No True Believers

by Rabiah York Lumbard

  Hala looked to Yasmin, who spoke quickly. “We were hiding. I was worried they would follow us. Anyway, I thought we might as well practice if it’s true….”

  Now I couldn’t keep quiet. “Practice? For what? If what’s true?”

  Yasmin stared at her feet. She wouldn’t say, but she seemed more nervous than embarrassed.

  Hala slipped her hand inside Yasmin’s. “You know, if we have to run away,” she whispered. “All of us. They said they were coming for us.”

  Mom’s hands flew in the air. “Who said that?”

  “The boys,” continued Hala. “They said that the government was going to round us all up into re-portation camps. We didn’t want anyone to know where we lived.” She frowned. “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to scare everyone—”

  “What kind of camps?” I interrupted.

  Hala and Yasmin both blinked at me.

  “Deportation,” Dad said, his voice lifeless. “That was probably the word.”

  “De-portation,” Hala echoed, emphasizing the first syllable. “Right.”

  “Monsters,” Titi whispered. She wasn’t being superstitious or allegorical. She was speaking truth. My mind flashed to the last time I’d run away from “monsters.” Eight years ago? Mariam and I were about Yasmin’s age, having a sleepover at her house. We started joking about spending the night in those same woods, and the joke morphed into a dare, and the dare morphed into reality—the way it always seemed to go with us. We climbed out of that tiny basement window, running into the canopy of trees and bushes…and literally at the exact moment the pitch darkness swallowed us whole, several creatures screeched. We screeched, too. We booked it back to her house, diving headfirst into the basement, nearly pissing our pants from laughing so hard. “Mason Terrace has a monster infestation!”

  Funny how our imagination soothed us. How we felt safe pretending that feral cats or raccoons (or whatever) were monsters. The way children do. Except…the boys who’d bullied my sisters weren’t make-believe. They were monsters by definition. Predatory. Inhuman. I pitied them. Had they meant what they’d said? Had they even known what they were saying? I doubted it.

  “Deportation is not going to happen,” Dad murmured. “Ever.”

  Nobody said a word. There was nothing to say. Under the table, Titi tugged on her tasbih.

  MOM ORDERED A day off. She and Dad called in sick, for themselves and the rest of us. We were sick. We needed time to get well, family time. A day to stay put and lounge in our jammies. I had a hard time even getting out of bed.

  Vanessa texted to see how I was doing.

  U ok, Salma B?

  Amir had probably told her what happened last night. And Vanessa had probably told Dora and Boots, because a few minutes after Vanessa’s text, I got a giggly and nearly incomprehensible video message from the two of them, which (I think?) was supposed to be an infomercial parody. “Hi, we’re team Kick Ass [laughter]…call one-eight-eight-K-I-C-K-A-S-S when [snorting, giggling, something indiscernible]…because some asses need kicking. Seriously, girl, we’ve got your back and whoever shares your DNA. Love you, Salma!”

  I sighed. It was sweet, if a little over-the-top. It also made me wonder what else was swirling in the ether. No doubt someone, somewhere—with a posse, too—was laughing his or her ass off at my expense.

  I could barely muster the energy to respond to her text beyond a cursory:

  Ok thx, Nessa—c u tmrw. I’ll explain later.

  Their videos, their texts, it was all really sweet and certainly helped to soften the blow. But I wanted more. It wasn’t enough to call Domino’s or screw with someone’s iPhone. I wanted payback.

  For a moment, I considered chatting with Pulaski88. He’d probably have some ideas in terms of revenge. But who was the culprit? Michelle, Chris? I doubt they were hanging around the middle school. Did they have younger siblings? Unrelated minions?

  My stomach rumbled. My brain felt foggy. If I was going to have any executive functioning powers, I needed to eat.

  When I emerged from my bedroom cave, I found Dad sitting on the living room floor playing cards with Hala and Yasmin. Mom was still asleep. I caught a glimpse through the kitchen window of Titi in the backyard. She was doing laundry, her way. Old school. She refused to use the dryer. With Titi in charge, our sheets and clothes smelled like the great outdoors. (And occasionally looked like the great outdoors: I’d once found pigeon turd on a favorite pair of jeans, an unfortunate discovery I kept to myself.) So when the doorbell rang, I just assumed she’d accidentally locked herself out of the utility room again. But opening the fridge, I saw that she was still outside.

