No True Believers

by Rabiah York Lumbard

  Michelle and Chris drew closer.

  My eyes flashed from one to the other. The yellow stripes in his bright red polo matched her chemical hair. Both looked colored in by a giant crayon. What were they doing here? She lived in the opposite direction, near the bus stop. Chris didn’t even ride the bus…but when Michelle’s stare locked with mine, my breath caught in my throat. In that instant I knew exactly why they were here. Their leering smiles were unambiguous.

  They were here for me.

  But how did they know I would be back on the bus? Or had they been doing this every morning, waiting for my return? Stalking me in hopes of catching me alone?

  “Hey, Bak-ew-wee!” Michelle yelled.

  I turned in the opposite direction—back toward Mason Terrace—and picked up my pace, thrusting my crutches forward, then swinging my legs in unison. The goal was to keep away. Period. If I could maintain the distance between us, I could get within screaming distance of my house. Thrust, swing; thrust, swing…

  “Bak-ew-wee!”

  That’s not my name, assholes. Rhymes with “kiwi,” remember?

  Thrust, swing; thrust, swing…

  “Salma!”

  Her tone was darker now. My pulse ticked up a notch. I paused and fumbled for my phone. My fingers shook as I speed-texted Amir. Maybe he hadn’t started his lesson yet. Maybe I’d get lucky and he’d see my barrage of messages.

  Hey.

  Really wish you could magically appear on my block right now.

  Michelle, Chris stalking me.

  Seriously. If you can, COME!

  No response.

  Scared. Pls txt

  Still nothing.

  “Hey, ISIS!”

  In spite of being afraid, I almost laughed. Really? Did people still say that? Yeah, okay, Michelle. You got me. I’m, like, totally the biggest fan of public beheadings. Good thing I’m not wearing one of my ISIS pins. HOORAY FOR SLAVERY. POLYGAMY RULES. Or maybe something her boyfriend would appreciate? Like a black-flag version of that idiotic Confederate bumper sticker on his Dodge, with a substitute for the word South: THE CALIPHATE WILL RISE AGAIN!

  “Hey, Salma, where’s your immigrant boyfriend?” Chris shouted.

  I glanced over my shoulder.

  He was in the lead now, walking with a stiff gait. He looked robotic. Barbie and the Bot. Coming to get me. What a way to start the day.

  I turned back to my phone. Seven forty-six. Amir was one minute into his lesson, which meant he’d probably muted his phone. He always silenced it in the presence of Sheikh Epstein.

  “SALMA!”

  Two voices together. Were they jeering in unison? All at once I realized I was shaking so badly that I couldn’t move forward. Mason Terrace was in sight. Mason Terrace…where I lived. Where I grew up. Mine. I’d traveled to and from this cozy little suburban cul-de-sac ten thousand times or more. Never once had I felt scared. Not when I was three or five or fifteen. Michelle and Chris were claiming my turf as theirs. In that moment I saw the bright green lawns and spring flowers and cookie-cutter homes for what they really were, a beautiful dream of security dreamed by and for cookie-cutter types.

  “Leave me the hell alone!” I said out loud.

  Bad idea. I’d pissed them off. I knew this because I was no longer listening to the quiet rage bubbling in my head, but to footsteps pounding on the sidewalk. They were running toward me. They sounded like a steel-toed army. I closed my eyes and held my breath and wondered how much time I had. I wondered what it would feel like to get kicked from behind. Or to be hit in the back of the head. Or to eat cement. (Probably worse than eating linoleum.) And the tragic irony was that I was well on my way to recovering from the last—

  “Leave. Her. Alone.”

  The world came to a screeching halt. Three words. Shouted from nowhere.

