Time Bomb

by Joelle Charbonneau

  “WHY DO YOU have to go to the school today?” his father asked, coming into the kitchen. Rashid had hoped to get out of the house before his father had gotten home from the hospital. So much for that idea. “Your classes do not start for another week.”

  Rashid hefted the bag he had slung over his shoulder and explained, “I need a new school ID, Father.”

  “What happened to your old one?” His father looked at him with a frown.

  “I lost it when we were visiting with Sitto last month.” Technically, that was true. Although Rashid knew his words implied that he had accidentally left his ID behind at his grandmother’s in Palestine. “The office is open for new students to get IDs. I thought I should do it now instead of waiting until school starts.”

  His father nodded, then glanced at the kitchen clock. “Will you be back by the start of Dhuhr?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I can call and see if the office will be open during the afternoon. If you wait, we can pray together, and then maybe you can take your sister. It would be good for her to see the school without so many people. It’ll help her get used to the idea of going there next year. You could introduce her to some of your friends.”

  His sister already knew most of his friends, since they either lived nearby or went to mosque together. The others . . .

  His father thought he understood what it was like for Rashid at school, but he had no idea. He didn’t listen. Or maybe Rashid’s cousins in Palestine were right, and it was Rashid’s fault he didn’t completely fit in, because he did not know who he was or what he wanted.

  A few years ago, he would have brought his sister with him to school. But that was then. Now . . . so much had changed. He was different. His sister certainly was, and his friends . . . They all still enjoyed the comics and building robots, which held their friendships together. But Rashid could tell there were other things—like the facial hair that he had started growing earlier than anyone else in his class, and the adherence to his faith that prevented him from shaving it—that were creating an invisible wall between them.

  He bit back the anger that seemed harder and harder to keep hidden and respectfully said, “Next time. I don’t know who will be there, and I don’t want her to have a bad experience.”

  It was hard enough for Rashid to fit in, especially now. He didn’t want to bring Arissa. The hijab made her stand out even more than his untrimmed beard did. But Arissa didn’t seem to mind wearing it. More than once, she said that she liked the attention the hijab brought, and it helped her know exactly who her friends were. The hijab signaled who she was and that she was proud of her heritage. She said if people didn’t like it, they could just get out of her way.

  Rashid wondered if it wasn’t easier for her because the hijab was so obvious and its meaning so clear. Since some of the other students chose to grow beards and mustaches, his own beard was sometimes interpreted as a personal choice instead of a mandate of faith. But it often raised questions he could see in people’s eyes that never got spoken aloud—not even by his friends. If he had been braver, he might just have sat down and talked to his friends about it and helped them understand. Instead, he let the silences get longer.

  Now he felt he had only one option open to him.

  “I should probably go now so I don’t have to stand in line all day,” Rashid said, feeling the weight of the bag pulling on his shoulder. “I will pray at school.” There were plenty of empty classrooms. Since it wasn’t a school day, he wouldn’t have to worry about people making fun of him washing in the bathroom first. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

  His father smiled. “No need to rush. If you see people you know, you should spend time with them. You haven’t had the chance to see any of your friends this summer. The best life has balance. Maybe while you’re at school, you can see if there are any new clubs you’d like to join, although I still think you should take photos for the yearbook. The pictures you took this summer are very good.”

  “I’ll look into it,” Rashid said, knowing he wouldn’t. He had other things to do. He just hoped his father would be able to understand.

  “Good.” His father patted him on the arm and frowned. “Why are you taking your school bag?”

  Rashid smiled to hide his nerves. “I’m bringing some notebooks and comic books and a couple of other things to put in my locker so I don’t have to bring everything on the first day. I like having stuff to read in study hall.”

  He also read when his friends were late for lunch, to avoid drawing the attention of some of the football players, who liked to harass him.

  “Using extra time for study is always good.” His father patted him on the arm again. “Do you have your Koran?”

