by Maria Padian
Except Don, as I drove him home.
“So, you think Saeed is a terrorist?” he asked.
I laughed.
“Yeah, right. A real card-carrying member of Al Qaeda.”
Which sounded pretty funny when you said it out loud.
Of course, how the hell did we know what terrorists looked like? Acted like? And whether or not they played soccer?
Chapter Fourteen
Abdi was upset.
At first I thought it was because I was late. Practice went way over, and by the time I got to The Center, most of the kids doing homework had finished up and were already in the park across the street. But Abdi, who usually led the pack outdoors, sat inside with Myla at one of the long tables. Both wore very serious expressions. He was swinging that foot, and occasionally kicked the leg of the table. Hard.
I hadn’t seen Myla for three days. Since the night at Michelangelo’s. For some reason my homework help hadn’t overlapped with her schedule, which was funny because the kids gave me the impression that Myla practically lived at The Center. They would see her or talk to her or text her every day; she was that big a part of their lives. Mr. Bouchard, however, hadn’t caught a glimpse of Ms. College Student. Which made me wonder if she was avoiding me.
Which made me wonder why I was wondering.
I didn’t want them to, but Donnie’s comments sounded in my brain as I approached Myla and Abdi. She looked up and a pleased, relieved smile broke over her face.
Blue, blue eyes. Yeah.
“Hey, guys,” I said casually, dropping my pack on the floor alongside Abdi. “Sorry I’m late. Coach kept us for sprints.”
“Hello,” Abdi muttered. He didn’t look up. He stared sullenly at the table. This was very un-Abdi-like behavior.
I crouched down to his level.
“What up?”
He pushed a crumpled piece of paper toward me.
“Man, that homework you did with me? It all wrong!”
I smoothed the paper flat and examined it. There weren’t any comments. Just big red X’s wherever Abdi had come up with a Somali word that began with R.
“Well, it’s not all wrong,” I said. “See, you got river right. I guess this answers our question, huh? They wanted just English words.”
Abdi shrugged. The expression on his face bothered me. It wasn’t just mad.
He seemed discouraged.
“Abdi, look at me,” Myla said gently. He wouldn’t. She glanced at me, and I could tell this was bothering her, too.
“Your work is not bad. Your work is good. It’s okay to get some red X’s. That’s how you learn. See, next time you’ll get the answer right.” Abdi’s head shot up, startling both me and Myla.
“What wrong with Somali word?” he demanded. “They want word with R, and ri got an R. That teacher, she makes no sense. She dumbass!”
I choked back a laugh. In his limited lexicon of English, you had to wonder where he’d heard this.
Myla looked severe.
“We talked about this,” she said evenly. “No disrespecting teachers. Now, I’d like you to take your paper and go over there.” She pointed to a table at the end of the room. “You spend some time fixing your homework on your own, then come back here to Tom and me and we’ll go over it.” Abdi grabbed the paper and slouched off to the other end of the room.
“I wasn’t sure whether to scold him or correct his grammar,” I said, sliding into Abdi’s vacant seat. “ ‘She is a dumbass.’ Not ‘She dumbass.’ ”
Myla pretended to punch me on the shoulder. Her fist lingered. Pressed into me a little longer than it had to. At least, that’s what I imagined.
“That’s not helpful, Cap,” she said. Her breath smelled like peppermint Altoids. She’d pulled her hair over one ear with a green plastic barrette shaped like a frog.
“You know I’m kidding, College,” I said quietly. She looked at me, surprised. It was the first time I’d used the nickname for her that’d been bouncing around my head. “What’s going on with him?”
Myla sighed, glanced over her shoulder once to make sure Abdi wasn’t listening, then leaned in closer.
“Probably more than I know,” she said. “To a certain extent I think he’s just frustrated. Really frustrated. I wonder sometimes if he might have a learning disability, because he’s pretty verbal but is having a hard time learning to read. But how do you diagnose a learning disability in someone who doesn’t have the basic language skills you’re testing? I mean, the schools don’t even have the staff to teach all the kids who need ELL, never mind learning-disabled kids who need ELL!”
