by Barry Lyga
She inhales the remains and laughs in good-natured frustration. “I thought that was going to look cool!”
“It looked way cool,” I deadpan.
“I don’t know what I expected.”
“So, what did your mom whisper to you?”
Aneesa rolls her eyes. “She said, ‘Remember that we trust you.’ Which is totally some passive-aggressive parenting tactic they learned on the Internet. Please.”
Trust. Does that mean they think there’s a chance—
Just then, the first firework splits the sky to the east, just above the tree line. It’s red and white, tracers falling out of the night sky like the despondent branches of a weeping willow.
Aneesa oohs, and an instant later, the bang comes, the explosion of the cannon that launched the firework. She startles.
“Light moves faster than sound,” I tell her. “We’re just barely far enough away that you can see the colors before you hear the noise.”
“It’s like watching a badly dubbed movie.” She chuckles.
“I’m sorry. I could get my mom to take us to—”
“I like badly dubbed movies, you idiot.” She pops her other marshmallow in her mouth and scampers up the wooden stairs to the deck. “Come on!”
There’s a lounger and an old beach chair on the deck. Aneesa drags them next to each other and, still chewing her marshmallow, slips onto the lounger. She fiddles with her phone and soon the 1812 Overture is playing.
I settle into the chair, and we stare up and out together.
“Did you know he hated this piece?” she asks.
“Who, Tchaikovsky?”
“Yeah. He thought it was just a lot of noise and no art.”
“That’s crazy.”
“We played it in band at my old school.” She grins. “Is it terminally geeky if I tell you I play a mean oboe?”
“Don’t they have a vaccine for that yet?”
“They should. All of those old, classical composers… Honestly, I can’t stand them.”
“Then why play this?”
“Because I have to admit—it just doesn’t seem like fireworks without it.”
I mull that over for a moment.
“Why the oboe, then?” I’ve never heard an oboe without one of those old, classical composers.
“Because the oboe is awesome.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
On overcast Fourths, all you can see of the fireworks is their pulsing glow behind the scrim of clouds with undersides gone briefly red, blue, green, and yellow in staccato bursts. But this is a clear night, and we have perfect seats to a panoply of rings and fish and spiders and peonies and all the rest, the whole gamut of fireworks in scarlet and sapphire and brilliant silver and dazzling gold. With Tchaikovsky pulsating from Aneesa’s phone, we don’t even notice the mismatched cannon blasts from a mile away. It’s a private concert, a private light show, and my hand is achingly close to hers, resting on the arm of the chair, a gap of inches separating us.
It’s the sort of time when a boy kisses a girl, I suppose. Not that Independence Day is a romantic holiday, but there is something about a warm night, a clear sky, a full belly, and the sweet burnt smell of sugar. And maybe it’s cool to touch her hand now, at least. She helped me up; she bandaged my knee. Maybe that much is all right.
And it might be. I don’t know, but it might be.
But with the night sky alight with pop and crimson, I can only swallow hard, the taste of charred marshmallow skin still on my tongue, and the overture builds to the part where the cannons come in.
Bang, they say.
Bang. And bang. And bang.
I pull my hand into my lap, lest my acid touch sear her.
Bang.
Guns. Big guns.
Yes, I’ve fired one once.
Yes, I’ll do it again.
But maybe.
I look over at Aneesa.
Maybe not just yet.
Maybe not right away.
I don’t touch her. Not until it’s time for me to leave and we fist-bump our farewell, she lightly tapping my knuckles with hers after a moment’s pause.
On the walk home, I think, I can do this. I think I can do this. I think I can make it through the summer. One last summer. That’s not so bad, right?
In bed, the voice says nothing, but its silence tells me everything.
By the next time I pass Aneesa’s house, her father has bolted a sturdy bracket to the outer wall; an American flag flies from it. I bike by, managing not to spill myself. Third time’s the charm.
The day after that, I bike by again, as though I have something to prove. I should just go up to the front door. I should just ring the bell. I should just go say hello. She invited me to the barbecue. We watched fireworks together. I should just go up and knock on the damn door.
Instead, I pedal furiously as I pass by, watching the windows for movement without seeming like I’m watching the windows.
When the time comes that I again gain entrance into the Fahim house, it comes not at Aneesa’s invitation, but rather her mother’s. Biking home, I pass by their house as Mrs. Fahim gets the mail. I make a mental note to myself to do this chore as soon as I am home, knowing that I will forget, and Mrs. Fahim raises her hand and smiles and says, “Hi, Sebastian!”
It’s a casual wave, a polite hello to a neighbor, and certainly no excuse to stop riding, which is exactly what I do, hitting my brakes and coasting to a halt at the end of the Fahims’ driveway.
“Hello, Mrs. Fahim.”
“Sara.”
“Right. Sara. Sorry.”
I huff a little from my pedaling, and her smile falters for a moment.
“Is Aneesa expecting you?” She glances back at the house. “Because she and her father won’t be back for a little while.”
“Oh. Okay.” As though I had plans with her.
“Would you like to come in and wait for them?”
That would be ridiculous, since Aneesa has no idea I’m here, so of course I accept.
