Time Bomb

by Joelle Charbonneau

  His phone chimed, and he glanced down at the text.

  “I just want to see what you’re doing,” his sister said quietly, making him feel like a total jerk. “It’s not like I’m spying or that I’m going to tell Mom or Dad.”

  “Look,” he said, checking the text again, then the clock on his phone. He had to get going if he was going to make his plans fly. “The guys and I are just going to have a little fun. We’re not going to get caught, because we know what we’re doing.” And even if he did get caught, nothing would probably happen. Because no one would dare sideline the all-American star football and baseball player. Not if it meant there was a chance they’d lose a game. “But if you’re seen at the school, you’ll probably be asked if you saw anything. Then you’ll either have to rat us out and commit social suicide before even starting high school or you’ll end up in detention for forever. I wouldn’t recommend either. Okay?” When Bianca didn’t look as if she was going to stand down, he pushed harder. “Bianca, I’m trying to protect you. Brothers do that, even for their annoying freshman sisters.”

  “Fine.” Bianca unfolded her arms and tucked her hands in her back pockets with a shrug. She tried to pretend she was unyielding, but he could see she was smiling, which made the tension in him ease. He liked when his sister thought of him as one of the good guys . . . even if he knew he’d done things that might make her question it.

  Frankie grinned wider when his sister added, “But I want to hear all about it later.”

  “I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

  People would notice, and no one would call him out. Because he had an arm that won games. What could possibly be more important than that?

  Frankie slid behind the wheel of the old white Mustang his dad had given him when he’d become the varsity’s starting quarterback. It had been accompanied by the words Just don’t think you can spend all your time in the back seat with your girlfriend. You still have work to do.

  Of course I do, Frankie thought now as he cranked the engine to life. Nothing was ever good enough. A winner always had to do more.

  He started to back out but stopped and rolled down the window as he spotted his sister going back into the house. “Hey, Bianca. I’m not kidding. Stay away from school today. Promise me.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. I promise.” And she slammed the door shut.

  Good. He picked up his phone and read a new text that had just come in. He answered the second one and looked at the first one a long time before shaking his head and putting the phone down. Then he put the car in reverse and hit the gas. It was time to get this show on the road.

  10:43 a.m.

  Rashid

  — Chapter 7 —

  THERE WAS ALREADY a line for new student identification cards for students who had been unable to get them at the end of school last year or had lost them.

  The main office door, located in the middle of the two-story-tall atrium under the purple-and-yellow painted signs that said MIGHTY TROJANS, was closed. The lights were on in the office, but whoever was in charge of processing IDs hadn’t started yet, which meant that everyone had to wait outside in the atrium or somewhere else nearby. A couple of kids were standing near the door. One girl from last year’s chemistry class smiled and nodded. Rashid nodded back but didn’t walk over to join her, instead he looked around at the others who were waiting. Some were sitting on the floor in the foyer, and he could see a bunch more camping out past the double doors that officially led to the rest of the school.

  Rashid looked at his watch, then counted the students outside the office doors and the ones in the front hall stationed near the media center. There were twenty who had arrived before he had—none were from his group of friends. He’d perform Dhuhr early, as he often did when school was in session, then get in line after he was done.

  He let a dark-haired girl holding a blue bag and a clarinet case walk through the doors in front of him, then headed into the main front hall. The girl turned right—toward the fine arts wing. Rashid went left, past the media-center doors. The closest bathrooms were to the right of the media center, but there were too many people hanging out in that direction. He wasn’t sure he’d have the courage to follow through with what he’d come here to do if he had to look at all of them as he passed by. Besides, it would be easier to pray in one of the classrooms upstairs, where there were fewer people.

  A couple of girls hurried in his direction, their shoes squeaking against the light-gray tile. Rashid stepped to the side to avoid them and felt his bag bump into something on the other side.

  “Um . . . excuse me?” a girl snapped.

  “I’m sorry,” Rashid automatically said as he pulled the bag tightly to his body and looked up at Diana Sanford. Only she wasn’t looking at him but was frowning at the girls sauntering down the middle of the hall. “I didn’t see you there.”

  Diana shook her head as she watched the girls go. “I wasn’t saying ‘excuse me’ to you. I was talking to them.” She turned to face him, and he watched her bright smile go tight at the corners. She clutched the backpack she had slung over her shoulder and took a small step back toward the lockers.

  That step. He tried not to take it personally. Still, he couldn’t help thinking about this summer at Sitto’s when he walked with others without a single person stepping back from him. People smiled as they passed him on the street. No one thought twice about what he looked like or jumped to conclusions about what his appearance meant.

  “Did you have a good summer?” he asked quietly.

  “Sure.” She nodded and shifted her weight. “It was good to have time away from school. How was your summer? Did you do something fun?”

  “I visited family.”

  Her smile vanished. “Family is always interesting.” She looked down at her own bag then off toward the media center. “Speaking of family, mine is going to be mad if I don’t get my yearbook stuff done in time to get home and change. I should go.”

