by Sara Farizan
“What?” He stared blankly at me as his time-out clock ran down.
“You haven’t said my name since I’ve started playing for you. I don’t know if you’re embarrassed that you won’t pronounce it right or if I’m another anonymous cog in your basketball machine, but I’d like you to say my name before I go out there.”
“You are really trying my patience, kid,” Coach said.
“It’s Bijan, Coach. Not kid,” Marcus said. “If he walks, I walk.”
“Me too,” Todd said.
Coach looked at us like we had lost our minds.
“Say his name,” Drew said, looking down at the floor. “It’s not that big a deal, Coach.” It was the first time I’d ever heard Drew give Coach an opinion.
“Fine. Bijan, if you feel up to playing, I’d really appreciate it.” The buzzer sounded on Coach’s final word.
I went to the free-throw line to shoot my technical foul. I was alone. The crowd was quiet. The ref bounce-passed me the ball. I tried not to notice the sour faces in the crowd and took my shot. It bounced off the rim.
I took a breath. The ref passed me the ball again. It was just the hoop and me.
In elementary school when other kids left me out, I shot free throws by myself at the park. I’d done this for years.
I dribbled three times, bent my knees, released, and followed through.
The net swished.
I turned around and found Sean’s moms jumping up and down in excitement. Sean cheered, his arm around my mom’s shoulders. Mom looked at me from her seat, crying. I hadn’t seen her do that in years. I hid my face in my jersey so I wouldn’t break down on the court.
The horn buzzed for substitutions. Coach was calling me in. Will came on in my place. I walked over to our bench and wiped my eyes. Coach held me by my shoulder.
“Kid . . . Bijan, have a seat,” he said softly. “You let me know if you want to go back in again, okay? You want to go in, Will comes right out. He’s the substitute here.”
I nodded, and he rubbed my back before I took a seat.
From the bench, I watched our slight lead get chipped away and turn into a ten-point deficit. Will kept shooting his infamous jump shot that never fell. The rest of our team looked like they were going through the motions. Even Drew didn’t seem to care if we won or lost. They let Will do whatever he wanted, a final display to show him, Mercer Day, and the crowd that he never made us better, on or off the court.
Our tournament run was over after the first game. All the Granger players except Will and Steve walked off without lining up to shake hands with Mercer Day. As I stood up, Coach put his arm around me, and the two of us walked into the locker room to join the rest of the team.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sean spun in my desk chair while I slumped on the edge of my bed. We hung out in my room while our parents talked in hushed tones in the living room.
I had skipped the team bus; Sean rode home with my mom and me after our loss instead of with his parents.
“Can you please put on some music or something?” I asked Sean. I didn’t want to hear any murmuring about me.
He quickly obliged and clicked around on my computer. The sound of Andy Shauf filled the room.
I started to sob into my hands. I tried to keep myself quiet. I didn’t want to hear my mom, but I didn’t want her to hear me either. I felt Sean sit next to me as I let go of all I had been holding inside the past few weeks. I didn’t worry about being resilient, about being a good representative for millions of people, about whether I was tough enough or whether people liked me. I let myself feel the anger, the pain, the exhaustion, everything I had been trying to keep at bay.
When the tears subsided, Sean stayed next to me.
“Sorry,” I said, wiping my eyes with the end of my sleeve.
“Why?”
“It’s embarrassing. Guys don’t cry.”
“Says you! I’m about to go home and have a good old-fashioned weep myself,” Sean said. “Girls love that stuff. Sensitive, brooding types are in now.”
I chuckled and took a deep, ragged breath.
“Don’t ever change, Sean. You’re one of the all-time greats,” I said, settling down. “Thanks for taking that poster away from that jerk.”
“You’d do it for me, right?”
“Yeah. Of course I would.”
“So no sweat. I was going to trash it, but Mama told me to hold on to it in case you need it for evidence. Mom took a video of those morons too,” Sean said.
“Will must have forwarded those guys the email,” I said.
“I thought so, but then I looked at the poster more closely and it’s a different photo of you. Same awful sentiment, but it isn’t your old freshman directory photo.” He pinched my cheek as though he were my grandmother. “You’re growing up so fast. It looked like it was from this year.”
“Was it from this year’s directory photo?” I asked.
“No. It was higher quality than that. Not so pixelated. It looked like a yearbook portrait.”
I blinked a few times. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. But you could ask Elle to double-check.”
***
I didn’t go to school on Monday or Tuesday. I needed a few days to collect myself, but I also needed some time to gather information. I called Elle to confirm that the poster photo matched the one for the yearbook. I had Sean take a photo of the poster to send to Elle because I couldn’t bring myself to look at it. I also asked Elle who on the yearbook staff had access to the photos.
My mom fielded a bunch of phone calls that I didn’t feel like answering, from teachers, guys from the team, Coach, and some parents. One person didn’t call; she just invited herself over.
Our intercom buzzed.
“Hello?” my mom said into the intercom. It killed me that she had a tremor of worry in her voice.
“Hello, this is Stephanie Bergner. I’m a friend of Bijan’s from school,” the crackly voice said.
