Kiki and Jacques

by Susan Ross

  Dad’s cheeks began to puff in and out. His neck popped in tight chords, and his right fist jutted forward, punching air. “Are you telling me Duane asked you to steal from Louis Silverstein?”

  Jacques winced like he’d been socked in the stomach. He was sorrier than he’d ever been in his whole life.

  “I know it was wrong.” Jacques slumped against the steps waiting for Dad to yell how weak and stupid he’d been—and how lucky it was that Mr. Silverstein was alive and that Jacques hadn’t ended up in jail.

  But instead, Dad glanced down and rubbed the corner of his eyes. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No.” Jacques was stunned to see that Dad’s eyelids were damp. “It wasn’t like that. Duane just wanted money.”

  “I always knew that kid was trouble!” Dad slammed the back of his heel against the stair so hard that it sounded as if he’d cracked the wood. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I guess I thought I could handle it . . . that I could make Duane stop,” Jacques slowly answered.

  “This should have never happened. I should’ve been there to help. I got drunk and let everyone down.” Dad’s mouth was wavering, and his voice turned to gravel. “Sometimes, I miss your mother so much I don’t know what to do. You were just a little guy when she . . . when the accident happened. Do you remember her? I mean, the small things?”

  And then, there she was, so close in Jacques’s head, smiling and holding something furry. “Mom liked kittens.”

  “Yeah.” Dad snorted. “She loved all critters. Always bringing them home! Cats, dogs, strays. Remember the half-beagle, half-shepherd she found wandering in the yard? That hound was one ugly mutt, but she didn’t care; she loved it. Maybe that’s kinda like the same thing she saw in me.” