by Maria Padian
It was hard to tell whether the place had been, or still was, part of a church. The front looked like an old church, but everyone entered through the back. There was a grassless yard with a metal gate around it, the ground beaten smooth, like from too many feet, and it swarmed with children. They poured in and out of the building, or wandered down the sidewalk, then disappeared into the maze of four-story wooden apartments that stretched the length of the block. They spilled across the street to play on the swings, the basketball courts, the skate park. In the distance, the spires of the Catholic cathedral towered above every other building.
“Can I help you?” This white girl, who barely reached my shoulder, spoke to me. Her nose was pierced with a round gold stud. Her blond hair was cut close, and a random patch on one side was dyed purple.
“Uh, yeah. I’m Tom Bouchard. I’m … ah, supposed to be here for homework help?”
Purple-Patch Girl smiled, which made her look older. Older than me, actually.
“Giving or receiving?”
“What?”
“Are you here looking for help, or are you a volunteer?” She waited patiently for my answer.
“Giving. I mean, volunteering. Yeah.” I sounded unbelievably stupid. Something about her eyes, really blue, and her question unnerved me. Did I look like I needed help? “I called. Talked to somebody named Joe?”
“Cool,” she said easily. “Joe is out buying diapers right now, but I can show you where to go.” She turned and walked past the TV dudes to the back of the room, where she had to shove a packed rack of clothes out of the way before we could continue down a dim hallway. She wore bell-bottomed jeans that hugged her at the hips and covered her feet, dragging a little on the floor.
“I’m Myla, by the way,” she said over her shoulder as we walked.
“Tom,” I replied.
“Yeah, you said,” she answered. Smiled, but not in a mean way. “Do you work here?” I asked her.
“Yes. And no. I get paid for eight hours a week as part of my work-study job at Mumford. But I’m here way more than that, so I guess I’m also a volunteer.”
“You’re a college student?” She didn’t fit my idea of a Mumford student: blond girls wearing skinny jeans tucked into Ugg boots, driving shiny SUVs with out-of-state plates and ski racks on top.
We’d reached the end of the hall and a closed door. Hand on the knob, she turned to me.
“You sound surprised,” she said.
“No, it’s just … you’re small.”
Totally stupid comment. This was off to an epic bad start.
“I know, right? Usually only tall people go to college. But Mumford made an exception in my case.” She was still smiling, but now there was a hint of Hmm, is this guy ridiculous? in her expression. She pushed the door open to reveal a long room filled with cafeteria tables and metal chairs. Half the seats were taken up by kids, books spread out before them. Some hunched together in small groups; a few stood, leaning over their papers, elbows resting on the tabletops. Others ran around, laughing. Looked like a game of tag was going on. I didn’t see any other “helpers.”
All the kids were black. Most were girls. I guessed, from the clothes, that they were all Muslim. At least, the girls were. The boys were dressed like any American kid; the girls wore long skirts and their hair was covered.
“Hey! Abdi! What did I tell you?” Myla spoke sharply to a boy who was running. This little guy, who looked like he might be all of eight years old, skidded to a stop. His eyes widened. He tried to look sorry, but those eyes were laughing. I smiled at him.
“This is the quiet and reading room. Play outside, okay?”
Abdi nodded.
“Are you finished with your homework?” Myla continued.
Abdi shook his head.
“Okay, well, Tom here is going to help you get it all done,” she said to him. I tried not to look surprised. For some reason I’d been expecting a little more … preparation? Some sort of introduction?
And that “all done” part? I had figured on this lasting an hour.
Abdi didn’t say anything, but dutifully walked over to a metal chair with a Spider-Man backpack on it and heaved the pack onto the table. He unzipped it and began pulling out crumpled papers.
“Abdi’s been having a hard time in third grade,” Myla said quietly. “His spoken English is amazing when you consider he’s only been in this country for six months. But he barely reads. He’s still learning his letters. And you know how third grade is when you stop learning to read and start reading to learn? He is getting so left behind.”
