by Maria Padian
He was unconscious, but I spoke to him anyway. Quietly, in his ear.
“I love you, bro. I’m here. We’re all here.” I waited for a sign. An eyebrow twitch. Slight movement of the head. Some indication that he heard me.
“Even Sister Marie is here,” I said. A total lie, but if anything could make Donnie get up from that bed and walk, maybe even run, it was Sister Marie. I moved back slightly, half expecting his eyes to flutter open.
But he was really out of it. I tried not to let myself imagine the possibility that he’d stay out of it.
Back in the waiting room, I was glued to my phone. Myla texted: Still no Saeed. Mom called: she’d brought Grandma to our house to sit by the warm stove. She said Paul had come by to see if we were all right. He was out with his chainsaw cutting limbs and trees that blocked driveways and making some cash. Devon, who doesn’t even like Don, texted: Howz the boi? Aunt Maddie called: she was fine, just checking in. Mike Turcotte texted: WTF Tom is C kidding? Mom called: our power was back on.
Mrs. Plourde’s sister and the second call from Mom arrived at the same time. I was actually waiting for a response from Mike, because I’d texted ??? in response to his WTF. Dad patted me on the knee.
“Time to go,” he said. “A hot shower and warm bed await.” I closed the phone and shoved it in my pocket.
As we drove, we got a good look at the storm’s damage. A lot of lines were down, some sparking dully on the ground. Twigs and branches were pretty much everywhere, but in some places whole trees and big limbs had crashed on roofs and landed on parked cars. Ice and snow were melting wherever the sun struck, but in the shady places clusters of trees remained glazed. They sparkled. Beautiful and treacherous at the same time.
And like a good neighbor, State Farm is theeeeeeere, played inside my head as I looked out the car windows and checked out the damage. Man, you know you’re beyond exhausted when the insurance jingle takes up space between your ears. Sleep. I needed sleep.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. Another text. I flipped it open. Mike finally got back to me.
C posting shit about u and a Somali girl. What up??
I stared at the words on the screen. It was the last thing I needed.
Posting what? where? I texted back. Waited.
Facebook. Texts too. ?????
I pressed furiously with my thumbs.
What shit? Waited again. A while. Damn.
Then, finally: “Bouchard’s new girlfriend is a Somali slut.” C + L saw you making out w/her at the hospital. ?!?!?
“Ha!” I burst out. Dad glanced at me.
“Something funny?” he said, smiling faintly.
“Not in a good way,” I replied as I keyed a response to Mike. It was all so ridiculous. The girl was so stupid. No one would believe such crap. It occurred to me that it might have been a very good thing that Jake had seen me and Myla together at the hospital.
Total lies. I’m dating a girl from Mumford.
I don’t know why I left out a few key details. Maybe because I knew how innocent the hug was but how pointless explanations would be. Subtleties are wasted on the Chamberlain High School mind. Better to keep it simple: nothing happened.
Of course, something had. But not what Cherisse thought.
The phone vibrated.
C just posted a picture.
“Of what?” I exclaimed involuntarily. Before I got out of the car I texted him a line of question marks. My father stared at me curiously as we headed into the house. I practically tripped on the stoop because I was watching the screen and walking at the same time. Finally he texted back.
New girlfriend wears head scarf?
I raced up the stairs to my bedroom without speaking to my mother or saying hello to Grandma, who was sitting in the living room. I fired up my laptop, logged on to my Facebook account and … there it was. A brand-new post on my wall from Cherisse Ouellette, who was oh so kind enough to “share” it with her 1,584 “friends.” A photo taken with her Verizon Wireless phone.
You couldn’t see Samira’s face or her jacket; they were blocked by my shoulder. But you could clearly see her bright blue hijab and see that she’s black. And you could tell it was me. I was wearing my team T-shirt, with my name and number blasted right on the back. We’d bought them with money we raised selling candy bars and cookies and bottles of Poland Spring water at the refreshment shed.
