by Josie Brown
“We’re on it,” Jack says.
“Um…which part?” Ryan asks.
“All of it. You’ll just have to trust us.” He hits the off button on the speaker.
Too many people are floating around Fizz for anyone to question that we belong in the employee dressing room, let alone in the bottling warehouse.
Uniforms consist of full-body coveralls, hairnets, eye goggles, and booties that go over our shoes.
“Have I told you how fetching you look in a hairnet?” Jack asks.
I smile. “You truly know how to flatter a girl.”
“You kids are so adorable,” Arnie rhapsodizes.
“Cut the crap,” Ryan mutters. “Arnie, which vat holds the secret sauce?”
“Vat Number Fourteen. Like I said, we’re too late to stop the corn syrup from being mixed with the other ingredients into the cola, and it’s up next to be infused into the bottles.”
“How do we stop that from happening?” Jack asks.
“There’s a release at the bottom of the vat, in case the cola is contaminated in any way. It falls into a holding tank.”
“Okay, I’m on it,” I say.
“And I’ll secure the holding tank until the FDA agents come,” Abu assures us.
He runs off in one direction, and I stroll off in another—toward the vats. I climb Vat Fourteen’s ladder, as if I know what I’m doing.
“Donna, hurry!” Arnie warns me. The foreman is about to turn on the spigot that releases the syrup into the bottles!”
I double-time it up the stairs—
But even that isn’t quick enough. By the time I pull the release on the spigot, half the vat is already empty.
Standing high on a catwalk, the vat foreman spots me. He wags finger and shouts, “Hey—you! Who the hell are you?”
Instead of walking, I slide down the ladder rail. “Some of it got into bottles,” I gasp.
“I’ll meet you there,” Jack replies.
Before the foreman can get on the floor, I disappear behind the conveyor belt.
Jack’s way of stopping the cola from going into the bottles is a simple process of elimination: he takes a metal pole and bats a row of plastic bottles from beneath the filler nozzles.
Cola spews all over him. “Damn it, this crap is freezing!”
“Not quite freezing,” Arnie corrects him, “but yes, hella cold.”
As the bottles go flying, Ryan murmurs, “Home run!”
“You did it, Jack!” Arnie exclaims.
Jack grabs my hand. “Let’s get out of here. Sabotaging a bottling plant can kick up an appetite. What do you say to In-N-Out Burger?”
I nod. “Sure—but water, no cola.”
I’m staring outside the window of In-N-Out Burger when I see it: a black sixteen-wheeler with the California license plate number of 6JMB415, pulling out of the parking lot of the stripper club next door.
I point out the window, choking on my double-double.
Jack slaps me on the back. “Heimlich! Do you need the Heimlich?”
I point at the truck.
He gets it. He’s out the door.
I’m on his heels.
Traffic on the six-lane Santa Ana Boulevard is heavy enough that the truck only gets as far as two blocks down the road before it’s stopped at another light. From where he’s sitting, the only thing to stare at is the filthy backpacker who’s standing on the median with a sign that reads SACTO.
The backpacker isn’t too happy when I decide to give him some competition. And, since I’ve already opened all the buttons of my blouse and tied it right below my lace bra, I’d say it’s really no contest.
When I hold out my thumb, the driver of the Exodus truck blows me a kiss.
I blow one back, then I toss my head. Because the light is six seconds from changing, I lick my lips as an incentive to speed along this courtship we’ve got going.
He takes the hint. Reaching over the cab, he opens the passenger door.
As I hop in, I notice that Backpacker has unbuttoned his flannel shirt and tied the ends together, right below his moobs.
Good luck with that, pal.
“You’re a doll,” I coo. “Whattya say to pulling over until the traffic lightens up? That way, I can thank you, all proper like.” To make my point, I purse my lips.
I don’t have to ask twice.
He screeches around the first corner. Lucky us, it’s a dead-end alley.