I nodded, like I got what the hell she was talking about.
“Why don’t they just move him into a lower grade?” I said.
She smiled grimly.
“They’re placing all these kids based on age, not ability,” she said. “If they didn’t, half the high school would be in first grade with Abdi. Problem is, there are hardly any ELL teachers in Enniston.”
“Sorry … ELL?” I asked.
“English Language Learners,” she explained. “People trained to teach English as a second language. They’ve hired a few, but nobody was prepared for how these kids are pouring into the schools right now. Everyone’s playing catch-up.” She half patted, half pushed me on the back toward Abdi.
“You’re good to help out. It’s too bad more people in town don’t feel like you. Come look for me when you’re finished.” Myla turned and headed for the door. As she left the room, a little girl jumped from her chair and hurled herself at Myla, wrapping her arms tightly around her waist. The kid was a splash of bright colors and patterns, from her long skirt to her head covering. Myla stopped long enough to return the hug and speak with her.
“Hey. You gonna help me?”
Abdi stared expectantly. His arms were folded across his chest. His legs, which didn’t reach the floor, swung impatiently from his perch in the metal chair.
“Sorry. This is my first day,” I explained as I pulled up a chair alongside him. I stuck out my hand. “I’m Tom.”
He shook my hand.
“I’m Abdi. You a Mumford student?”
“Can’t, dude, it’s all girls. Besides, I’m in high school. I go to Chamberlain. What about you? College or high school?”
He looked incredulous.
“No way, man! I just a kid! What … you crazy or something?” I shrugged.
“I don’t know. You could be, like, a midget genius. What grade are you in?”
“Third grade. I in third grade! Man … you crazy!” He laughed. But he’d gotten the joke, and I had his attention. At least for a few minutes. Those feet of his, swinging beneath the table, reminded me of Donnie.
“So what’ve we got here, Abdi?” I said, lifting one of his papers from the pile. It was almost impossible to read, like it had been smashed into a ball and unfolded again a bunch of times.
“You play sports?” he asked me. He had a thick accent going but spoke in full sentences.
“Do you like sports?” I asked.
He nodded.
“I like soccer. You play soccer?” he asked.
I put the paper down. “You bet I like soccer. I play on my school team.”
He jumped off his chair. “Oh man … what position?”
“I’m a midfielder. But I can play striker, too.”
He was so excited he leaped in the air. “Yes! Me too. That’s my position!” I didn’t bother to ask him which one. His feet shifted from side to side.
A couple of the girls looked our way. “Shh!” one hissed.
“I think we’re disturbing the others,” I told him, motioning him back to the chair. “Tell you what: let’s take a look at the homework, and when you’re finished we can go outside and kick around a little. Do they have a ball here?”
Wrong question. Wrong suggestion. In a flash, Abdi was out of the chair again and making a run for the door. I grabbed him by his T-shirt and reeled him back in.
“Whoa. I think I said h
omework first, soccer later.”
“They do! They have a ball. Myla knows where. C’mon, man, ask her.”
It took a few minutes to convince Abdi that I really wouldn’t play unless he finished his homework. He looked pretty disgruntled, but I stuck to my guns. There was no way I was gonna face Myla after only five minutes and admit I was a homework helper failure.
Abdi was working on writing the letters of the alphabet. According to his sheet (which we eventually uncrumpled), this day’s letter was R. He was supposed to practice writing an entire page of upper- and lowercase R’s, then draw pictures of words that begin with R. I watched as squiggly lines of big and little R’s marched across his page. It was messy at first, because he was hurrying to wrap up and go play soccer, but then he actually settled down. He was left-handed, like me.
When he finished with the letters, he pulled out a box of crayons.
“Okay, so: words that begin with R. What can you think of?” I asked him.
He shrugged. He looked down, then away. One foot started swinging.
“What sound does an R make?” I prompted.