Here’s the thing about luck: it’s a bitch. Curls up next to you one minute, then bites you the next. You meet a Myla and think, Damn! I’m a lucky guy! Then you turn around and there’s Cherisse, phone at the ready. She’s like one of those Hollywood stars you see in People magazine who have a Starbucks in one hand and a very visible cell in the other.
I mean, what were the chances? But that’s luck for you.
I thought, Is this what you want, God? Did Tom Bouchard not have enough on his mind? Was life getting too easy and predictable for Samira’s family? Fine. Hurl us headlong into the shitstorm of gossip Cherisse has created. So long, life.
I waited. Seriously, I waited for my answer. Because you know what? It had been a bad night, and some bad stuff had gone down, and I was thinking it was about time somebody upstairs started coughing up answers.
That’s when I heard him.
Not God. I never hear God. I heard Dad, calling from the stairs.
“Tom! Come quickly. It’s Ruth on the phone. Donnie is awake!”
My aunt Maddie has this really annoying habit, whenever life spins out of control, of saying, “God speaks in mysterious ways.”
Uncle Paul says that’s just another way of saying, “Shit happens.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I spoke, while across town Mrs. Plourde held the phone to his ear. She told us he could blink—twice for yes and once for no—if you asked him a question. He couldn’t talk. Too many stitches around his mouth.
“So I sit in the emergency room for, what? Almost nine hours. And you decide to wake up after I leave? You know, Plourde, it’s a relief to know you’re still an asshole.”
My parents both startled when I said that. We stood in the kitchen, within earshot of Grandma in the living room. I looked at them and shrugged.
Grandma had grown up in a mill town. She’d heard worse.
“Tom?” I heard from the phone. Mrs. Plourde. “I don’t know what you just said to him, but it looked like he … laughed. Keep talking.”
I turned to the window so I had my back to my folks. Outside, everything was melting. Cars swished past on the wet road.
“By the way, don’t expect flowers from me. I am seriously pissed at you, man. To begin with, thanks to you, now I have to go out and murder George Morin. And you know I’m going to get caught, and murder charges are really going to screw with my future. So, thanks. I’m going to wind up in prison instead of college, and it’s all your fault.
“Second, don’t even think about dying. You hear me? I need you to walk out of that hospital and come home so I can beat the shit out of you. That’s how mad I am, you stupid jerk.”
My father came up behind me. He reached for the phone. Angrily I twisted my arm around, away from him. I glared and he stepped back.
“Don’t you know? Don’t you realize that people love you? I don’t know why, ’cause you’re such an asshole. But your mother? You’re all she’s got. And you don’t know it, but half the freakin’ high school came by the hospital to see how you were. Stupid, right? Everybody all upset about a guy who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about himself?
“Which probably makes me the dumbest of them all. Because I love you. You’re my family.” My voice broke. I was losin’ it.
“So here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna get better, which, by the way, will hurt like hell, because you screwed up your leg and will probably needs tons of physical therapy. Then, after you get better, and if I don’t beat the crap out of you, you’re gonna graduate from our shithole of a high school. You and me. We are crossing that stage together
. Even if I have to push you in some damn wheelchair, you’re doin’ it. You hear me? Blink twice.” I stopped talking. With my free hand, I rubbed my face. My hand came away wet.
I waited. No one spoke.
“Blink harder. I can’t hear you.” There was a noise from the other end. Like a grunt or a groan. Then, Mrs. Plourde.
“Tommy? We should probably stop. He’s trying to talk, and that’s not a good idea right now. But I think he heard you, dear. He’s blinking his eyes a lot. So that’s good. It’s good he understands, you know?” She sounded like she was crying, too.
“You’ll come by later?” she asked. “With your folks?”
“Yeah, for sure,” I said. She hung up.
When I turned to face my parents, Mom was boo-hooing as well. I placed the receiver on the counter and wrapped my arms around her shoulders. Dad put a hand on my back.
“Well,” he said, “you might want to reconsider your plans and pursue a career as a motivational speaker.”