“Oh, hi, Stephanie,” Mom said. She took her finger off the talk button and looked at me. “Is it okay for her to come up?”
I nodded. Mom smiled at me and pushed the button again.
“Come on up,” Mom said into the intercom. She took the chain off our door and opened it, waiting for Stephanie. I put my fingers through my hair, trying to straighten up a little bit. I hadn’t showered that morning and was wearing my old moth-eaten Celtics sweatpants and a Captain America T-shirt.
“Hello, Dr. Majidi. I’m Stephanie Bergner. It’s very nice to meet you.” She stuck her hand out for my mom to shake.
Mom hugged her.
“I know who you are, sweetheart,” Mom said, pulling her close. “How are you?”
“I’m okay,” Stephanie said as my mom let her go, a little taken aback by her show of affection. “How are you?” she asked, looking at me.
“I’m okay too,” I said with a shrug.
My mom invited Stephanie to stay for dinner. At the table, Stephanie didn’t ask if the salad was organic like she would at the cafeteria or if the juice came from a major food corporation that exploited migrant laborers.
My mom told Stephanie Coach Johnson had called to tell her that he and my teammates had met with Headmaster Clarkson to go over the events at the Mercer Day game and explain Will Thompson’s involvement. Coach had promised Mom that disciplinary action was being taken, though we didn’t know the full extent of Will’s punishment.
I didn’t talk about how I was doing, and neither of them pushed me to.
“Would it be okay, Dr. Majidi, if I spoke to Bijan in private?” Stephanie asked.
“Of course. Come over any time you like,” my mom said. Stephanie and I put our plates and cutlery in the dishwasher before I led her to my room.
“When do you think you’ll be back at s
chool?” Stephanie asked after I closed my door. I was glad she didn’t comment on my Sports Illustrated Gigi Hadid poster. I hoped she didn’t think I objectified women. Maybe she could appreciate the poster too.
“Tomorrow,” I said.
“Good. I miss having my friends at school. Even though I want him out of my life, I even miss Noah. Though I suppose we were never really friends if he could do what he did to me.”
“Erin hasn’t come back yet?”
Stephanie paused for a moment. “No. She hasn’t.”
“Have you talked to her?”
“Yes. She’s . . . been brief but reassures me that she’ll be coming back soon. I spoke with her mother on the phone this afternoon, but she said Erin wasn’t in. She was a bit curt with me.” Stephanie looked down at her hands. “I don’t think her parents were thrilled about their daughter dating the tutor they paid for.” She became quiet. Stephanie was petite, that wasn’t news, but she’d never looked as small as she did in my room. “I hope that stays between us. I’m sure everyone already assumes she and I are . . . something, but I’m not sure what Erin will decide to do.” She took a deep breath and exhaled. “Are you, um . . . do you still want to be friends? I mean, are you okay with—”
I took her hand in mine.
“We’re in this for the long haul, Bergner,” I said.
Her lip quivered and she held back tears.
“I know I can be . . . intense,” she said. “I never used to mind what people thought about me. When it came time for student council elections, of course I wondered a little about my reputation among my peers, but I mostly focused on the task at hand. Things I was interested in or skills I wanted to improve upon.”
I didn’t interrupt her. I let her take her time. I listened. That’s what friends are supposed to do.
“Then I met this person . . . whom I didn’t think much of. But we . . . well, I found myself in the precarious position of falling in love. I really did everything to avoid it. Love, I mean. That avoidance stems from many things: my parents’ divorce; how society values couples and coupledom over single people, which I find distressing; how much work it entails to foster a relationship. With everything I do, I don’t have much time for myself or anyone else.” She cleared her throat, fighting tears that she had no reason to be ashamed of.
“But now, since being with Erin . . . knowing what it’s like to feel that kind of happiness, that makes me rethink everything. Our love is so . . . so contained. It can be so difficult sometimes because of how different we are. Now all I can think about is other people, how they view me.”
She stopped talking and took a few more breaths.
I let go of her hand and took a moment to think about what I could say after hearing about everything she was going through.
“I don’t know much about romance,” I said. “I guess, it’s just women are so, um . . . well, you guys—not guys, your people, girls—are very enigmatic.”
“My people?” she asked with a laugh. I was glad my incompetence in the romance department gave her a little break from her heartache.
“Women! Women people! I know I’m bad at this,” I said. I let out a small, awkward chortle.
“I suppose I should save all this for Ms. Jacobs,” Stephanie said, laughing while taking a travel pack of Kleenex from her pocket. She dabbed the corners of her eyes with a tissue.
“You are definitely not the kind of person who should be kept secret. In my opinion, no one should, but you especially. You know that. You don’t need me to tell you, but maybe love makes people forget themselves sometimes.”
Stephanie looked at me like she’d never seen me before but was suddenly pleased that she had. “I am extraordinary.”
“Modest too. Don’t forget modest,” I said. We were quiet for a moment. “So are you excited to be a representative for a minority population?”
“No. Have any pointers?”
“It’s always good to have people around who support you. Even if they may not know how to go about supporting you right away.”
She nodded. “You’re pretty extraordinary too,” she said. “I’m not the only one who thinks so. I brought you a present.” She pulled a wrapped gift from her backpack.