“Especially ’cause we’re so maxed out. Right?” I said.
Her face clouded over.
“Don’t get me started on that,” she said.
“Agreed. Let’s stick to Abdi.”
“Who may be dealing with a little PTSD on top of everything else,” she said. “I’ve been wondering about that.”
“PTSD?”
“Post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s like what soldiers returning from combat have. People who have experienced some deep, usually violent trauma. You wouldn’t believe what some of these kids have been through.”
Across the room, Abdi had his back to us and was hunched over his paper. That foot was swinging in a wide, sweeping pendulum beneath the table. He knew we were talking about him.
I didn’t know a thing about PTSD. But I did know what happened to sad little boys.
“You know my friend you met the other night? Donnie?” I said to her.
She nodded.
“Charmer,” she commented.
“Yeah, you’re probably the only female in a thirty-mile radius who would say that. But anyway … he’s had it tough. Parents are screwups, and he’s always had trouble with school. But the worst thing is at some point he started to believe he was stupid and just decided to party on, you know?
“Anyway, Abdi sort of reminds me of him. I don’t know what he’s been through, but the thing that’s gonna hurt him the most is if he doesn’t think it’s worth trying anymore. Can’t let little dudes give up, you know?”
Myla stared at me from across the table. Like she saw me for the first time. “You actually give a damn, don’t you?” she said.
I shrugged.
“Nah. I’m just here to log service hours. And argue with you. By the way, are you dating anyone?”
The words were out of my mouth before they fully registered in my brain.
This is it, God. The perfect time for the apocalypse. End the world, now. Or how about just a big, gaping hole that opens up and swallows me?
As usual, God didn’t answer.
Instead, two bright red patches appeared on Myla’s cheeks. Her mouth twisted into this awkward grin.
“Are you asking me out?” she said.
“No. Absolutely not. I’m just curious.”
“Because I hear you already have a girlfriend,” she said.
“That would be true,” I said.
“And you’re a high school boy. I’m a college woman.”
With a plastic frog barrette in your hair, I managed to not say.
“Yeah, but you could be into the whole cougar thing, you know? Mature woman, young guy? We could pull it off. Especially because I’m taller than you.”
“Everyone’s taller than me.”
“Also true. You’re avoiding my question.”
Myla looked down, picked at her fingernails. Short nails painted navy blue. A little smile played out around her lips. A thought occurred to me. A pretty wild thought, but …
“Wow. You are seeing someone.”
She still didn’t answer.
“Is it … another woman?”
Her head snapped up.
“Oh. My. God. Are you for real?” I couldn’t tell if she was laughing because she thought this was funny or totally offensive. “Do you think the only reason I might reject you is because I’m a lesbian? ‘Ooh, watch out for that Tom Bouchard, lad
ies! Only a lesbian could resist him!’ ”
“No! Of course not. I’m sure you have plenty of reasons to reject me.” Pause. “But if you were, that’s cool. A lesbian, I mean. Not rejecting me. That wouldn’t be so cool.”
“But of course, you weren’t asking,” she said sarcastically.
“No. Not a chance. You scare me. I’m going to go sit in the corner with Abdi now and practice writing words that begin with R.”
“Like ridiculous,” she suggested. “Rude.”
“Retreat,” I added. I picked up my backpack and headed toward Abdi.
She tossed out one parting comment: “I’m not, by the way.” Then she got up and went into the little glassed-in cubicle, shutting the door.
So … not seeing anyone, not lesbian, or not rejecting me?
She called that night. She launched right in, didn’t even say hi. Like nothing had happened between us a few hours earlier.
“I have a brilliant idea, Cap.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“A project. A self-esteem-building, totally cool project for Abdi. And you are going to help him.”