  I nearly fell as I spun around. My new neighbor, Kyle Turner Jr.—the homeschooled interloper who’d moved into Mariam’s home—had sprinted to place his body between mine and theirs. Michelle and Chris froze. They gawked at him. I couldn’t blame them for gawking. I was their mirror image. I watched Kyle’s lips move but with the blood rushing in my ears, I couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  Was this really happening? Was this the kid whose dad had asked me to look out for him? This skinny and pale savior, this valiant hero cloaked in nondescript jeans and a hoodie? He couldn’t have looked more anonymous. Like he’d deliberately dressed to go unnoticed. Shit, I would have done the same thing if it were my first day at a new school. He turned to me. His eyes were twitchy. I wondered if he was as scared as I was. In a way, that made him even braver.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  I opened my mouth to answer. I couldn’t form words. I might as well have stepped off a roller coaster; everything had turned to Jell-O. I blinked.

  “She’s fine,” Michelle barked in the silence. “Right, Chris?”

  I peered past Kyle. Chris was nodding, though his face was red. The veins in his neck looked as if they were struggling for space in all that bulk.

  “I asked Salma,” Kyle stated in a calm voice. “Not you.”

  Michelle snorted and tossed her hair back, revealing a tiny silver crucifix dangling above the neckline of her spaghetti tank. I nearly burst into tears. I’d never noticed that she wore a necklace before. (Why would I have noticed?) Maybe it was new. But Grandma Thiede wore a silver necklace just like Michelle’s. My heart squeezed. She would have howled in disgust. Or worse. Grandma Thiede was both fiercely protective and a devout Christian: one who’d never once questioned or disparaged her daughter’s conversion to Islam, one who’d loved her Muslim daughter and grandchildren until the day she died.

  “What are you staring at?” Michelle spat.

  She was close enough now that I could smell her body lotion, sickly sweet and antiseptic. Just like that cop’s aftershave: toxic, from my perspective. It suited her perfectly.

  “If you don’t want to see my boobs, you better go back home. I’m not wearing a burka. We don’t have Sharia law here, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  What the…? The very last thing on my mind was Michelle Mayor’s cleavage. My heart was still beating fast, but her stupidity somehow eased a little of the fear. This was starting to feel like a bad comedy skit. “I—I was looking at your necklace,” I stammered.

  Michelle’s eyes darkened. She inched closer. “You got a problem with it?”

  “No, I just…my grandmother—”

  “Hold on,” Kyle interrupted. He leaned in, stretching out his arms to prevent her from getting within punching distance. I wondered if she saw what I saw, if it was maybe intentional on Kyle’s part: he’d made himself into a human shield that formed a cross. With his bony wrists jutting from worn hoodie sleeves, I glimpsed a tiny string of digits on his left forearm: 1493. Tattooed, same as his father. Maybe it was some family thing? Solidarity with Dad’s army unit? The family that tattoos together…

  “Look, I’m new here,” Kyle said to Michelle. “And I’m a Christian, too. But if I belong, so does Salma. Muslims, Christians, Jews: we’re all Children of Abraham.”

  I tilted my head.

  That was unexpected.

  Michelle glanced at Chris, who had a deer-in-the-headlights look.

  “Are you a meth head?” he asked.

  With a sigh, Kyle relaxed and dropped his outstretched arms. “No, I’m not. But I have a question for you. Why are you picking on your neighbor?”

  Chris blinked a few times. “What’s it to you?” The Bot didn’t even sound angry anymore. Just baffled. I was, too, to be honest.

  “Because I’m her neighbor,” Kyle said.

  “Then get with the program, dude!” Michelle shouted with a big fake smile. “Tell he
r to get out of your neighborhood and go the fuck home.”

  “She is home,” Kyle replied softly. “And so am I, and so are you. We all live here. Together. And we have more in common than you think. If you call yourself a Christian, read your scripture.”

  He straightened. I hadn’t realized how tall he was. All of a sudden, he seemed to be towering over the two of them. They backed away. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe I just desperately wanted them to retreat. Time seemed to freeze…until Michelle burst out laughing. The sound of it was shrill, forced—as phony as her chemical odor. It trailed off awkwardly, like air escaping a balloon. I almost felt sorry for her. Kyle had reversed the spotlight and made her afraid. She almost looked human. Almost.

  “We’re all People of the Book,” Kyle said in the same calm tone.