Abdi shrugged again. I couldn’t tell whether he was just bored and jerking my chain or if he really didn’t know.
I floated my tongue in the middle of my mouth and growled at him: “Urrrrr.” This cracked him up.
“You crazy, man,” he laughed. But he did it back: “Urrrrr.”
“Awesome, dude! Now let’s think up some words. I’ll give you a few examples, but you have to come up with some yourself. How about … urrrriver? Urrrroach? Urrrrat?”
“Urrrri!” Abdi shouted.
All the girls’ heads shot up. “Shh!” one hissed at him again.
“Uh … what?” I said.
“Ri!” he repeated. I was stumped.
“You know: ri. It like …” Abdi scrunched up his face. He was dying to say something but just couldn’t spit it out. Suddenly he got on all fours. He started scuttling around the room, going “Naaaa! Naaaa!” loudly. The other kids in the room completely abandoned their homework at that point. Some were yelling at Abdi to be quiet. Others laughed at his antics.
“Is it a sheep?” I guessed. “Baaa? Baaa?”
Abdi stood.
“No, no, not a sheep,” he corrected me. “Look.” He grabbed a crayon and began drawing. An animal. Four legs. Kind of furry. Sharp hooves. When he added these little horns, I got it.
“A goat?” I said.
He tossed the crayon down. “Yes! Goat. Ri.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” I laughed.
He shook his head. “I forget. I get so many words in here.…” He struck the heel of his hand on his forehead, a little hard. “Sometimes I forget.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” I said. “But are you supposed to come up with R-words in English or Somali?” He shrugged. The assignment didn’t make it clear. We decided to go with a combo, so in addition to his drawing of a ri we added a road and a ring. His pictures were hurried because he wanted to get outside and play … and so did I. He stuffed the completed pages back into the Spider-Man pack (I was beginning to understand how they got so crumpled) and ran out ahead of me to find a soccer ball.
Back in the main room an Oprah rerun was now on the TV and the gray-looking guys had left. I saw Myla seated in this small, glassed-in cubicle off to the side, behind a desk, talking to someone. I only saw the back of the person, a woman wearing a blue head scarf. I stood in the entrance to the office.
“Hey, I’m gonna go outside and kick the ball around with Abdi for a while, if that’s okay,” I said.
Her eyes widened. “He’s finished? Wow. Good work,” she said. Something about her expression made me think finishing homework might be new for Abdi.
“You sound surprised,” I said. Second time that comment had passed between us. I felt the corners of my mouth turn up.
“I am.” She smiled.
“Did you think I couldn’t handle it?” I said. It occurred to me she’d known exactly what she was doing when she set me up with the little man.
Myla shrugged. “Obviously you could.” She held my gaze. Blue, blue eyes.
“Bribery works,” I continued, not in any big hurry to leave now. “Turns out he’s a Chamberlain soccer fan.” The woman with her back to me swiveled around. At first I didn’t recognize her. Then the expression of dislike on her face reminded me.
“Oh. Hey,” I said automatically to Saeed’s sister.
Myla raised her eyebrows. “You two know each other?”
“Sort of,” I said, at the same moment the girl replied, “He plays with Saeed.” Awkward pause. I wondered how much she knew about the Maquoit rock thing.
Probably a lot.
“Remind me of your name …?” I said.
“Samira,” she said flatly.
I nodded. “Her brother is an amazing soccer player,” I said to Myla.
“So I’ve heard,” she replied. “I need to make it to some of your games this fall. Check out the amazing Saeed. Oh, and you too, of course. Are you any good?” She grinned wickedly. Getting back at me for the “short” comment, no doubt.
“I hold my own,” I said easily.
“What are you doing here?”
Samira’s question, thrust so abruptly into my pleasant little skirmish with Ms. Mumford Student, startled me. Her voice sounded almost harsh. Accusing.
“Volunteering,” I said quickly. “What are you doing here?”
Her eyes narrowed and she tilted her head, processing this information.