If you’ve never held a gun under a man’s testicles, you should give it a try, just once anyway. He’s chattering so hard that it takes me a full five minutes to get him to confess that he knows exactly what he delivered; that, yes, Wellborne paid him to do it; and yes, this is his last delivery.
Jack pulls around the corner, just as I’ve cuffed the driver’s hands.
“What took you so long?” I ask.
“I stopped for these.” He holds up a bouquet of pink roses.
He’s earned a kiss.
“So, all’s well that ends well?”
“Yes,” I say emphatically.
“Great. I’ll call Abu to swing by and pick me up, along with your new boyfriend. By the way, I’ve got Mary’s water bottle with me, so that he can take it into the Acme lab for content analysis.” He tosses me the car keys. “Are you fine with picking up the kids?”
He doesn’t have to ask twice. I take my flowers and scram.
First stop: Hilldale Elementary School.
The carpool line is almost at a standstill, what with all the Daisy Scouts rapping on the drivers’ windows and asking them to buy yet one more box of cookies, so that the troop can be number one in the state.
“Mommy, we’re only a hundred boxes away from first place,” Trisha announces, as she hops in the car.
I sigh. “Okay, we’ll buy ten more—but that’s it.”
This earns me a kiss.
Even before I get to Hilldale Middle School, there is a text from the school—unfortunately, from Principal Belding:
See me.
Jeff is in trouble?
I double-time it to the school, swerving toward the curb outside the administration building.
I walk into Mr. Belding’s office to find Jeff already there, as well as Cheever and his mother, Penelope Bing. Belding sits behind his desk. There is nothing on it except for a sheaf of papers.
Since I can read pages upside down, I can make out Jeff’s name. It’s his term paper:
A Comprehensive Look at Terrorism in Today’s World
Perhaps Jeff is getting a commendation?
Noting my baffled look, Belding says, “Not to worry, Mrs. Stone. Jeff has shown exemplary work in his Current Events class.”
My shoulders relax, as does my frown. “Oh! Well, congratulations, Jeff.” I pat him on the shoulder, but he doesn’t smile.
So, why is my son so sad?
“Are you aware of the fact that Mr. Karman shared Jeff’s paper with an outside source?”
“Um…no,” I say softly.
“I thought not,” Belding declares. “Unfortunately, in doing so, Mr. Karman broke a cardinal rule of the school.”
“Oh. Well…did he have a reason for doing so?” I ask.
“I didn’t ask for one,” Belding said smugly. “Again, the fact that he did it is reason enough for the immediate termination of his contract.”
“Don’t concern yourself, Donna,” Penelope says smugly. “He was acting strangely in so many other ways, too.”
“You mean, using his lunch hour for a private prayer session?” I ask.
Her eyes narrow into tiny slits. “You know about that?”
“Cheever made sure everyone knows…or is that your doing, Penelope? And since when is it a crime to pray behind closed doors?”
She turns bright red under her makeup foundation. “I’m certainly not going to apologize for my concerns in times of terror!” She tosses her frosted mane. “Frankly, if anyone should be on alert, I’d think it would be you.”
S
he doesn’t know the half of it.
And, frankly, she doesn’t have the clearance for me to tell her.
Without another word, I put my arm around Jeff’s shoulder and leave.
Emma calls. “Congratulations! Wow, talk about a crazy mission! I’ll bet you’re happy it’s over!”
“Totally,” I admit. I cup my ear to the phone and move into the dining room so that I can hear her over Trisha’s tallying of her sales to date. “I’m ready to get back to normal. Speaking of which, your Daisy Scout cookies should be here any day now.”
“You mean Arnie’s order. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”
I laugh. “Not a fan of the cookie, eh?”
“You hit the nail right on the head—too many sweeteners, too many additives, too many fillers, and too many calories!”
“Yes, I’ve seen Arnie in a bathing suit. It’s obvious who has the sweet tooth in your family.”
