usually dressed in some kind of Muslim clothes. Today it was a tunic and baggy pants with a deep red fez. Sanjar took his paper and tried to conceal the smile that spread across his nut-brown face.

  After Sanjar came the Goth. Sabrah Moody was always dressed in black. She had long, shiny, black hair, pale skin, multiple earrings, and lipstick the color of dried blood. She rarely talked or said much of anything, whereas Sanjar never shut up. Why did the weird people always make the best grades? A terrorist and an emo-freak, Hector snorted to himself. Then remembered he used to make good grades too, but that was before he understood that none of this mattered. Now that he knew, it was impossible to concentrate on this useless stuff for more than a few minutes.

  After the first five tests, the rest were well shuffled. Deion wasn’t in the top five, but he was smiling when he returned to his seat. He flashed an ‘84’ to Hector and did a little dance, which worked amazingly well with his stylish clothes, and plopped into his seat behind Hector.

  Finally, she came to Hector’s name. His face flushed when she called him. He already knew what the grade would be. He rose and shuffled to the front of the class. He was wearing his Bayern Munich soccer jersey and felt his face must be as red as the shirt. For an instant, he made eye contact with his teacher, then looked away and took his paper. He didn’t bother to check the grade, just retreated to his desk with his test curled into a tight tube so no one could see.

  “Now I want everyone to correct the problems that you missed,” said Mrs. Reynolds, after she’d called everyone forward. “Bring them in Monday and you will receive half-credit. Apparently there was some confusion about some of the problems. So open your books to chapter fourteen. Polynomials are easy to understand, you just have to…”

  Sergeant ‘B’s voice faded in his ears as he slowly uncurled the test. He could see a lot of red marks. The last little bit remained hidden until he finally peeked. His stomach felt sick: 48%. An F. He stuffed it into his folder so no one else would see.

  Mrs. Reynolds went over polynomials then assigned homework and gave time to work on it and ask questions. Hector spent the time wondering why math was so full of strange names, and why they had to learn them when none of it served any useful purpose in life. Just busy work to keep students occupied during the day. Finally, his thoughts drifted to something that did matter – how to bring Mal-X down. And get Vera back. By the time the period ended, he had the beginnings of a plan. A plan he could start on tonight. Hector packed his books and followed Deion out to tell him about it.

  He’d just hailed Deion when Mrs. Reynold’s called him to her desk. Hector stopped with a groan and whispered a swear word.

  Deion looked at him too gravely. “I’ll wait for you, man,” he said. “If you’re not out in five minutes I’ll –”

  “Air strike,” Hector grumbled. “Napalm the whole school.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of SEAL Team Six.”

  “Works, too,” Hector replied and went to meet his doom in the form of an algebra teacher seated behind her desk with her grade book open. “Yes ma’am,” he said, standing before her, trying to make out the cryptic characters from upside down.

  She tapped a gnarled finger on a large red number, then looked up and peered at him over the rim of her glasses. “Hector, as of this test you are failing my class.” Hector gulped hard. He’d never flunked anything – not even close. It wasn’t a good feeling. “If this continues, you will repeat the grade. I know you’ve had a difficult year, but…”

  Hector stopped listening as his body tightened. Difficult year. What did she know about him? Nothing. The last thing Hector needed was someone else’s misguided sympathy, especially over meaningless math problems.

  “I want you to go home and correct the test, and I’d like your mother to sign it.”

  Hector nodded woodenly, feeling particularly hollow inside. “Yes ma’am.”

  “I also noticed you didn’t turn in last night’s homework. Did you understand it?” Hector shrugged and looked away as Mrs. Reynolds sighed heavily. “I’m going to give you one chance, Hector. I want this test corrected, and all your homework, in my hands on Monday. All signed by your mother. Do you understand?”

  Hector nodded again, but had nothing to say. He couldn’t move because his legs were wobbly. He was flunking. Flunking! And he had to tell his mom.

  Ch. 4

  The walk home felt like swimming through sludge. The perfect, sprawling neighborhood with its too-big houses, and too-small lawns mocked Hector’s life. It didn’t matter how much of the money from his dad’s life insurance policy they’d spent, nothing in Hector’s life was perfect. Nothing in anyone’s life was. Look at Pappous. Hector’s family had moved here to be close to his grandparents – just a few blocks away. But not long after moving in, his grandmother had dropped dead out in her garden. Now only Pappous was left, and had nothing to do but fiddle around in their house. No reason for him to stay in his own
, even though he refused to just move in with them.