  “Mon amour?” Dad called from the living room. “Please? We’re playing Demon’s Pounce.”

  I hoped it wasn’t Amir. He should have been at school. Then again, my next-to-perfect boyfriend had a habit of popping up unannounced. It would be just like him to ditch to make sure my family was okay, bring flowers. I walked toward the door, stopping to look at myself in the mirror. I was in baggy sweats and an old VANDY FOOTBALL T-shirt, not my ideal Amir outfit. The oversized top had sentimental value—it was a relic of last summer and our last visit to Grandma Thiede in Nashville, the last time we ever saw her. None of us knew at the time that her cancer had returned…although maybe she’d had a hunch and spared us. As always, a lifelong Vanderbilt cheerleader through and through, she gave us ridiculous football gear. I wondered how she would react if she knew what had happened to her granddaughters. She’d be at our door as well. She’d also be at Franklin’s door, dressing down the faculty in that gorgeous Southern accent. I missed that accent. It was molasses laced with arsenic.

  Screw it; Amir would just have to see me in my current state. I tied my hair back.

  By the time I opened the front door, whoever had rung had left. Waiting on the steps was a wicker basket. I reached down. On top of a plaid handkerchief was a gray envelope.

  To the Bakkiouis.

  I peeked under the cloth.

  Cookies! I scarfed one down, dripping crumbs as I opened the letter.

  Dear Neighbors,

  Kyle Sr. and I are thinking of you.

  Our family is so relieved that your darlings are safe at home. Please know that we are always here for you, for anything at all. I am glad they met Drexler! He’s always here, too, if they want to visit. I’m home nearly all the time. Except for our hour-long walks—8 a.m. every morning!

  Yours truly,

  Kate Turner

  P.S. The cookies are nut-free and half the sugar. The daffodils are from our yard. Freshly picked! Enjoy!

  Freshly picked, indeed. I remember when Mrs. Muhammad planted those flowers. She never picked them. They lasted longer that way. Growling, I glanced between the opened envelope and the note. I’d assumed the envelope had been printed electronically. But Mrs. Turner had handwritten everything. She was quite the perfectionist. Verging on anal-retentive? It was like calligraphy…had she made those prints on their walls? Was she actually more like Mariam’s mom than anyone knew? Maybe. Every letter was precise and uniform: down to the tiniest flourish. I shook out the crumbs.

  Okay, from this angle I could see that her handwriting wasn’t that perfect. No way could she have done those prints on the wall. (A weird relief.) She also gripped the pen too hard. Aggressively. The paper had been punctured in a few places.

  I closed the door behind me.

  “Who was it?” Dad asked.

  “Our neighbor, Mrs. Turner,” I said, handing over the basket and the note to Dad. “She brought us cookies and—”

  “Wait, what?” Hala interrupted. “Cookies?”

  She and Yasmin slammed their cards down. In an instant they swarmed Dad like vultures, giggling as he removed the cloth. They looked so happy. It should have made me happy. But watching
their eager hands dart into the cookie pile just made me queasy. Clearly, yesterday’s events hadn’t affected them as much as they had affected me. They were past it. I envied them, honestly. For them today was turning out to be just a free day off.

  Dad looked at me. “You already ate one, didn’t you, mon amour?” he teased.

  Unconsciously I reached to wipe my mouth.

  “Don’t worry,” he added. “You concealed the evidence.”

  At that, I mustered a laugh. He patted the space beside him. I sat.

  “The note, Dad.” I made sure to shove it into his hands. “Read it.”

  After skimming it twice, he sighed. “Masha’Allah. We are fortunate to have such good neighbors.”

  “Yeah, but…” My voice fizzled.