I was lying on my bed surrounded by paper. I had an essay due the next day on The Scarlet Letter, and I’d been spending the last hour going round and round in my head with Hester, Chillingworth, and Dimmesdale. Okay, brain, reorient, because it’s time to do a few more rounds with Myla.…
“Lay it on me.”
“A dictionary. A Somali-English dictionary, every letter from A to Z, with pictures he’s drawn, plus words in both Somali and English.”
“Wow. Our little guy is having trouble with the letter R and you want him to write an entire dictionary. I love that idea. Really.”
I heard her sigh impatiently.
“Don’t be obtuse. I’m thinking picture book. Two words per page, twenty-six pages.”
Were there twenty-six letters in the alphabet? I started counting on my fingers: A, B, C, D …
“Tom, are you listening?”
“Yeah, yeah … sorry. I’m … Hester Prynne. Do you know her?”
Long pause from Myla.
“Name’s familiar. Didn’t she date some guy named Dimmesdale? Seriously, Tom, what do you think?”
“I think everything you say is brilliant and I’ll do anything you want. I’m your community service slave. But right now, I’m thinking about this essay that’s due tomorrow on The Scarlet Letter, and—”
“I know a guy who will take the finished pages and laminate them and bind them. It’ll look like a pretty real book by the time he’s all done, and then Abdi can give it to his teacher. For the class, you know? It’ll be like this thing that celebrates both languages, and shows that he knows both.”
I thought about that for a minute. It was a cool idea. Something Abdi could definitely do and be proud of. He was a good little artist. His pictures would look neat, all bound up in a picture book.
“I think it’s great, Myla. I think you’ve come up with a really, really good idea.”
“Thanks,” she said. “So you’ll help him?”
“Absitively posilutely, College.”
“There’s just one hitch.”
“Uh-oh.”
“I want Samira to work with you guys.”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
“Yeah, right, she’s gonna do that. Not. Have you forgotten she’s not my biggest fan?”
“She’s already on board.”
I didn’t expect that. And I’ll admit, it was not a welcome surprise. I had less than zero interest in spending time with Samira the Fun Suck.
“I can handle Abdi alone,” I said.
“It’s not about handling him. It’s about doing the Somali part of the book. You wouldn’t have a clue, Cap, and Samira would have a good feel for the right words to choose. Plus she’d get the spelling right. Plus I’d like Abdi to have a positive experience being directed by an older girl. And watching how you respect and work well with a girl. You’d be a good role model for him.”
Something about this felt like a setup.
“Let me guess: you’re getting extra-credit points in your I’m-gonna-make-the-world-a-better-place class if you get me and Samira to work together. Am I right?”
“What if I agree to go out to dinner with you? Will you do it then?”
That came out of left field. This woman was full of surprises.
“Seriously?” It was the first word out of my mouth.
She laughed. Giggled, actually. At me. She couldn’t have been laughing with me, after such a stupid-ass response.
“I want to try that new Somali place on Market Street. You can take me there.”
“Oh, can I? Will I pay?”
“Of course. But I hear it’s not too expensive, so you’re good.”
“And when are we doing this?”
“We can talk about it tomorrow. You are coming tomorrow, right?”
“How ’bout Friday? I’ve got late practice and … another commitment tomorrow.”
“Great. Friday it is. Thanks, Cap.” She hung up before I could say another word.
And there I was, with a date that was actually a bribe. With a girl who was not my girlfriend and was possibly a lesbian. At a restaurant I’d never heard of, for an undisclosed amount of money, time and day unknown. I’d have to keep it a secret from Cherisse (who would freak if she found out), bypass my parents (because I was still grounded), and deal with a sullen Somali girl (who hated me).
So why did it feel like Christmas in October?
Chapter Fifteen
The other commitment I’d mentioned to Myla was Survivor with Cherisse. Eight o’clock on Wednesday nights. She never misses an episode and informed me that after blowing her off for pizza the other night I could make her happy by watching it with her.