  “No,” Rashid said, shifting toward the door. “I’m leaving it here. I’ve got to go.”

  “Wait a second.” His father disappeared out of the kitchen and returned holding a thick paperback that Rashid had no choice but to take. “You might be glad to have it at school with you.”

  Rashid forced himself to thank his father, but he couldn’t meet his eyes as he walked out the door. He put the book in the bag and headed to school, still trying to decide if he was going to go through with his plan.

  Was this really the time to draw the line in the sand?

  He thought about the names he’d been called last year and how uncomfortable his non-Muslim friends looked when they pretended that they were all the same. That nothing had changed.

  He wished nothing had changed. More than anything, he wanted to turn back the clock to before the beard and the suspicion it brought into focus. Things had already been hard then, but they had been better.

  Hitching the bag so that the weight was better distributed, Rashid frowned and started walking faster. If he was going to change things, he had to do it today. He only hoped that he had the courage to do what needed to be done.

  9:58 a.m.

  Z

  — Chapter 3 —

  “YOU’RE KICKING ME OUT?” Sweat pricked Z’s back and forehead. He should have had two more months. His mother had said they’d agreed. And now he was getting screwed.

  Z turned his back on the landlord’s son. He couldn’t look at the satisfied smile on the jerk’s pimply face without wanting to deck the guy. Z felt like hitting something—everything.

  “Not exactly,” Nick said. “I mean, I know my dad and your mom talked about trying to lower the rent over the summer to help you out, but my dad realized that if he changed the terms of the lease for you, he’d have to do it for everyone, and you know how that goes. It’s not like my father wants to do this.”

  Sure he does, Z thought. He just doesn’t want to say he wants to boot the guy who’s just lost his mother to cancer. That would make him have to admit he’s a crappy person. But that’s what he was. All Nick’s father knew was that a guaranteed rent check was dead and buried. It was time to find a new one, and to hell with anything else. Yeah—Z knew exactly how that went.

  “I’m sure this is breaking your father’s heart.” Z clenched his fists and looked out the narrow window over the sink. If he closed his eyes, he could still see his mother standing there, washing dishes . . . when she had been well enough to do something that normal.

  “Hey, don’t be like that.”

  “Like what?” Z turned and stared at the guy. Nick straightened his shoulders but took a step back, tugging at the hem of his dirty T-shirt. “Your father made a promise to my dying mom, and two weeks after she’s gone, he sends you to tell me he was just kidding.”

  Nick took another step back and swallowed hard. “He’s really sorry about this.”

  “Sure he is.” Everyone was sorry. Z was so tired of hearing everyone tell him how damn sorry they were. Only they weren’t. But they would be. Soon. Very soon. Z unclenched his fists and turned back toward the off-white fridge that his mother had plastered with photographs. “Tell your dad not to beat himself up about it. It’s no problem, Nicky,” he a
dded, yanking open the fridge. The cool air washed over him, helping to tamp down the anger he wanted to let break free. Despite the open windows, the apartment was sweltering.

  “Hey, kid, if it was up to me, I would let you stay. I know things are tough. After everything that happened, this really sucks, but—”

  “It’s fine,” Z said, grabbing a bottle of tap water out of the fridge. It wasn’t fine. There was nothing fine about being told by a twenty-seven-year-old guy who lived in his parents’ basement and had Cheetos stains on his T-shirt that you had to clear out in three weeks. Adios, boy. Don’t let the door hit your long-haired, tattooed self on the way out.

  “Look, my father would like to be able to let you stay. He really liked your mom. She was a nice lady.”

  “Yeah.” Z closed the fridge and looked at the photo of his mother’s happy, healthy face pressed next to his five-year-old chocolate-coated one. “She was great.”

  Was.