  “I need to get going too,” he said as she hurried down the hallway. She glanced to the side once, and he saw her smile return. Not the tense one she’d worn for him, but one that seemed to be as bright as the sun. Diana stopped and waved to whomever she was smiling at, then disappeared inside the media center.

  When she was gone, he turned and headed down the hallway with his head up, hoping to see a friend who would ask him if he’d read the latest Superman comic to chase away the voices of his cousins from this summer. When they’d asked him about how people treated him back home and whether he felt his friends really accepted him, he’d automatically said yes. But with each day that passed and the more questions that were asked and comments made, he realized how different he was from everyone at home. He remembered the little slights and the snide looks, as well as the insults some of the biggest jerks in the school spat at him. If he was honest with himself, it was his cousins as much as anyone or anything else that made him come here today. They made him realize he needed to make choices about who he wanted to be.

  He walked by a bunch of girls holding tape and posters and standing around their lockers not far from the stairwell. They all stopped talking as he walked by. As he headed into the stairwell, he could almost hear his cousins’ voices telling him how he could never really be an American as a Muslim. It was only when he was halfway to the second floor that he realized he had been holding his breath.

  “Welcome back, Rashid,” Mrs. Skatavaritis said as she came down the stairs. She stopped and smiled. A large floral purse dangled from her arm. She must be done with her back-to-school meetings and was heading out to enjoy the rest of the day, but she still took the time to stop and ask, “Did you have a good summer?”

  “I did,” he said. “How about you, Mrs. S.?”

  “Well, it wasn’t long enough. It’s never long enough, right? But it was a nice break, and I’m ready to talk calculus. How about you?”

  When he just nodded, she laughed. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be a good
year. I promise.” With that, she continued on down the stairs.

  Rashid watched her go, went up to the second floor, and then headed to the bathroom near the science classrooms, at other end of the school.

  He spotted Mr. Rizzo in his biology room, but as Rashid had suspected, most of the math and science rooms were clean, perfectly organized, and completely empty at the moment.

  He hoped the bathroom would be empty too.

  It was.

  Quickly, Rashid slipped off his shoes and socks and rolled up his pants in order to wash and get ready for prayers. When he finished, he picked up his bag and shoes and hurried to Mr. Lott’s classroom down the hall. The adviser of the robotics team had always been cool about allowing Rashid to use his room when a class wasn’t in session. Once in a while, one of the other boys from his mosque would join him, but mostly he prayed alone. He liked the guys who went to his mosque, but they were more interested in playing soccer than in building robots or in the new comics being released. And their parents let them do all their prayers at home after school was over. Maybe if he liked soccer more, he’d get along with them better. But as much as he tried to be a part of their group, he never could. They were all Muslim, and while that made them friendly to him, it wasn’t enough to make them real friends no matter how much he wished it was.

  During his fifteen minutes of prayers, he spotted Diana walking by, as well as two teachers clearly on their way out of the building. But none of them seemed to notice him, which made focusing easier than normal.

  Rashid rolled down his pants, put his shoes back on, and picked up his bag. Then he went back to the bathroom. For several long moments, he studied his face in the mirror, trying to see what Diana saw today that had made her step back from him. What made so many of them do the same?

  Dark skin. Curly hair. A long, scraggly beard. Just one more thing that made him different. This summer all the men in Palestine had beards, and his cousins, who didn’t, were jealous of his because it made the older girls look twice at Rashid.

  People stared at him here, too, but as his cousins pointed out, it wasn’t because of his appearance. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that even after he had been living here for five years, most people couldn’t get past what they saw on the outside. Fewer still wanted to learn. Not even his friends seemed comfortable enough to ask questions. His cousins said it was because people were scared of what they would learn if they asked. His father told him that time would bring understanding.

  Rashid wished he could believe his father was right and that if he just waited long enough, people would act normal around him again. That they wouldn’t look at him and see Muslim first and Rashid second.

  The Koran, too, instructed him to wait in patience. It told him to celebrate Allah while waiting and that patience is what brought strength and prosperity. But Rashid wasn’t in the world that his father grew up in. The more he looked around, the more he saw the world as his cousins and some of the men at the mosque saw it. A world that looked at him with fear simply because he was alive.

  Rashid had tried patience, but waiting wasn’t going to fix his problems. If he wanted things to be different, he would have to try something else.

  One by one, Rashid checked to make sure nobody was in the bathroom stalls. Then he carefully set his bag on one of the sinks and unzipped it. Ignoring the hammering of his heart and the shaking of his hands, he pulled out his tools and hoped his father would be able to understand that this was what Rashid had to do.

  11:05 a.m.

  Cas

  — Chapter 8 —

  PIECE BY PIECE, Cas assembled her clarinet. When the instrument was together, she took a seat on the piano bench and began to play.

  Mozart. Her favorite.