  Hector tried to be patient and sympathetic with his grandfather, but it was hard. The old geezer insisted on telling stories, over and over again, mostly from World War II when he was a boy living in Greece. He made a big deal of them, like they were supposed to mean something, but they didn’t. And they were boring. No guns or explosions or anything. Just people. Besides, World War II was a long time ago, and no one hated the Germans anymore. Hector hoped he wouldn’t be there today. His mom would be bad enough. He didn’t need Pappous and his meaningless stories on top of everything else that was going on.

  “Big raid on OW tonight,” said Deion, walking at his side. “You in?”

  Hector shrugged. When his mother saw his algebra grade, he’d probably be banned from Omega Wars for the rest of his life. “I don’t know. I’m sort of thinking of starting my own clan. Tired of GoreFiendHell ordering everybody around. He’s such a dick.”

  “Just don’t give it a stupid name.”

  “It’ll be a good name.”

  “You know, like Fart Demons, or Quest Bunnies, or something like that.”

  “Would those be good names or bad?” Hector looked up to see Halie wandering into the street like she could catch the chipmunk that sat taunting her. “Princess! Get out of the street.” She looked at him and frowned, then strolled back to the sidewalk pouting.

  “I thought you hated her,” said Deion.

  Hector shrugged again, and trudged on in silence next to his friend.

  Deion was shorter than Hector but thicker. He kept his curly black hair cut short, almost bald, and had large, round, dark eyes that matched his deep brown skin. Deion was one of the few people who hadn’t looked at Hector strangely when he’d learned about Hector’s dad. Just nodded, said he was sorry, and asked if Hector wanted to go to the pool with him.

  “You want to ride bikes this afternoon?” Hector asked. “My mom says I’ve been playing too much Omega.”

  “Soccer practice.”

  “You’re always at practice,” Hector said, trying to hide his frustration.

  “We got a big tournament coming up.”

  “When don’t you?”

  Deion shrugged. “You should be on our team. We could use a guy who played in the Bundesliga.”

  “I didn’t play in the Bundesliga.” This wasn’t the first time he’d been asked to play on a team, but nothing in the US had matched his time in Germany, when his father had been stationed there. “Too much travel. You don’t have a life anymore.”

  “And sitting at home playing video games is a life?”

  “For now.”

  They stopped at Deion’s house. Deion’s mother was an orthopedic surgeon, and the large house showed it. “So, you coming tonight?”

  “I might look in on you guys. See what’s going on.”

  They parted with a fist-bump and Hector turned for home. Halie trotted after him, her blonde ponytail bouncing from side to side as she labored under her heavy, pink backpack. “Slow down,” she whined before they’d gone a dozen steps.

  Hector glanced back. “Mom said I have to walk you home. She didn’t say I had to crawl.”

  “But your legs are longer than mine,” she gasped over her heaving chest.

  “It’s not my problem you’re the baby of the family.”

  Halie’s blue eyes flashed. “I’m not a baby!”

  “Baby of the family.” Halie sprinted up and tried to kick him, but he danced out of the way. “Knock it off or I’ll tell Mom you were in the street again.”

  “I’ll tell Mom you called me a baby!”

  “Go ahead. I won’t get in trouble for telling the truth.” Hector jumped out of her way again and jogged on ahead.

  Their house was one of the smaller homes in the subdivision, a two-story traditional brick with a yard of neatly trimmed green grass and a sugar maple tree. Its leaves had not yet begun to turn but they rustled when the wind blew signaling that fall couldn’t be far off. Hector glared at the tree. He’d soon be raking those rustling leaves. Then frowned at the grass he’d been mowing since they moved in.

  The house next to Hector’s was a mansion. Sanjar Zahedi’s father owned convenience stores, and from the looks of the mini-mosque, he was selling a lot of candy, soft drinks, and gasoline. No wonder all the Muslims wanted to come to America; they got rich. The look of the place made Hector mad enough to want to build his own IED and bury it in their yard. Blow the crap out of all of them. Guilt gripped him when he realized that’d make him no better than the people who murdered his dad.

  Sanjar’s older brother Shah was outside washing their Hummer. It was dark green with tall tires and reminded him of the army HUMVEES he used to ride in with his dad. Shah was lean and brown, with curly hair that made Helen woozy. He was nothing like Sanjar. None of the Zahedis were like Sanjar. They all dressed like real Americans and acted like normal people. All except Sanjar with his robes, Qur’an, and funny hats.