Inside, Mrs. Fahim guides me to the kitchen. The living room, which we passed on our way, is completely unpacked, but the kitchen still has boxes on the counters and in a corner on the floor. I sit at a small table.
“Kitchens take the longest,” she says, rummaging in the fridge. “Longest to pack and longest to unpack. Such a pain. I told Joe—no more moves. I’m sick of wrapping the good plates and then worrying myself sick that they don’t break on the truck. Lemonade?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
I thank her again when she hands me a sweating glass of it. There are actual bits of lemon floating in it, unlike the powdered stuff I make at home. It tastes clear and cool and just tart enough. I didn’t realize I was thirsty until it hits my tongue. I tell myself not to gulp it and fail.
Mrs. Fahim’s eyebrows arch in a way that is peculiarly and almost disturbingly Aneesa-like. It shouldn’t surprise me, and yet it does, this facial tic that I have already assigned unique Aneesa status showing up on another face, albeit her mother’s.
“More?” she asks.
I nod.
Turning back to the refrigerator, she says, “You’re a very quiet young man. Why is that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, here’s what I’ve noticed over the years: People—men, especially—are quiet for one of four reasons.” She hands me the newly full glass and proceeds to tick them off on her fingers: “They’re hiding something. They’re afraid of something. They have nothing to say. They have too much to say. Which is it for you?”
“Maybe all four?” It’s honest and it’s a cop-out at the same time.
She nods. “I believe you.”
“Is that good or bad?”
She shrugs. “Neither. It just is. When I met Yusuf, he was very, very quiet. Hardly ever spoke. My brother called him ‘the Mute.’” She grins at the memory, so it’s okay for me to do so as well. “And it turned out Yusuf had so much to say that he
was always in turmoil, never certain which words to use, which ideas to advance. But even from the beginning, I could tell there was fierce emotion and intellect and passion locked up in there. So I had to marry him. I had no choice. I had to find out all of it. I had to know what was in there.”
“And did you?”
She tsks and shakes her head, disappointed in me for the first time. “That takes a lifetime.”
“That sort of sucks.”
“Not really. Why do you think we each get a lifetime?”
I suppose the thought of it should be comforting to me, the idea that a lifetime is measured not in time, but in understanding. But how much understanding does a four-month-old have? How much did my sister comprehend? Did she know what was happening, what was about to happen, when I raised the gun?
How much did she understand in her lifetime? How much am I supposed to understand in mine?
“You’re quiet again,” she says.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for it. It’s nothing to apologize for.” And she favors me with a sensational smile that makes me want to confess everything, and maybe that would have happened, but at that moment, the front door opens and from the vestibule Mr. Fahim calls out, “We’re home!”
“In here!”
Moments later, Aneesa is standing before me toting a paper shopping bag with twine handles, and before I can stammer out some kind of lame excuse, she grins and says, “Hey, what’s up?”
“Not much. I, uh—”
“Give me a sec. I have to take this upstairs.” She hoists the bag, then darts out of the room.
Mr. Fahim nods at me. “Ariadne.”
“Joe.”
He seems pleased that I remember this time. “Or are you going to be Theseus now?”
“Still think Ariadne doesn’t get enough credit in the minotaur-slaying record books.”
He chuckles and kisses his wife on the cheek. “Please tell me you didn’t plan dinner. I want to try the Chinese place Ariadne here recommended.”
“That’s fine.”
As they chat in the easy, laconic tones of a long relationship, I try to relax my face as my mind races to come up with an excuse for my visit before Aneesa returns. But by the time she’s back in the kitchen, I have nothing except suggesting that I wanted to help unpack the remaining boxes, which is probably just the sort of lame move one might expect from a guy who wipes out on his bike twice in front of the same girl. Which, I realize, makes this plan one that is just crazy enough to work.
“What are we doing?” Aneesa asks, clearly excited.
Unpacking your kitchen would just as clearly be the wrong answer. “I thought I’d show you SAMMPark,” I blurt out, without even thinking it through. It’s a miracle the words come out in the right order. “It’s the only park in town worth even mentioning. Actually, it might be the only park in town. I’m not even sure.”
“Cool! Let me get my bike.”
“Dinner in an hour,” Mrs. Fahim says. “Sebastian is welcome to stay.”
I’m welcome.
Welcome.
Who ever would have thought?
Dinner is take-out from Hong Palace, of course. I’ve had the sesame chicken and fried rice a thousand times, but usually on my own or with Mom, occasionally with Evan. Now I’m with an entire family, and the sensation isn’t exactly like on TV shows, but it’s close. We’re almost a commercial for Hong Palace—all we need is a cameraman tracking around the table, occasionally zooming in for a close-up of a set of chopsticks plucking food from a plate. And a voice-over: “Hong Palace. For you. For your family. For the guy who might someday be your daughter’s boyfriend, if he can ever work up the courage to bring it up.”
When Mom and I eat, there’s little conversation. Mealtime is a fueling stop, a necessity. The Fahims joke and laugh and ask one another for the most mundane details of their days in a way that makes it seem as though the dull moments are actually shining beacons, only covered in a thin layer of diffidence.
Mrs. Fahim grills us about our time at SAMMPark. I explain to her the story of how SAMMPark came to be, the tragedy of Susan Ann Marchetti and the man who killed her. Which isn’t my best move because it sort of bums everyone out.
Mrs. Fahim breaks the awkward silence: “So, something beautiful came out of something tragic, then.” It’s a really nice way of looking at it, but there’s nothing else to say.
Mr. Fahim clears his throat and reaches for the container of steamed rice. “You know, I was six when my parents moved us here from Turkey. And they were talking up America, of course, because I was six and afraid of moving. So they told me all these amazing things about America. But they never mentioned this.” He gestures with his chopsticks to the spread before us on the table.
I feel as though I’m supposed to ask a question here, to want to know more about Turkey, about Mr. Fahim’s past, but I’m at a loss. Instead, I ask Mrs. Fahim, “Where are you from?”
She grins. “Kansas.”
Duh. I feel like an idiot. My mouth won’t work. I can’t speak.
Mr. Fahim rescues me. “How about you? Where are your people from originally, Ariadne?”
“Boring white places, pretty much.” Completely unbidden, another Dad memory surfaces: I ask him where our family originally came from and he jerks his head to indicate outside, saying, Over the holler a piece.
“He’s a mystery wrapped in an enigma, covered in soy sauce,” Aneesa snarks, and I finally relax.
Later, we’ve all decamped to the living room, where stacks of DVDs and books remain unshelved and the walls are still bare, but the TV is hooked up and working. Partway through a reality show about home improvement—which I watch quietly and dead bored, being as polite as possible—a crawl makes us flip over to a news channel.
And suddenly we’re watching a news helicopter–streamed spectacle from the town of West Janson, Iowa, where—according to the crawl and a breathless announcer—police are on the hunt for a shooter who attacked a backyard barbecue, killing at least three and wounding over a dozen others.
Mrs. Fahim whispers something to herself. Mr. Fahim stares intently at the TV, leaning forward on the sofa, elbows on knees. And Aneesa is worrying her bottom lip, which I can’t stop staring at.
“Again, at this time,” the announcer goes on, “police have no indication who this is or why the shooting took place. A hunting rifle was found at the scene and is believed to be one of the weapons used. Witnesses saw a figure run toward the woods nearby, and that’s where police are concentrating their search. As you can see—”
“I just hope it’s a white guy,” Aneesa blurts out.
Her parents say nothing, but there’s a tension in the room. Or maybe it’s just me, the white guy.
I make excuses and leave, but Aneesa follows me out onto the porch.
“I didn’t mean that personally or anything,” she says.
“I know.”
“It’s just that, if this is a Muslim, it means… it means we have to be scared again.”
Aneesa stares up to the sky, arms crossed over herself as though cold, even though the night is warm. A tear glimmers in one eye, threatening to fall. There’s something in this moment that makes me bolder. Not bold enough to take her hand—I don’t know if I’ll ever be brave enough for that—but bold enough to think that maybe I can do something I never do: impose.
“Are you okay? Do you need… anything?” Lame. A chance to empathize, and I blow it.
“It would be nice if people stopped hating me,” she says wistfully.
I’ve foolishly stepped into a field of land mines, any one of which could blow at the slightest bit of pressure. And my sense of direction is off, so I don’t know how to back out.
Which means, I suppose, that my only option is to move ahead and hope.
“Is it hard? I mean, I know this guy—Kevin—who like suddenly became Mr. Catholic and that seems kind of difficult, but it seems like being a Muslim is a whole
different kind of difficult because of, well, because of some people. And the way people feel about those people.” I’m dancing around the word terrorists like it’s the most devastating of the land mines in the field.
She purses her lips, then bites her lower one, eyes unfocused in thought.
“Never mind,” I tell her. “I shouldn’t have asked. I know you’re not supposed to make people feel awkward and now I’ve done it. I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. Seriously. You do it all the time, for no reason. Just cut it out, okay?”
“Okay.” I think about saying I’m sorry, totally in an ironic way, but I don’t think she’d appreciate it right now.
“Look, here’s the thing about being a Muslim: It’s not really about us. We have one choice, one decision to make in the whole thing. We’re either going to follow our faith or not. And if we decide to follow it, then…” She shrugs. “We can’t help how other people react.”
“But it must suck. To have people, y’know, judging you. Because of…”
“Suck or not, it doesn’t make a difference. Something sucking doesn’t change what it is. What am I supposed to do? Let people’s opinions of me dictate how I live my life?”
“I never thought of it that way. I guess… you know, growing up here, you learn not to be different. Not to stand out.”
“That’s sad.”
“Being sad doesn’t change it,” I volley.
She finally relaxes and grins at me. “Truth. The Quran tells us that Allah made us all different so we could get to know one another.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Well, if we were all the same, what would be the point in meeting anyone at all?”
“Do you believe that?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. But wouldn’t the world be boring if we were all the same? And wouldn’t it be amazing if we were all different on purpose?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
I must still appear doleful because she grins and smacks my shoulder. “Turn your frown upside down, Sebastian—I like being me!”
“I guess I’m just worried for you.”