He almost dropped his paper. “Me?”
“Yes, you.”
The whole class became silent. The kids in the front turned to stare at him like he was a specimen in a petri dish. Yusuf wanted to demand why Miss Terrance had singled him out, of all people. But he knew the answer. Because he was different. Muslim. The enemy. He gulped again, and thought of Prophet Moses, who prayed to God to help him speak. Of Prophet Abraham, who prayed to God to cool the fire he was trapped in. The problem was, Yusuf was no prophet, and at that moment he couldn’t even remember the simplest of prayers. “Um, it was nice,” he finally stuttered. “Nice . . . commemoration . . . for those who lost their lives.”
Miss Terrance beamed at his use of the vocabulary word. “I thought so too.” She turned toward the rest of the class. “All right, get to work on the assignment. You have twenty minutes left. And don’t forget. Today’s the day to turn in your 9/11 reports. Please put them on my desk as you leave the class.”
Yusuf groaned under his breath. He’d completely forgotten about the report. Why did they have to write it at all? Wasn’t it enough that they were suffering the effects of Never Forget in real time? He waited until the bell rang, and all the other students filed out of the classroom, laughing and talking. Then he approached Miss Terrance. She was sitting at her desk, reading a newspaper. “Ma’am . . . ?”
She looked up with a smile. “Yes, Yusuf? Are you doing okay?”
Of course. Why wouldn’t he be? “Um, about the assignment . . .”
“Let me guess. You haven’t finished it yet.”
Yusuf nodded miserably. “Uh, yes. I’m sorry.”
She didn’t seem mad. “Sure, no problem. Take your time.” She smiled at him. “It’s not a graded assignment, just something I thought would be helpful to the class.”
He blinked at her. Danial always said people who were too nice had something to hide. He wondered if Miss Terrance was hiding something. Her hair was pink today, and she wore a matching pink blouse over gray slacks. She looked completely normal, as if she’d never held a secret in her life. “Do you think it will make a difference?” he asked her boldly. “The report, I mean.”
Her smile widened until she looked like the cat in Alice in Wonderland. “Of course. Knowledge is power, Yusuf. Remember that.”
The door slammed open, and a stream of kids started walking in. The next class was already here, which meant Yusuf was late for math. He nodded at Miss Terrance as he left. “I’ll remember.”
At lunch, Cameron came over with his cafeteria tray and sat next to Yusuf. Danial was so shocked his mouth fell open and bits of peas from his samosa dropped onto his shirt. “What are you doing here?” he sputtered, wiping his chin. “We don’t associate with the likes of you.”
Cameron ignored him and looked at Yusuf. “So, are we going to discuss robotics or what? I have some great ideas about the competition.”
Yusuf thought about their little argument on Sunday. “Yeah, sure. Listen, I’m sorry—”
Cameron slapped his shoulder lightly. “No need to apologize. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
Yusuf hadn’t known this, but he nodded anyway. For some reason, being friends with Cameron wasn’t as scary as he’d thought. Danial’s sputtering grew louder. “What is going on?” he whispered furiously. “Why is he apologizing? Why does he think we’re friends?”
Yusuf patted Danial on the back. “Come on, we’re TRC mates. We can be friends.”
“Absolutely not. He’s a Muslim hater and a poser. He runs with the wrong crowd.” Danial took a deep breath and whispered into Yusuf’s ear. “My dad thinks he may even be in a gang.”
Yusuf rolled his eyes a little at that. Cameron might be a tough guy, but there weren’t any gangs in Frey. It was such a small town, any gang activity would stand out like a dinosaur’s tail. Yusuf looked again at Cameron and his pierced ear. The Patriot Sons were almost definitely a gang. Maybe there were more. Maybe Frey had hidden secrets too.
Cameron took a bite of his beef taco and closed his eyes. “Yum, this is good stuff.”
“My mom says they mix pork meat into the beef,” Danial told him in a nasty tone.
Cameron chewed slowly and winked. “I guess that’s why it tastes so delicious, right, Yusuf?”
“Ugh, disgusting!”
Yusuf was almost positive Danial was joking about the pork. Still, he put down his own taco and wished he’d brought lunch from home. “What did you want to tell me about the competition?” he asked.