  Not for the first time, Cas wished she played the piece better. It was one she’d started learning before she’d had to leave her last school. She’d been determined to get it as perfect as she could. Only her schedule last year didn’t give her as much time to practice as she needed. And at home . . . well, everyone else needed quiet when they were doing homework or when her mother was on the phone. When her father was around, he always said she should go for a run.

  So to avoid conflicts at home, she’d practiced here fifteen minutes before and after school and eventually during her half-hour lunch period. Music was the one thing that made her happy. And when she played something beautiful, she almost could convince herself that she was beautiful too.

  Sound filled the room. Cas closed her eyes so she could tune out everything else. So that nothing around her existed but the music and the need to create a resonant and pure sound.

  The fingering still tripped her up. The tone got breathy, and here and there, she went off pitch. But it was better. And when she finished the piece, she started again to make it better still. Steady breathing. Leaning into each line. Feeling the flow of notes through her. Control of every moment. Maybe if she . . .

  “Why aren’t you in marching band?”

  She jumped. The instrument honked. Embarrassment flooded her at the realization that someone had heard her make that sound and of how stupid she probably looked through the practice-room window while she played. Slowly, she turned toward the voice and almost fell off her seat.

  Frankie Ochoa.

  Football captain. Big man on campus. The guy everyone in the school recognized but she’d never talked to—not once. She doubted he had ever noticed her at school, but now he was standing in the doorway, staring at her.

  “What do you want?” she asked, glancing down at the bag near her feet. She let out a sigh of relief. The bag was zipped shut.

  “I was on my way to the gym and heard the music. I wanted to see who was making it.” He leaned against the doorjamb and hooked his fingers through the belt loops on his shorts. “You sound good. Way better than anything they’re playing out on the field right now.”

  She waited for him to follow up with a joke. But he just looked at her as if he was curious why she wasn’t saying a damn thing.

  “Thanks,” she finally said.

  “You’re Cas, right? I think we had advanced bio together last year.”

  “Yeah. We did,” she said quietly. He was a year older than Cas, but she was a year ahead in science, so they’d been in the same class. He’d taken his frog off the tray and made it dance while Mr. Rizzo was passing out the rest of the specimens.

  “I don’t know about you, but I escaped having any classes in the dungeon room this year. I’m like a plant,” he said with a smile. “I need sunlight.”

  Everyone called Mr. Rizzo’s room the dungeon because it had only two skinny windows, which didn’t let in any sunlight. Mr. Rizzo tried to keep things interesting, but there were at least one or two kids every semester who fell asleep in that room.

  Frankie stared at her again—waiting for her to speak.

  Cas’s stomach twisted as she tried to come up with a funny or interesting response that wouldn’t make her sound like an idiot.

  Thankfully, Frankie filled the silence. “I meant what I said, you know. You’re good. Is that why you decided not to be part of marching band? Too talented for the hacks?”

  “What’s with you and marching band?” she asked. “Do you have a thing for polyester uniforms?”

  He laughed.

  “Not especially,” he admitted with an easy grin. “But there is something funny about watching people try to look dignified while wearing purple-and-gold polyester. It’s just not possible. I go to a lot of football games and have become quite the connoisseur of marching bands and their uniforms. Ours is the worst of the lot. Thankfully, we’re in the locker room when they play at halftime, so we’re spared what they’re trying to pass off as music. It’s pretty clear no one in that band practices the way you do. Talent means nothing unless you take the time to hone it.”

  Before Cas could decide whether Frankie was serious about the compliment he’d just paid her, he looked down at his watch an
d pushed away from the doorjamb. “Speaking of locker rooms, I have to head down to practice.” Frankie took a step back. His expression turned serious as he added, “You really are good, you know. I’m glad I got to hear you play.” With that, he disappeared down the hall.

  Cas stared at the closed door—heart pounding, palms sweating. Finally, she lifted the clarinet to her mouth to once again focus on the music, but instead she kept thinking about the boy who had just been in the doorway.

  Frankie was popular. Always had a girlfriend and a crowd of people around him and could do no wrong—kind of like a modern-day prince. Which was fitting, since he’d been on the homecoming court last year—something several kids had said was unfair, since everyone was certain he was the one behind the chickens found in the cafeteria the week before. But no one ever said anything too loudly, because everyone knew he needed to be on the field if their team had a chance of going to state. She hadn’t thought he’d known she existed.

  The star of the football team knew her name. Cas wasn’t sure how she felt about that, or if she wanted to feel anything. To keep herself from thinking too much, she took a deep breath and picked up playing where she had left off—before Frankie had interrupted.

  Low notes as open and full as she could make them. High notes that floated on the air. All the while, she watched the window in the door of the practice room in case someone appeared—telling herself she didn’t want to be interrupted, but deep down wishing that someone else would come. When she got to the end of the piece, she played it again. Waiting . . .

  It was stupid. There was no reason to think someone else would stop by and care that she was in here. But Frankie’s visit had made her think maybe, just maybe, there was hope.