“What’s this?” I asked. I opened it up and found a blue plush official NBA doll of G-Wiz, the Washington Wizards mascot.
“The board has agreed to meet again in a month to debate the pros and cons of changing the mascot. They are also open to new ideas for what the mascot should be if they decide to change it. I know you have mixed feelings about the campaign, and rightfully so, but if you ever want to help us brainstorm, we could use your expertise.” She pointed to the toy I’d pulled out of the box. “The Washington team used to be called the Bullets,” she continued. “Seems as though they understood something the Granger administration doesn’t.”
“Seems so,” I said, holding up my new furry friend. Even though G-Wiz didn’t rep my team, the little blue toy would be one of my most prized possessions. “Though we have to come up with something better than this guy.”
“I think we can manage that.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Charlie Martin got out of his seat yet again when he saw Sean and me walk into the auditorium for assembly.
“Hey, guys,” he said warmly. “Glad to see you back, Bijan.”
“Thanks, Charlie,” I said.
Sean looked over at the senior section as we sat down. “I still don’t see Will,” he said. “I bet he’s been booted.”
I didn’t want to get my hopes up. While Will was a complete jerk, he wasn’t the one who had sent the email.
The bell rang to signal the beginning of the assembly. A few dawdlers rushed to their seats as the audience quieted down. One latecomer didn’t rush. She walked slowly and deliberately into the auditorium, with everyone watching her.
“She’s back,” Sean whispered, staring at Erin Wheeler. Erin didn’t head to her seat behind us. Instead, she marched to Stephanie’s row.
“Uh-oh. We may be about to witness a throwdown of epic proportions, Reggie.”
Stephanie looked up from her seat to find a smiling Erin. She stood up but hesitated, like she didn’t know what to do or say. Then Erin hugged her in front of the whole school.
“Would you listen to that crowd? They are loving this adorable but unlikely duo, Kevin.”
“Doesn’t look like everyone is loving them together, Reggie. Check out the grimace on Jessica Carter!”
“I see it. I don’t like it, but I see it.”
Erin let go of Stephanie and smiled at her before she went back to her seat. Stephanie turned around and looked at Sean and me, grinning like a kid going to Disneyland. We each gave her two thumbs-ups.
“Nice to see some lovely faces back in the crowd,” Ms. McCrea said from the stage. She was tasked with running assembly instead of Headmaster Clarkson, who was busy in his office with the materials Elle and I had sent. “We have a lot on the docket today, so let’s begin.”
I psyched myself up as assembly continued with scheduled announcements. After the finance club told everyone they’d be discussing early retirement planning at their next meeting, Ms. McCrea looked down at her sheet to see who else was slated to speak.
“Bijan,” she said.
Sean turned to me with raised eyebrows.
“Now, Bijan absolutely hates public speaking. He probably hates public speaking as much as DeAndre Jordan hates shooting free throws.”
“There goes our superstar, lumbering onto the stage with the grace of a baby elephant trying to walk for the first time.”
“He’s nervous, Kevin. Cut him some slack.”
“Uh, hi,” I said, looking out at a sea of faces. From up onstage, it seemed like the school’s population had doubled. I did my best not to look anyone directly in the eyes.
“My name’s Bijan,” I said with a nervous chuckle. “You may have seen me around campus recently. I’m not really great at making speeches, but I wanted to say a few things.” I pulled a folded piece of paper from my pocket. “So, um, a little about me. I love basketball. I like to read, mostly sports memoirs, graphic novels, and Stephen King books. My favorite is Christine, even though the premise of a killer car is a little over-the-top. My favorite sandwich is peanut butter and jelly, which some might find basic, but I think it’s a classic choice.”
I looked up at the audience. “And I’m not a terrorist.” I looked back down at my paper. “I live in Somerville. I’ve got good friends who have really shown up for me these past few weeks. I think I’d like to pursue sports journalism in college, even though my mom says there’s no money in it. And I’m not a terrorist.”
I paused again. The audience probably thought it was for dramatic effect, but I was mostly trying to steady my breathing. I hoped I wouldn’t pass out.
“I have a wonderful mom who was raised by her wonderful parents, who are originally from Iran. My dad passed away when I was a kid, but he was originally from Jordan. They aren’t terrorists.
“My mom is Muslim but doesn’t speak to God much since my dad died. My father was Christian. My relationship with God is personal and has nothing to do with you. Nor is it my job to explain the geopolitics of countries you keep hearing about in the news or to defend a peaceful religion practiced by one-point-six billion people. I’m a sixteen-year-old student, and I don’t have all the answers you want me to have.”
I didn’t explain to them that no Iranian had yet committed an act of terror in the United States, nor had Iran invaded any other country in an unjust war. I didn’t explain to them that Jordan is a longtime partner in working on counterterrorism with the U.S. I didn’t explain to them that terrorists who commit heinous acts in the name of religion don’t understand their faith at all, including the white Christian terrorists within our own country.
I didn’t read to them the section of the Qur’an that says, “Whoever kills a person unjustly . . . it is as though he has killed all mankind, and whoever saves a life, it is as though he had saved all mankind.”