Cameron didn’t reply. He was looking intently toward the cafeteria door. “Incoming,” he said in a low voice.
Yusuf and Danial turned. Ethan Grant and his friend Sammy had entered the cafeteria. Their faces wore identical hard looks and ugly scowls. Before Yusuf could steel himself, they were looming over his table like predatory birds over frozen mice. “Hope you heard loud and clear what my dad said at the parade.”
Yusuf couldn’t say anything even if he wanted to. Which he didn’t.
Sammy grinned at them—a cold, small grin. “Loud and clear. We all heard it.”
Cameron held up his palms. “Hey, guys, come on. Chill.”
Ethan growled. For a minute it seemed like he would hit someone or something. Then his face relaxed. “Hey, Cam, haven’t seen you in a while. Why’re you sitting with these pathetic losers? Let’s roll.”
Cam nodded like he totally agreed with that character judgment. He pushed back his chair and stood up. “Yeah, let’s roll.”
The three strolled away with casual steps, Cameron’s earring glinting in the harsh cafeteria lights.
Danial’s hand trembled as he closed his lunch box with a half-eaten samosa still inside. “Is this what sixth grade is going to be like from now on? Lunchtime bullies, with a side of Cameron?”
Yusuf was still staring at Cameron’s back. “I don’t know,” he replied slowly. “I think he sat with us to . . . protect us?”
Danial looked at him as if he’d grown horns. “You’re out of your mind. The day Kamran Abdullah does something good and kind will be the day I eat my own shoe.”
18
Miss Terrance had said that knowledge was power. Yusuf decided that writing the 9/11 report might help him figure out Ethan and his father. Why he wanted to do this wasn’t very clear to him, except that he kept remembering the topic of persecution from the previous Sunday school class. The disbelievers of Mecca had made the lives of the early Muslims miserable because they didn’t understand or trust the new religion being practiced. Hatred grew among them, even though the Meccans all used to be family and friends.
Just like Frey. Only this was not seventh-century Arabia, and the Patriot Sons were like no friends or family Yusuf had ever seen. He figured that maybe understanding the Patriot Sons could prevent the Muslims of Frey from being kicked out of town, or at the very least, let them finish their mosque.
Luckily he had library on Tuesday. He spent the period researching 9/11 and the war on terror. Uncle Rahman had written one boy’s story, as it was happening, in real time. But Yusuf needed to see the big picture: what an entire nation had gone through twenty years ago. Mrs. Levy, the librarian, showed him how to search archive databases on the library computer. “These are connected to the best libraries in Texas,” she told him proudly. “You can find anything you need in here.”
His search came up with hundreds of news stories, and he copied and pasted them into his Google Drive for reading later. He looked through hundreds of images. Of the Twin Towers with smoke pouring from the top floors. Of firefighters looking exhausted and people crying with mouths wide open. The pictures were twenty years old, but the grief and pain came through like it was happening right now. This was what Uncle Rahman had written about. What he’d felt.
Then other words caught his attention. Terrible words. The Patriot Act. The War on Terror. Islamic terrorism. Enemies.
“Need some help?”
Yusuf looked up, startled. It was Madison. She s
lid into the seat next to him and peered at his computer screen. “Secret surveillance. Ooh, are you writing a crime novel or something?”
He stared at her. “Yeah, that’s definitely what I’m doing.”
She gave a little laugh. “Might be fun. I love writing stories. I could help you.”
Yusuf wished she’d go away. He wasn’t used to girls who sat too close and laughed too much. “No thanks. I’m just working on my 9/11 report.”
She stopped smiling and leaned back. “Oh, yeah? I learned so much doing that report. Like, did you know 2,996 people died in the attacks? I thought it was only a few hundred.”
Yusuf thought of Uncle Rahman’s journal. He nodded and whispered: “The deadliest attack on U.S. soil.”
“Yup.” Madison nodded back slowly. “That’s messed up. Like, why would anyone do such a terrible thing?”
Yusuf didn’t know what to say. She was looking at him as if he knew the answer, and he felt a sudden rush of hot anger in his chest. “Why’re you asking me?” he demanded. “Just because I’m Muslim, I’m supposed to know what other Muslims feel or think?”