Later that afternoon, when I was on the phone with Myla, she put it another way.
“You’re just a real warm and fuzzy guy, aren’t you, Cap?”
I was stretched out on my bed, the curtains drawn. It was late afternoon, and I’d just woken from a nap. That was all I’d managed since speaking with Don: a shower, bed. I’d even turned the phone off. When I did wake up, there were three messages from Myla.
“I know, right? Regular teddy bear. That’s me.”
She laughed softly. Which was a relief. Myla gets me. And right then I really needed that.
Because I had some serious explaining to do about the Cherisse and Samira thing.
We talked about Don for a while. Then switched the topic to Saeed. They still hadn’t heard from him.
I sat up.
“Myla—” I began.
But she cut me off.
“I know. I know. And yes, I did it. They were not happy with me, but I didn’t back down. I actually took Mrs. Bashir and Samira down to the police station to report that he was missing and to give them a photo.”
“And?” I said.
She sighed.
“We wait,” she said simply.
“No, I mean, how did it go? With the police?”
“You know …” Her voice trailed off. “To be honest: weird. I mean, they took it seriously, which is good. They didn’t just blow Mrs. Bashir off, like she was some worried foreigner making a big deal out of nothing. In fact, it was just the opposite. They kept us there for a while and asked a lot of questions I didn’t quite get. Like, about their mosque, and whether Saeed spent a lot of time there. Really bizarre. Or that’s how it seemed. I don’t know, I was so tired. Am so tired.”
“Tell me about it,” I said.
“Hey, at least you got to take a nap today,” she said. “I drove around town for hours in crap weather.”
“Story of your life, College.”
“Hey, how about some sympathy? I mean, I like Samira, but sometimes? I feel like calling me is part of her daily routine, like brushing her teeth. But she always seems to have something urgent to deal with.”
“Yeah,” I said hesitantly. “Speaking of that …”
“Bad intro, Cap. Especially when I’m this tired.”
I climbed out of bed and went to my desk. The computer was still on and open to Facebook. I checked my wall.
There were fifty-seven comments on the photo Cherisse posted. The first two were immediately visible.
Bouchard, you wild man! Who is she?
WTF, Tom.
“Uh, are you near your computer?” I said to Myla.
“I’m always near my computer. Why?”
“Open Facebook. Go to my wall. Then I’ll explain.”
I heard the rapid staccato of Myla keyboarding as I scrolled through the comments. As I went down the list of all fifty-seven comments, the “discussion” deteriorated. What began as jokes and questions morphed into meanness as Cherisse’s girlfriends chimed in. Morphed into obscenity as some of the guys tried to get funny. Racism. Sexism. Then fighting and personal attacks as people called each other out for all the isms. It was a street brawl, right there on my wall. Then, near the end, comment number fifty-three, if I counted right: the red flag.
Who is the girl, Tom?
Ismail. We were Facebook friends. Hell, I’m friends with all the guys on the team.
“Oh. Wow.” Myla had opened the page.
“I can explain,” I said to her.
“That’ll be interesting,” she said. “Oh. My. God.” She was reading through the comments.
“You know when you went to the desk, to ask about Saeed?” I said quickly. “She was crying. I mean, she never cries! She’s always so … tough. Distant, especially with me. And I just felt bad for her, Myla …”
“That was why she practically ran out of the place!” she exclaimed. “I was wondering what was up.”
“Cherisse saw us and took a picture. I know, crazy, right? What were the odds of that? But it happened, and … Myla, you know this is all bullshit. I have nothing going on with Samira.”
“Tom. Please. Don’t even go there. The problem is way, way bigger than that.”
I already thought the problem was pretty big, so Myla’s comment didn’t make me feel too good.
“Wow,” she repeated. “This is baaaaad.” She was reading through more comments. “How glad am I that I’m not in high school anymore? Yours in particular.”
“These people suck,” I muttered.