  He’s homeschooled, I added. Maybe out loud. I can’t be sure. I was definitely thinking it, rudely, even though I knew that wasn’t fair. Even though I knew homeschooling could be legit.

  “Okay, I don’t even want to know what Kool-Aid you’re drinking,” Michelle said. She grabbed Chris’s arm, yanking him down the street. “Have fun with your new boyfriend, Salma!” she shouted over her shoulder, returning to her overinflated self. “Does Amir-the-queer know? Or is it a threesome?”

  The moment they vanished around the corner, Amir’s car screeched into view.

  I nearly dropped the crutches. He threw the driver’s-side door open, not bothering to close it. Kyle stepped away to make room as Amir ran straight to me and swept me into a hug, crutches and all.

  “I’m so sorry I didn’t get here faster,” he murmured. “What happened?”

  Good question. I had no clue. In the span of maybe two minutes, I’d gone from fearing for my life, to thanking the Lord, to ducking insults, to hearing what sounded like a church sermon from…my neighbor. The boy who lived in Mariam’s house. I suddenly realized I was staring at him again. Kyle must have noticed, because he cleared his throat, then shifted on his feet and stared at the sidewalk.

  “Some kids were bullying Salma,” he said. “Kids you know, I’m guessing?”

  Amir nodded, holding me close. “Assholes. They looked like they were in a hurry to get away.”

  Kyle shoved his hands in his pockets. “I just hope they hurry into the light,” he replied.

  His voice was so quiet that I barely heard him. One of Michelle’s phrases made an abrupt and unpleasant reappearance in my mind: Kool-Aid. My new neighbor had a conversational style that was…unusual. No wonder his dad wanted us to look out for him. On the other hand, he had no trouble handling a confrontation. Astaghfirullah. What was my problem? This perfect stranger had just rescued me. Now I was being just as judgmental as Michelle. I pushed Vapid Barbie from my mind. She would not poison me.

  “Thanks for sticking up for Salma,” Amir said.

  “It was the only thing to do,” Kyle replied, heading back toward his house.

  “You need a ride to school?” Amir called after him.

  Kyle shook his head. “Thank you, no,” he answered. “My dad sometimes works the evening shift, so he lets me borrow his truck.”

  My legs still shaking, I slipped into the Jetta, happy to be safe. Happy to have Amir. But as I settled in, something occurred to me: I didn’t remember if I had actually thanked Kyle. I’d definitely felt gratitude. But in all the madness, I wasn’t sure I had uttered the words out loud.

  I unrolled the window. “Hey, Kyle?” I yelled.

  He didn’t so much as flinch.

  “Kyle!” I shouted, louder.

  Then I saw it: the white wire. It hung from the back pocket of his jeans and snaked its way up to his ears. I slumped into the window frame. I thought again of his dad’s concern as I watched him vanish around the corner. A kindred spirit, I thought. Doing what I’d planned to do all along this morning, putting an invisible wall between the world and him.

  EXISTENTIAL MEH. THAT’S how I felt for the rest of Monday. The feeling carried over to the following day, as if a physical weight were holding me down. It double-sucked because I had Pre-Calc. Which meant I had to see Michelle. Again. Luckily, Vanessa was still back where she belonged, in her old seat. Michelle no longer sat to my right. That was the good news.

  As class settled in, Vanessa leaned over and tapped my shoulder. She had a note. I snatched it up before Mr. Davis could see us. When I unwrapped the crinkled paper a stick of purplish gum fell onto my lap: About that near death experience yesterday. Here are your options:

  Retaliation—you, me, gangster style

  Double date @Lake Arlington with Dora and Boots

  Lower-self Salma, my vengeance-seeking nafs, wanted nothing more than to go full Durdenesque on the world and circle option one. But when I glanced back at Michelle, and took in her fakeness and her stupidity, I knew it wasn’t worth it. Nope. I would be out of Franklin very soon. Best to lie low, ignore, even if it truly sucked. I grabbed my pencil and bubbled in option two, adding a long overdue rider: putt-putt challenge!

  I folded the note and shoved it back in her hand.

  A few seconds later Vanessa whispered out of the corner of her mouth, “Right on.”