Madison’s eyebrows rose to reach her bangs. “What? No, that’s not what I meant! I didn’t even know you’re Muz-lim or whatever.”
His chest squeezed some more. “It’s not Muz-lim. It’s Muslim. And Islam means peace. Like, literally. So whatever those attackers were, they weren’t Muslim.”
They stared at each other for a few seconds, then Madison nodded. “I get it. Sorry.”
Yusuf went back to his computer screen, breathing like a marathon runner. He quickly closed all the windows on the computer. “Whatever.” He opened up the search engine and typed “Muhammad Ali.” A list of items came up. Heavyweight champion. Muslim. Vietnam War.
Soon he was reading again. He could feel Madison sitting beside him, tapping her foot, but he refused to turn.
The bell rang, and she got up. As she walked past him, he heard her mutter, “Sorry again, okay?”
In robotics club after school, Mr. Parker passed around chocolate chip cookies Jared’s grandmother had sent, along with the instructions for the TRC competition. “This year’s problem is to remove clutter from a trash site,” he told them, waving a thick booklet over his head. “Here’s the scenario: A garbage truck has collapsed in the middle of the road, spilling trash of various sizes into oncoming traffic. You have to build a robot that will clean up the trash and pile it into containers, all the while dodging cars and pedestrians. The garbage is of different sizes and has to be sorted before being put into the containers.”
The students began talking excitedly. Tony Rivera asked, “What’s the duration of the challenge?”
“Three minutes,” replied Mr. Parker, and the chatter increased. Yusuf tapped his right foot nervously on the floor. Three minutes? That seemed too short for an elaborate challenge that included sorting.
Cameron was sitting next to him again. He had a toothpick in his hand and was using it to pick between his teeth like a farmer. “So, what’re you thinking, Yusuf?” he asked in a lazy voice. “A robot built for speed or quick movements? Or both?”
They all stopped talking and looked at Yusuf. Without taking a vote, they’d somehow selected him to be the team captain. He returned their stares nervously. Danial was sitting on his other side, pouting because of Cameron. Jared and Tony were on the floor, looking through their box of LEGO parts. Madison sat slouched in the far corner near the window. She hadn’t made eye contact with him since the club started.
“Uh, I think we need both,” Yusuf finally replied. “Small and lightweight, so that it can move around the traffic and avoid people. But also strong enough to hold trash items and take them across the road.”
Jared raised his head. “I can make some sketches for the early design.”
“Excellent idea.” Mr. Parker began writing on the whiteboard. “It’s best to organize every team member’s job. That way, each of you has a function within the team.” He wrote designer, builder, programmer, note taker.
“Who’s going to do what?” Danial asked anxiously.
Mr. Parker pointed to Yusuf. “The team captain gets to assign tasks.”
Yusuf took a deep breath. This was going to be easy. “Tony and Jared can design the bot. Danial and I will program it. Cameron is the builder—he’s always been really fast at building LEGOs—but we’ll all help.”
Madison scoffed from her seat near the window. “That leaves the girl to take notes. Like a secretary or something. Perfect!”
Yusuf willed himself to be patient. He was still mad about what had happened in the library earlier, but she had a point. The TRC instructions said that the job of the team captain was to realize every member’s potential. He faced Madison squarely and said, “You told me in the library you loved writing. Note taker isn’t just a secretary. You have to keep a big binder with every detail about the project. Our progress. Our mistakes. Pictures. It’s like historian and reporter and record keeper all rolled into one. And probably artist too. You’ll be great at it.”
Madison lost her angry face. “Oh. Okay, then. I guess I’ll do it.”
He relaxed. He couldn’t stay mad at anyone for too long. She’d apologized twice, hadn’t she? He gave her a ghost of a smile, and after a pause she gave one back to him.
Tony raised his hand. “I can make a practice arena in shop class,” he offered. “Our teacher’s okay with us doing extra projects.”
Mr. Parker clapped his hands once. “It’s decided. Now please get to work reading the project details. We’ll get started with design on Saturday.”