“Not all of them,” she commented. “In response to ‘So Bouchard’s screwin’ a fucking raghead? Who gives a fuck?’ one very enlightened person replied, ‘It’s not a rag it’s a burka you fucking moron and Tom can screw whoever the fuck he wants!’ Now there’s a great person to have on our side. Although I am tempted to type in a little response myself and clear up this burka thing. Don’t they realize it’s a hijab?”
“Myla. Seriously.”
“Tommy, if I don’t joke around right now, I’m gonna cry. This is so, so bad.”
“Really? I mean, why so so bad? Why not just … bad?”
“Uh-oh,” I heard her say.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Who’s Ismail?” she said.
I sighed. She’d made it to comment number fifty-three.
“Guy on my soccer team,” I said.
“Friend of Saeed’s?” she asked.
“Yeah, sure,” I said. There was a long pause, and I heard more keyboarding.
“Bad. Bad bad bad bad bad …”
“Okay, stop it, you’re freakin’ me out. What?”
“Are you friends with Samira? Facebook friends?”
“No.”
“I am. There’s one comment on her wall from a Somali girl named Fatuma. I don’t know her. She’s written, ‘You shame your family.’ ”
There was a long pause as I processed this information.
“I’m sorry. What?” I finally said.
“Shaming the family is huge. I can’t tell you how huge. And a big part, probably the biggest part, of a family’s reputation, is the purity of its women. How your girls behave, how they dress, what people think of them, is a direct reflection on the family. This comment by this Fatuma means the Somali kids on Facebook have seen the picture and someone recognized Samira. The wolves are circling.”
“But, Myla, Samira did nothing. Nothing!”
“What she did is irrelevant if people say otherwise,” Myla replied. “Welcome to the hell of Somali gossip. In a close-knit community like this, it spreads like wildfire. And on Facebook? We’re talkin’ viral. At least, within your high school.”
My head spun. This was so stupid.
“So what do we do?” I said.
“I hate to say this, because I’ve got serious amounts of reading to do before my class on Monday, but I think we’re heading over to the Bashirs’. Like, now.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Until you’ve been on the other side o
f it, you don’t know how scary The Law can be.
I thought I knew. Thought me and Don’s brush with The Law over the rock was some life-altering moment in the up-to-that-point fairly charmed life of Tom Bouchard. But I didn’t know shit. I didn’t know real fear at the point of a gun. I didn’t know what it meant to be powerless, to stand by helplessly as your life blew up before your eyes.
If I’d had any clue about any of that, I never would have pushed Myla to report Saeed missing. And maybe if she hadn’t been so tired and so worn down by it all, she might have given me a bit more pushback. Because her instinct was to wait, to not rush to the cops.
Turns out she understood these people way better than I did.
We arrived at the apartment building to babies crying, doors open, nervous families peeking down the hall, and two plain-clothes detectives sitting in the Bashirs’ living room. Aweys answered when we knocked, just cracking their door and peering through the space. When he recognized Myla, he threw it open wide.
“They is police here,” he whispered to her as we kicked off our shoes. His eyes were enormous, round.
“Police?” Myla whispered back.
He nodded solemnly.
“They is want Saeed,” he said.
“What the fuck …,” I heard her mutter under her breath as she strode in the direction of the living room. Aweys and I followed her.
Everyone was sitting. Two men wearing dark suits, in chairs I recognized had been dragged in from the kitchen. The rest of the family—Mrs. Bashir, Samira, two little boys who seemed younger than Aweys—in a stiff, silent line on the couch. The low coffee table, which was usually strewn with toys, had been cleared for a ceramic teapot and mugs. Somali hospitality. Mrs. Bashir would have been sure to offer her interrogators a hot drink.
“Hi,” Myla began. “Is … uh, this a bad time?”
One of the men stood.
“This is Myla! The one I tell you about!” Samira said.
Her voice was altered. Not only was her grammar off, but the sound was higher-pitched, the words rapid. She wore clothes I didn’t recognize: a dark hijab and a skirt to the floor. In the dim room, she and her mother seemed shadowed and small.