  Mini-golfing for three—Vanessa, Mariam, and me—was once a time-honored tradition. But since Amir and I had become, well, us, the tradition had fallen by the wayside. Mariam’s departure put a full stop on it. Which wasn’t right. Putt-putt was still our thing. Always had been, always will be. I knew that Mariam wouldn’t only approve of this plan; she would insist that Vanessa and I play in her honor.

  Teaming up against Dora and Boots would be an added bonus. Miniature golf is the only “sport” I’m decent at, and I’d relish the opportunity to lovingly kick butt against Lisa, who’s a real athlete. I could even tease Mrs. DLP with it in my next therapy session.

  All of a sudden, Mr. Davis cleared his throat and whirled from the board. At first I thought he’d somehow caught us passing a note. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, shuffling quickly to the door. “I need a five-minute break—”

  Before anyone could even react, he’d vanished into the hall. The door swung shut behind him.

  In the quiet that followed, people began exchanging glances with one another. Except for Vanessa. She kept staring at the board, a Cheshire Cat smile on her face. She blew a bubble with her gum. When it popped, I sniffed…and nearly wretched. The room stank of something powerfully familiar: cotton candy left out in the sun. And it dawned on me that every single person in class, except for Michelle and me, was chewing gum, too….

  Oh, my—

  I laughed out loud and clamped a hand over my mouth. Granted, I was about to puke. But I hadn’t felt this happy in, well, far too long. Without turning her head, Vanessa extended a low fist across the aisle toward me. I bumped it with my own. Everyone was smiling at her now. Everyone was blowing bubbles and giving her the thumbs-up. Everyone but Michelle, who glared around the room, equal parts baffled and pissed off.

  Vanessa, you are my hero. I didn’t think it was possible. But the girl was a genius. She’d actually done it. She’d pulled off a two-pronged prank of vengeance in one masterstroke—supplying just enough gum for all but Vapid Barbie, and just enough to drive Mr. Davis right out of the classroom.

  * * *

  —

  Unfortunately, at the end of the day, Vanessa’s “vintage” 2005 Buick LeSabre also reeked of foul grape chewing gum.

  I tried not to hold it against her on the drive up to the lake. But I couldn’t disguise my relief when I opened the door. I lunged out, taking a deep breath of…Uh-oh. The air was stagnant, humid. The lake was like glass. The sky was not; the clouds were gray and thick. A thunderstorm was on the way. Sure enough, as if to confirm, there was a faint and distant rumble. I turned around. Vanessa was still inside, rummaging through the glove compartment. As it turned out, Kerry and Lisa had other plans. (Whi
ch sucked.) But if it rained, at least we had a better chance of finishing a game with two players instead of four.

  “Good thing we didn’t check the weather,” I said dryly. “We might want to start before it pours.”

  “Just a second,” she stage-whispered. After removing a ziplock bag, she climbed over to the passenger side and stumbled out, kicking the door closed behind her.

  “There’s a more effective way to exit.”

  She shrugged, unfazed. “The driver’s-side lock is stuck. It won’t open.”

  “Point taken.” Vanessa’s ride was like my body: a bit worse for wear, a little unconventional, but functional. Able to go from A to B. I could see now that her baggie contained a few telltale brown cubes. I should have known….She unzipped it with a flourish, unleashing an extremely pungent mix of chocolate and marijuana. Before I could say a word, she popped a brownie into her mouth.

  “Wan-one?” she half-articulated, holding the bag wide open.

  “Is it medicinal?” I joked.

  “And you’ve known me for how long?”

  I laughed. “I could ask you the same question.”

  * * *

  —

  Twenty minutes later I was balancing on my good leg, holding a crutch over my head and stretching my back. I could hear Vanessa moaning.

  “Enough, my one-legged wonder. Make. Your. Shot.”

  I set the ball down on the green and practiced my shot, zeroing in on the perfect angle. “Prepare to get your ass kicked, in three…two…” I held my breath and swung. The ball glided straight through the tunnel, past the sand trap, and stopped just short of the hole. Vanessa booed.