  Shah looked up and waved, then scanned the soccer jersey Hector was wearing. “Bayern today, huh?”

  “They won this weekend,” he said with little enthusiasm. “So what’s up with you?”

  “My mom said if I washed the Hummer, she’d let me take it out sometime.” Shah was a junior in high school and about to get his license. “How about you?”

  Hector shrugged. “Flunking algebra.”

  Shah stood up straight. “Ouch! Hey, if you need any help, I’m pretty good. And my dad, he’s a real whiz.”

  Hector forced a smile and said, “I’ll let you know.” Algebra class at home? he thought to himself. From a Zahedi? Not likely. And there was no way he’d ever tell his mom about the offer. She’d make him to do it. Hector thought his mom should have more sense. Instead, she acted like the Zahedis were her favorite neighbors. She didn’t have to hate them, but why was she always trying so hard to act like they were friends?

  Sanjar popped out of the front door like a Jack-in-the-box. Somehow he always beat Hector home, and then waited for him. He saw Hector and started toward him, still wearing his robe and fez. “Hey, Hector,” Sanjar called. “Wait a minute!”

  “I gotta go,” Hector called back, feeling even less enthusiastic about Sanjar than usual. “My, uh, Mom’s waiting for me. I got a doctor’s appointment.”

  “That’s not Mom’s car,” puffed Halie, flagging behind him.

  He sprinted up the steps and burst through the door. “Mom, I’m home!” he exclaimed, knowing it would annoy his sister.

  Helen leaned around the kitchen corner and glared at him. She was talking on the house phone while texting on her cell phone. “I’m not your mother,” she announced. “If I were, I’d paddle your butt ‘til you couldn’t sit down.”

  Hector turned and shook his rear end at her, then said in a terrible, fake English accent, “I love it when you talk dirty.”

  “Oh, grow up,” she said, and went back to her connectivity.

  Hector frowned. Halie and Helen both looked like their father – light complected. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. And with its cliques, curbs, rules, and shiny cars, he suspected they preferred this upscale neighborhood to the drab base housing they had lived in while Dad was alive. But Hector hated it here. He missed his old friends. Missed his old school. Missed his old soccer team. Missed the army. These people just didn’t understand him and he didn’t understand them.

  He threw his backpack on a chair. At least his mother wasn’t home yet. It put off the inevitable. He’d have to tell her about his algebra grade. She’d want to take him back to the shrink and tell him the Omega Wars “therapy” wasn’t working. They’d try to give him more pills to make his brain go to sleep. He wasn’t going to take any.

  Hector stood still and listened intently, but didn’t hear the television. So he peeked around the corner into the den and saw the chair in which Pappous usually sat. It was empty. Hector nodded approval, snatched up his backpack, and darted up the stairs to his room, thankful that h
is mother had forbidden video games for the afternoon. Now, he had an excellent excuse for not doing his homework. After checking his status on Facebook, he changed into shorts for riding his bicycle but stopped at his window, which looked out onto Sanjar’s yard. His classmate was there, carrying a small sack across the backyard. Hector watched him. Sanjar stopped at a compost pile at the back of their yard, dumped the bag, and stirred it in with a rake.

  “Probably a body in there,” Hector joked to himself, except he wasn’t entirely joking. How did he know Sanjar and his family weren’t up to something? Maybe this whole “looking-American” thing the rest of the Zahedis did was just a bunch of posing so people wouldn’t suspect they were supporting Muslim terrorism. Who knew? Maybe they were terrorists themselves.

  Hector watched from his window as Sanjar walked back to the house and threw the bag in the trash. Then he began juggling a soccer ball. “Not bad for a guy wearing a dress,” Hector mumbled, when he heard the door slam downstairs followed by a jolly “Hallo!”

  “Pappous!” Hector heard Halie squeal, followed by the sound of laughter. In his mind he saw Pappous picking up Halie, and his little sister smiling and giving him a kiss. Hector ground his teeth as an image flashed into his head - his father doing the same thing with him.

  He crept downstairs and paused at the bottom step, scheming for a way to avoid the Pappous hug. His ears told him they were in the kitchen. “Where’s Hector?” he heard the old man say, and then Halie complaining about him calling her a baby. Hector clenched his teeth as he listened to Pappous talk. The old man had been in the country since the sixties but sounded like he’d just stepped off the boat. “I’ll talk to him when he comes down,” he told Halie.

  “No, you won’t,” Hector whispered. He waited until he heard the sound of the television from the den and tiptoed past.