Life is easier when you’re on the right side of Cherisse. So even though I had a big physics test the next day, I agreed.
I told Mom that she was coming over to study with me.
Mom was so not fooled. Cherisse didn’t take physics, and even though I’m pretty sure my parents didn’t have a printout of the girl’s schedule, they knew Cherisse Ouellette wasn’t the physics type. We carried our books into the den off the dining room and closed the French doors, which have these very nice privacy curtains, but Mom kept popping in: first with lemonade, then with a basket of corn chips.
“Ooh, thanks, Mrs. B.!” Cherisse said when the chips made an appearance. She’s the only person in the universe who calls my mother “Mrs. B.” Mom smiles with her mouth closed, sort of this straight line running from ear to ear, whenever she hears “Mrs. B.”
“You’re very welcome, Cherisse,” she said. “You kids have everything you need?”
“D’you guys have salsa?” Cherisse asked. “I love salsa with chips.”
Mom raised one eyebrow in this high arc. Along with the straight-line smile, it was a pretty intimidating look. Dad calls it the Scary Franco Momma look. It’s the look her grandmother used to control eight screaming children. Genetically coded right there on my mother’s face. I recognized it from old photographs of Mémère Louise.
“There’s a jar in the fridge, dear. Go help yourself,” Mom said. Cherisse bounded from the den. Mom folded her arms across her chest.
“Seriously, Tom?” she said.
“What?” I replied. “She likes salsa.”
The other eyebrow shot up. That was the “I’m Not Stupid, Son” Scary Franco Momma expression.
After Cherisse turned up as my junior prom date last spring and we started going out (Facebook official), Dad took me aside for a “talk.” Actually, it was more of a non-talk. He didn’t demand to know if we were sexually active, but … practically. Instead, he spoke in code, dancing around the questions you couldn’t help but ask yourself when you met Cherisse.
“How did you two meet?” he asked, aka She sure as hell isn’t in any honors classes with you, is she? “I don’t think we know her parents,” he said,
aka They don’t live on our side of town and aren’t among the 25 percent of Enniston residents who graduated from college. “I hope you’re being responsible, Tommy,” he said, aka I sure hope you’re abstinent, but if you’re not, I hope you’re using protection, even though I’d be the last Catholic in Maine to suggest it.
I didn’t hold it against my parents for getting squeamish about the S-E-X question; most parents don’t handle it well. But I did hold it against them for being intellectual snobs. A girl like Cherisse Ouellette wasn’t part of the master plan they’d mapped for their college-bound son, and from the second she walked in the door Mom was tight-lipped and unfriendly.
“I’d like the doors left open a crack,” Mom said. “And it’s a school night, so company has to leave by nine.” She made this pronouncement just as Cherisse returned holding the Newman’s Own mango salsa.
“This was all I could find. We usually get Pace,” she said, plopping alongside me on the couch. She hadn’t brought a bowl, so she unscrewed the lid and dumped some salsa over the chips in the basket. I made a point of not looking at my mother’s expression over that move. Mom walked out, leaving the doors about three inches ajar.
“She seems uptight. Everything okay?” Cherisse asked between chips.
“Yeah, it’s all good. She just knows I’ve got a test tomorrow.” I pulled the heavy physics textbook across the coffee table toward me. I glanced at the clock. I had forty-five minutes to review an entire chapter before Survivor started.
“They still mad about the rock?” she asked.
“I think the question is ‘Will they ever stop being mad about the rock?’ ” I replied. “Rock madness is now part of the daily drill. I think she just wants to make sure we’re actually studying.”
Cherisse squinched a little closer to me on the couch. She whispered in my ear, “I don’t think she likes your girlfriend.” She gently took my earlobe between her teeth. Her lips were cold. Like the mango salsa that just came out of the fridge. I turned to kiss her, and her mouth was half open. She tasted like chips.