  I knew why I felt guilty and conflicted. Mrs. Turner had rescued Yasmin and Hala from their hiding place in the woods. I still hadn’t thanked Kyle Jr. for standing up for me to Barbie and the Bot. On the other hand it wasn’t for lack of trying. I’d attempted to thank Kyle Jr. Instead I’d overheard an overheated conversation that made no sense. Why would Kyle’s father ask Amir and me to befriend his son, and then scold that same son for “getting involved with Bakkioui”? My mind flashed to the way Kyle Jr. had spat out our name, pronouncing it flawlessly, but with an undeniable harshness—

  “Salma?”

  Dad was staring at my hands. I was clutching a throw pillow. I let it drop into my lap.

  “It’s strange. Give me that,” I grumbled.

  “What’s strange?” Dad pressed.

  “The letter. Them.” I could feel my father’s eyes still on me, disapproving. “Okay, strange isn’t the right word….” My voice trailed off. It was the right word. I just didn’t want to get into the Kyle Jr. incident. Or non-incident. No doubt Dad would echo what Amir had told me: I’d overheard something I shouldn’t have and taken it totally out of context. It probably meant nothing. Probably.

  “Haram alaik. Just yesterday—”

  “I know, I know.” I stood, tossing the pillow back on the couch behind me. “Your girls are all home. Safe and sound.” Astaghfirullah.

  “They are,” Dad agreed, his voice sharp. “Thanks to Mrs. Turner.”

  My shoulders slumped. What was happening to me? I longed for Mariam. I longed for Vanessa. I longed for anyone whom I could make understand. Pulaski88 maybe?

  Dad reached over and squeezed my fingers. “Why don’t you split these flowers in half and give some to Mom?” he murmured. “And the rest to your grandmother. It will bring her joy.”

  * * *

  —

  It was a beautiful spring day, clear and windy. The linens flapped in the breeze. Titi sniffed the daffodils and smiled. “Give these to your ummi,” she said, handing them back.

  “No, no. Those are for you!” I said, kissing her on the cheek and heading inside.

  “Go rest!” Titi admonished.

  Not a bad idea. I’d just sat down on the porch and was about to eat one of the cookies I selfishly hid in my pocket, when I heard a car pulling into Mason Terrace. Even from back here, I knew exactly where it was going: Mariam’s driveway. It was like an alarm bell; in the madness of last night, I’d forgotten about wanting to apologize to Kyle. But I could also tell from the sound of the motor that it definitely wasn’t the Turners’ pickup truck. I ducked around the corner of the house to take a peek. Long experience had trained me how to hide in the front yard shrubbery. But that was innocent waiting—usually for Dr. and Mrs. Muhammad to leave, so I could sneak over to Mariam’s and interrupt her homework on a school night. Now I was hiding to spy. But on whom? And what was I even hoping to learn?

  A shiny blue Mercedes pulled into the Turners’ driveway. Fancy, something even I knew, though I am clueless about cars. The guy who emerged looked fancy, too. He was tall and slender, in a blue power suit, his thick gray hair perfectly styled. Handsome. A little like George Clooney, in fact. He left the engine running and the driver’s-side door open. As I stared at him, Mr. Turner burst out of the house. His eyes swept the street as he approached the car. Mr. Fancy climbed back in behind the wheel and closed the door. Mr. Turner walked briskly over and hopped in the front passenger side. Now I couldn’t see a thing; the windows were tinted. But a few seconds later, Mr. Turner hopped back out. He was holding a leather briefcase, also fancy. He hurried back inside the house just as quickly as he’d exited it, without so much as a wave or a smile or a goodbye. Mr. Fancy backed up and peeled away.

  I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath until I exhaled.

  Okay…what was that all about? I brushed the crumbs off my face. But even as I wondered, I felt ashamed, spying on the neighbors while snacking on the goodies those same neighbors had gifted us. Mrs. DLP was right; I was nosy. The roar of Mr. Fancy’s engine faded. The better question was: Why did I care? Lower-nafs Salma answered quickly. Maybe because no one around here drives a Mercedes like that. Maybe because nobody around here pulls up, drops off a briefcase, and leaves in under thirty seconds. Maybe because nobody around here would get in someone’s car without saying hello first.

  Maybe Mr. Fancy was paying the friendly neighborhood electrician for a repair in cash.