Myla looked puzzled, at the two of us.
“Samira has been helping out around here with translating,” she said. “She’s pretty much a lifeline to a lot of new people in this community who don’t speak English.”
“Oh yeah?” I said. “That’s cool. By the way, I see those permission slips worked out. I mean, since Saeed can play and all.” You’re welcome, I managed to not say to her. I mean, what was up with this girl?
“It’s because you got in trouble,” Samira said suddenly. As if some lightbulb had just gone off in her head. She nodded, kind of in an old-ladyish way. “I heard my brother’s friends talking about it. You went to that other town and did something and now you have to do service to stay on the team.”
I shifted my pack a little higher on my shoulder. I stared steadily back at her.
I was thinking it might be a good time to find out what Abdi was up to.
“Yeah, that’s right,” I said quietly. No one spoke for a few long seconds.
“So,” Myla finally said, “coming here is a punishment?”
“I get to do service instead of being punished,” I said. “Coming here is my service.”
Myla glanced at Samira, shrugged, and opened a drawer in the desk. She pulled out a familiar piece of light blue paper. It was the service sheet we need to have filled out if we want our hours officially recorded. She scribbled something on it and pushed it across the desk to me.
“Whatever. I put you down for one hour,” she said. “When are you coming back?”
My mind scrolled through my week’s schedule. “Tuesday next week?” I asked.
Myla shrugged once more. “We’re always here.” She returned her gaze to Samira, who had her back to me now. I turned and left. Just walked straight out the door, didn’t touch the blue paper, didn’t even say thanks or goodbye or anything.
Because now I was super pissed.
Chapter Six
I remember the exact day of the fight because it was really nice outside.
September is pretty much the best month of the year in Maine, which makes the fact that we’re stuck in class instead of hanging out at the beach really suck, but that particular day? When a couple of the white guys on varsity and two new Somali kids on JV decided to be assholes? Warm, cloud-free, and bright.
We spilled outside after the final bell, and those of us lucky enough to not have to load onto the loser cruiser (aka the school bus) just sort of collapsed o
n the front lawn. People stretched out, soaking in those vitamin D rays, which, our health teachers had informed us, would pretty much disappear from the Maine skies by November. I had plans to meet Donnie and head over to the hardware store. My team had the late practice, so I figured we could swing by the store beforehand and pick up paint and supplies.
The “untampering” of the Maquoit rock was scheduled for that weekend.
As I waited for Don, this little clutch of Somali girls emerged from the school. Samira was with them; I recognized her right off.
Dress code for these girls seemed to be “draped.” Long skirts and a head covering that pretty much looked like another skirt, only you got to have your face sticking out. I had been informed by the ever-informing Liz Painchaud (who was also president of the just-created Civil Rights Club and had been hassling me to join; she’d already snagged Mike Turcotte) that this headwear was called a hijab, and that while some Muslims insisted it was spelled out right in the Koran that women had to wear them, other Muslims said it was more of a culture thing and not specifically religious.
Yeah. I got that earful from Liz when she heard me say “head skirts.”
Here’s what I knew: Saeed’s sister was all over the map with it.
Some days she was rockin’ the hijab; other days the jewelry and a little kerchief. One day it was a sweatshirt and a head scarf; another day that bomber jacket. You never got much skin, and I couldn’t say for sure if I’d ever seen her hair, but she sure was stepping out (at least with her clothes) in ways the other Muslim girls hadn’t tried. The majority of them dressed more like old-fashioned Catholic nuns, with their wimples and floor-length habits.
The day of the fight was a University of Maine hoodie day for her. I remember first thinking, Wow, she must be sweating in that thing, then realizing it was Samira. She and her pack weren’t ten feet from me. I automatically raised my hand as they passed.
She saw me. Looked right at me, then through me. Not even a nod.
“Seriously, what is your problem?” I think I said it out loud. Must have, because even though she was out of earshot at that point, someone else heard me.