“I’ve got my fingers crossed that Nicky won’t inherit it, but I don’t hold out much hope.” Emma sighs. “Hey listen, I called for two reasons. First, the water sample you left with Abu to be tested in the lab contains Rohypnol. I’ve texted you a PDF of the formal lab results.”
“Thanks, Emma.” So, it’s as we suspected.
“Secondly, I finally had a chance to research the connection between the two men you called about a couple of days ago—Omar Karman and Abdul Al-Salami. As it turns out, they went to college together—Stanford. Al-Salami is currently a professor there, in the area of International Studies. Karman is a middle-school teacher—at Jeff’s school. Or, I should say, he was.”
“Yes, I just found out he’s been fired.”
“Did you also know he committed suicide?”
I drop into a chair. “Say that again?”
“It happened this afternoon. He hung himself. It was the last thing that popped on him on SLTLE—the United States’ integrated law enforcement database. His death hasn’t made the news yet because LAPD hasn’t contacted his next of kin, in Yemen. They may never find them, what with everyone fleeing ISIL over there. It was one of the reasons he wrote about in his suicide note—well, that, being let go from his job, and all the prejudice he’d encountered.”
“What he wrote doesn’t surprise me at all,” I murmur. “Emma, do you have a number for Professor Al-Salami?”
“I have his direct faculty number as well his cell number.” She reads them off.
“Thank you for this. Hey, if you need more Daisy Scout cookies—”
She laughs. “You mean, if Arnie needs more cookies! And yes, we know who to call.” She’s still chuckling as she hangs up.
I’ve got nothing to laugh about.
I dial the number she gave me.
“Ah, Mrs. Stone! It’s almost as if you’d read my mind,” exclaims Abdul Al-Salami.
“I… I beg your pardon?”
“A friend of mine—Omar Karman—is a big admirer of your son, Jeff. I can see why. Your son’s grasp of the problem of terrorism is incredible. More importantly, the insights he shows in his paper’s conclusion are similar to that of many who have been studying the topic for the past decade.”
“Professor, why did Mr. Karman share the paper with you?”
Professor Al-Salami chuckles. “He’d hoped to convince me to make an exception for Jeff and offer him a position in Stanford’s Summer High School program, where I teach a course in International Studies. One of the classes is on this very topic. Of course, I agreed to accept him. I sent Omar my answer in an email an hour ago.”
“But he never responded,” I murmur.
“No, not as of yet.”
“Mr. Al-Salami, I’m so sorry to be the one to break the news to you, but Mr. Karman committed suicide this afternoon after losing his job.”
He says nothing. “May he rest in peace,” he whispers finally.
“I have to tell you that my son’s paper was the issue behind his termination. You see, another parent took issue with the fact that it was forwarded from the school without the principal’s permission. She used this misstep to lobby for Mr. Karman’s resignation.”
“Was that enough to get him fired?” Professor Al-Salami asks.
“That—and, in my opinion, her prejudice against him.”
“I’m personally familiar with the issue of prejudice.” The hardened edge in his voice makes me wince.
“As much as it pains me to say so, should that be reason enough to withdraw your offer to my son, I’d understand completely.”
“If it were, her prejudice would win out, would it not?” he reasons. “To honor Omar’s request, his friendship, and his life, the offer stands. I leave the decision in the hands of you and your son.”
The pain in his voice breaks my heart.
I wait until Jack gets home, then we knock on Jeff’s door together. At first, he doesn’t answer. Finally, I hear a muffled, “What is it?”
“I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say,” I answer.
We hear his footsteps. The door creaks open, but Jeff backs away until he’s up against the bed.
“Mr. Karman is dead. He committed suicide this afternoon.”
Jeff staggers back onto his bed. “It’s—it’s because of my paper, isn’t it?”