  He swallowed hard while, behind him, Nick Mansanelli said, “I could talk to my dad about having you do some work on our cars in exchange for staying in their attic. It’s not the best place, but it would give you some time to sort out whatever it is you’re going to do next. I’m sure you could use the—”

  “No need.” Z would rather sleep in a ditch than become slave labor for anyone. He uncapped the cold water and took a drink. “Tell your dad pretty soon he won’t have to worry about dealing with me ever again.”

  Nick took another step back and rubbed his hand against the back of his neck as he looked around. “Can I . . . you know . . . help you do anything? Do you need some boxes or tape?” Nick turned toward the living room and nodded. “You got a lot of stuff to pack up around here. Why don’t I—”

  “No.” Before Nick could step into the hallway that led to the bedrooms, Z stalked forward and blocked him. “I don’t need your help.” Z didn’t need anyone.

  Nick frowned. “Are you sure? I mean, it’s no prob—”

  “I’m sure,” Z said as the phone in his back pocket chimed. He pulled it out and looked down at the display.

  YOU OK? DID YOU HEAR FROM YOUR UNCLE IN CALIFORNIA? I’M WORRIED ABOUT YOU. PLEASE TALK TO ME.

  Kaitlin.

  Of all the people who said they wanted to help, she actually did. But there wasn’t much more she could do or say. She kept telling him it was okay to be angry. That it would get better if he just gave it time. They all warned him about making decisions too fast. Urged him to give the relatives he barely remembered a chance to reach out. He had to give things time.

  But time wasn’t going to change the fact that his mother was dead and that everything sucked.

  Kaitlin had been there for him when everyone else had bailed. Extended family. Neighbors. Teachers. He’d tried to tell her to get lost when she followed him out of the school after he’d been in detention. But she dogged him all the way to the parking lot and insisted he give her a ride home. Her mother was a nurse at the hospital where his mother got treatments. It wasn’t as if he was going to say no, but that didn’t mean he was going to talk to her. Which was probably what Kaitlin wanted, since she had plenty to say. Kaitlin had been determined to be his friend, even when he didn’t want her to be. Even when he cut school more than he bothered to go. If it hadn’t been for her, he wasn’t sure he would have made it this far.

  And now he was going to cut her loose before he dragged her down. She deserved better.

  Z shoved the phone into his pocket and looked back at Nick.

  “Look,” Z said with a deliberate sigh. “If that’s all you came here for, I’ve got to get going. There’s a teacher I have to talk to at school, and I don’t want to miss him.”

  Nick slapped Z on the shoulder. The universal sign for I want you to think I’ve got your back, even though I plan on screwing you the first chance I get. “Hey, no problem. I just came by to see how you were doing and make sure you didn’t need anything before—”

  Before you chucked me to the curb. Z again clenched his hands into fists at his side, and Nick backed up a step.

  Finally, the guy turned toward the front door and said, “Hey, make sure to take care of yourself. And give them hell at that school. I never liked it much anyway.”

  At last, one thing they could agree on.

  Z chugged the water, then headed down the hall toward his room to grab his father’s old army duffle and the letter that had arrived last week. His cell phone chimed as he was slinging the bag onto his shoulders, but he ignored it. He had things to do.

  In the kitchen, he grabbed the picture of him and Mom and slid it next to his phone. He then walked out of the apartment. No need to lock the door. If someone wanted to clear the rest out, let them. He was going to school, and he wasn’t coming back.

  10:03 a.m.

  Tad

  — Chapter 4 —

  TAD GLANCED DOWN at his phone to see if he just missed hearing the text coming in.

  Nothing.

  HEY. JUST CHECKING TO SEE IF YOU WANTED TO HANG TODAY, SINCE WE DON’T HAVE PRACTICE. NOT SURE IF MY LAST MESSAGE WENT THROUGH.

  He hit SEND and threw his phone down on his bed before throwing himself down next to it. Of course the message went through yesterday, as had all the others he’d sent and hadn’t gotten a response to since football practice started a few weeks ago.