  After all, Mr. Turner billed his clients. He’d said so himself at Amir’s house.

  * * *

  —

  Upstairs I found my parents’ bedroom door closed. I knocked cautiously.

  “Yes?”

  “Hey, Mom. Can I come in?”

  “I don’t know; can you?”

  I frowned. Mom got grammatical under two scenarios: grading time or when she was frustrated. Often they went hand and hand. Opening the door slowly, I presented her flowers, palm outstretched. She flashed a tired smile from the unmade bed, her de facto home office. Thomas sat purring on a pile of rumpled blankets by her feet.

  “Sorry,” she breathed, closing her laptop. “Come and sit. Where did you get those?” She tried to shove aside files and papers to make room for me.

  I settled in beside Thom. He nuzzled his head against me. I ran my fingers over his warm scalp. “From the Turners,” I said. “They also brought some cookies.”

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, barely appreciating the flowers, which she typically loved. Mom liked daffodils the way I liked lilies.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “I’m tired,” she grumbled. “In more ways than one.”

  “Because of fasting? And yesterday?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Yes, plus the lackluster response I’m getting from Franklin Middle. Mr. Peck is being responsive—he feels awful, said he would have intervened had he not been down the hall copying lessons.” She drew a sharp breath, running her fingers through her short blond hair. “At any rate, he’s giving Yasmin an A-minus, the grade she likely would have earned had this not happened. He saw the drafts, knows her record.” She mustered a smile for my benefit. “He said that Amir’s song was a nice touch.”

  “I’ll tell him,” I said quietly. “So, that’s sort of a happy ending, right? But you still seem annoyed.”

  She sighed, turning her attention back to her computer. “I just wish I knew who those kids were. I’d like to talk to their parents, one on one. But Mr. Peck won’t give me their names. He said his hands were tied, citing Franklin’s new privacy codes.”

  I wasn’t sure I understood. “So wait. Mr. Peck knows who did this but won’t tell you?”

  Mom nodded. “Precisely, which is why I emailed Principal Philip. Several times. His response was…pro forma. Curt. To the effect of: Franklin is a place where everyone’s concerns are taken seriously. The subtext was clear. He wants me to drop it.”

  “Figures,” I muttered. Mrs. DLP’s words echoed through my head. He’s a bigot, plain and simple.

  Mom stared at me. “Why do you say that?”
she asked.

  Crap. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I’m awful at filtering, always letting things slip out.

  “Salma?” she said, her voice stern and focused. “Did Principal Philip say something to you?”

  “Um…not really. No. I mean, I was called into his office last week. I thought he was going to apologize for not following up with the kids who’d pushed me down the stairs. Instead he wanted to see if I was behind some stupid prank. It was a phony bomb threat, so there were even some cops. But nothing happened. He was just rude….” Shit. Stop, Salma. If you tell her now, she’ll totally freak out. She’ll press for details. You’ll spill the beans on the whole day. Aren’t you working toward more privileges? More time with Amir? “Anyway, it was…” My voice trailed off.

  “Salma?”

  I focused on the cat so she couldn’t pry anything more out of me. Yes, last Tuesday was awful. But that was then. Right now, my sisters were the ones being bullied. Full stop.

  “Honey, you didn’t finish your thought,” she prodded.

  “Uh…sorry. Brain fog.” She’d have to believe that one. With EDS it’s pretty standard. I snuck a peek to study her expression. She looked as if she was trying to connect the dots.

  “So let me see if I have this right,” she said. “The police came to school, because of some sick prank, and Principal Philip was rude to you. Did he think you were behind it?”

  I shook my head. “No. He said it was a misunderstanding. He was just…rude. That’s all.” All of that was true, at least.

  With a sigh, Mom opened her computer again. “You know, I’ve heard whisperings from other moms that he plays favorites.”

  “Yeah, Mrs. DLP said the same thing,” I murmured. “Sort of.”

  “It could also be an institutional reflex. Protect the institution at all costs. It’s poppycock.” She reached for her glasses. “Speaking of ossified institutions, I’ve got nearly a hundred exams to grade and an article to finish. The one on Malamatiyya poetry.”