The hour passed quickly. After the club, Mr. Parker caught up with Yusuf in the parking lot. “Walking home alone?” he asked. “Where’s Danial?”
Yusuf shrugged, his hands in his pockets. “His mom picked him up.”
“And Cameron?”
“I don’t know.” Yusuf turned to Mr. Parker. “Danial says he’s a bad kid, like a gangster or something. Is that true?”
Mr. Parker let out a short laugh. “Just because he’s got an earring and a tough attitude? It takes more than that to be a bad kid, Yusuf. You should know better.”
Yusuf felt his cheeks go warm. “I guess. But it’s not only Danial who says that about him. It’s Danial’s dad too. And other people I know, like my Sunday school teacher.”
Mr. Parker stopped in front of a small white Volkswagen. “What’s your own gut feeling? What do you think Cameron’s like inside?”
Did he think Yusuf was a mind reader? “I don’t know.”
“I think you do.” Mr. Parker got into his car and closed the door. He rolled down the window and stuck his face out. “I don’t care how Cameron dresses, but I see how attentive he is in my class, and how good his ideas are. Mark my words, Yusuf, he’s going to be an asset to your TRC team. They all are.”
Journal entry 6
September 25, 2001
Jonathan is acting strange, there’s no question about it. At first I thought he was just sad about the attacks, like me. Like everyone else in school. But our sadness is different. I have Amma to hug me, and my sisters to distract me. Abba is only teaching two classes at the university this semester, so he’s at home most of the time. Apart from watching the news, he also spends a lot of time out on our street, talking to the neighbors, making sure everyone is okay. We’ve been here longer than the other immigrants, and they look at Abba as their leader.
That’s another thing that’s happened after the eleventh. A lot of our Muslim neighbors have started praying together. The mosque is many miles away, and it’s safer to meet at someone’s house for the five daily prayers. That’s our house, I guess. Abba says the neighbors need comfort at a time like this, and Amma’s okay with it. So we have neighbors in the house all the time.
I think that’s why my sadness isn’t so huge and scary—I don’t feel alone. When someone tells a story about what happened to them that day, like a person shouting, “Go home, loser!”
in the street, or “Hey, Osama’s cousin!” in the mall, we can all laugh about it and tell each other it will be okay. One day, we will learn to respect each other and be neighbors again.
Abba gives Friday sermons about forgiveness and mercy, and how our hearts bleed for our fellow Americans. His voice is always soft and unwavering. I’m sure I’m not the only person who finds calmness from his words.
Jonathan doesn’t have that. He told me yesterday after school that his uncle is still missing, the one who worked in New York City near the Twin Towers. My heart jumped when I heard that. His whole family must be so worried. “I’m sorry,” I told him. He moved away quickly.
“Are you?” he asked in a loud voice. “You sure you’re not glad?”
I stared at him in shock. Why on earth would I be glad his uncle was missing? How can he really be my best friend if he thinks like that? But as he turned away from me, I realized he was thinking the same thing about me: How can Rahman be my best friend if he’s one of THEM?
I couldn’t stay silent. I could see he was hurting, from the slump of his shoulders. “I hope they find him,” I whispered. “I hope things can be okay again soon.”
Jonathan turned back and pushed me in the chest with the full force of his hand. “Why don’t you just go back where you came from?” he screamed at me. The other kids looked at us, but nobody said anything. My hands trembled, and I made them into fists so nobody would see.
“Back where?” I asked, my voice low. “I was born here, in the same year as you, in the same city as you.”
He shook his head violently. “No,” he said. “You’re not American like me. Go back to where you belong.”
My chest hurt, but it wasn’t from his fist. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. But in a weird way, I could totally believe it too. Jonathan ran away as if he couldn’t stand to be near me another second. I tried to call his name but couldn’t. My throat was tight, and my eyes were full of tears.
When I went home, Abba was getting ready to lead the prayers for our neighbors. “Let’s pray for our country,” he told them. “For our friends and neighbors.” I thought of Jonathan and choked, but I prayed with them. Please bring Mr. O’Reilly’s brother back to him, God. Then maybe Jonathan will forget everything, and we can go back to normal again.
Yusuf Azeem Is Not a Hero Page 10