  Still, he kept sending them. He let himself hope that maybe he’d get one in response—as he had for the dozens they’d shared before suddenly everything had changed.

  Stupid. Sixteen and in love with a guy who didn’t return his texts and avoided the hell out of him at football practice. Like Tad was going to hold his hand or pat his ass in front of the other guys and let everyone know they’d hooked up this summer. He still wasn’t sure how it happened. It was almost like some B-movie script. Tad had turned and had seen Frankie watching him. That one look changed everything. Normally, Tad left parties early, but that look during that Fourth of July party made him stick around long after everyone else had gone. He hadn’t expected anything. He’d just wanted to hang. After all, the guy had bagged half the cheerleaders and had even dated Miss Perfect Rich Girl, Diana Sanford. Hell, he’d never given any sign that he was gay or that he was attracted to anyone other than white girls.

  That night, they’d just talked—about the team and the upcoming season and what the two of them wanted out of life beyond high school. Nothing earth-shattering. Just . . . talk.

  The next day, Tad got a text asking if they could meet up and practice running some plays—only the final play that day didn’t involve throwing the football. Tad could still feel the way their hands brushed. At first, Tad thought it was accidental. Then it happened again, with a shy smile. And he knew they both were interested in being more than friends.

  Tad rolled over and reached for his phone. The display remained dark. How hard was it to return a text? Or to say, Hey, I’m not sure I’m up for this relationship. Yeah, the conversation would suck, but at least there wouldn’t be this void. There wouldn’t be seeds of hope and resentment growing in the silence. There wouldn’t be the desire to see the phone light up with the message telling him that he was worth paying attention to. That there was nothing to be ashamed of.

  Music, if anyone could call the crap his brother liked to listen to that, suddenly shook the walls.

  Ugh. Tad grabbed the football from the floor and sent it flying against the wall, hoping his brother would get the hint.

  Sam cranked the music louder, if that was possible. Damn him.

  Tad stormed into the hall and banged on his brother’s door. The decibel level went up again. He pounded on the door with both hands and yelled, “Turn that crap down!”

  Suddenly the door flew open. The volume level was now earsplitting.

  “What do you want?” Tad’s older brother stood in the doorway with his guitar slung around his neck and a scowl on his face. They were only a year apart in age but eons apart in everything else.

  “W
hat do you think I want?” Tad asked, rolling his eyes. “I want you to turn that noise down.”

  Sam shook his head and crossed his arms. “Not in this lifetime. You’re supposed to be at practice, which means I get to play my music as loud as I want. That’s the deal.”

  A deal Sam conveniently ignored whenever he felt like it, and their mother, who brokered the compromise in the first place, always let Sam get away with it. If Dad were around, it might be different. Or maybe if Tad were different . . .

  “I don’t have practice today.”

  “That’s not my problem.” Sam smiled. “This is my time. You can stay or you can go, and if you have an issue with that, feel free to take it up with Mom. She and her friends just came in.”

  “Sam, could you cut me a break this once?” Tad asked. “Things suck right now, and I just need to be able to think without my head feeling like it’s going to explode.”

  Sam leaned against the doorjamb as the screeching song ended and a slower but equally loud ballad began. “Having trouble with the team or with your boyfriend?”

  Tad stiffened. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  He’d come out to his family a few months ago, but his mother still hadn’t told any of her well-meaning friends, who thought Tad would make a great boyfriend for one of their daughters or nieces. Just thinking about it made his head hurt worse.

  Sam laughed. “Sure thing.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You forget that it isn’t just music that can be heard through these walls. I might not have caught everything you were saying on those late-night calls a few weeks ago, but it was enough to guess what was going on.”

  “I was just talking to a friend. No big deal.” Tad jammed his phone into his pocket.

  Sam shrugged and adjusted the guitar strap on his neck. “Well, this is no big deal either.” The door slammed in Tad’s face, and the lock clicked into place.