“No, Jeff. Your paper was the catalyst that small-minded people used as the excuse to get him fired. As it turns out, he was tired of the prejudice he encountered here, and he was concerned about the whereabouts of his family, who had fled terrorists in his birth country of Yemen.”
The enormity of the news has Jeff stunned and shaking his head.
“I also want to tell you that I just got off the phone with Mr. Al-Salami.”
“Emma found him? But, of course,” Jeff says in answer to his own question.
“Mr. Al-Salami went to school with Mr. Karman. He’s now a professor at Stanford. During the summer, he runs a two-week workshop for high school students who are interested in the area of International Studies. Mr. Karman had forwarded your paper in the hope that he’d accept you into the program, despite your age. After reading it, Professor Al-Salami agreed to do so. He was also impressed with it.”
Jeff’s eyes grow large. “Wow…” Suddenly, he frowns. “But I can’t! I wouldn’t feel right about it!”
“I thought you’d react that way, and I warned the professor it may be the case. He pointed out to me that the position is open, if you want it. He feels since your attendance was Mr. Karman’s final request, he hopes you accept. That way, both of you can honor his memory.”
“I don’t know.” Tears roll down Jeff’s cheeks.
Jack sits down beside my son. “Jeff, prejudices are built on ignorance and fear. The more we learn, the greater chance we have of overcoming them. This isn’t solely about Mr. Karman. It’s also about you.”
Jeff nods. He knows what Jack means: if Jeff is going to conquer the fear from the trauma of being held hostage, hearing it discussed openly and factually is a good start.
“Take the night to think about it. If you agree, I’m sure the professor will be glad to hear from you.” I go to his desk and write down Professor Al-Salami’s email and phone number.
We aren’t out the door before Jeff picks up his cell phone. “Hello…is this Professor Al-Salami? My name is Jeff Stone…”
I have yet one more reason to be proud of my son.
Chapter 14
Bare Roots
Besides seeds, seedlings, or potted in dirt, another way in which a plant might be sold is with “bare roots”—in other words, with all soil removed from its roots, so that the purchaser can more fully judge its healthiness. This method is predominant with trees, shrubs and perennials. Hint: The plumper and lighter the root, the healthier it is. It should bloom beautifully.
Just as it’s easy to hide a sick plant in a pretty pot under lots of soil or peat moss, it’s a cinch to mask a nasty disposition beneath a fake smile, false words, and a beautiful face. The root of a person’s true character li
es deep under the surface. Their actions are what casts light on who they truly are.
Judge your friends by that and your relationships will probably blossom for a lifetime.
The next morning, Mary and I arrive at the school an hour before classes. We head straight to the gym and knock on Coach Lonergan’s door.
Mary’s coach doesn’t seem at all surprised to see us. She ushers us in. “Mary, I’d heard you’d called in sick yesterday. I presume it had something to do with your performance at the game.”
Mary nods. “Coach Lonergan, it’s not what you think.”
Coach Lonergan holds up a hand. “Please don’t apologize. I know the pressure you’ve been under since making the team. But I must admit, considering your determination and skill set during our practices, I was surprised and ultimately disappointed at your performance during the game.” She hesitates, then adds, “Not everyone thrives in a competitive spotlight. If you feel the pressure is too great, I’ll understand if you wish to resign from the team, and I won’t stop you. However, if you’re willing to give yourself a second chance, then by all means, I am too.”
Mary sits straight up. Her coach’s words of encouragement are all she needs to put her at ease and to put a smile back on her face. “Thank you, Coach, for believing in me. And yes, I’d be honored to continue on the team. However”—she takes a deep breath—“my actions at the game had nothing to do with anxiety, or illness, for that matter. Sara, Cara and Tara drugged my water bottle.”
She places a thumb drive on the desk in front of Coach Lonergan. “This contains video evidence of the girls breaking into my locker and tampering with my water bottle. The second file is a report from a lab that analyzed the contents of the bottle. I was drugged with a roofie.”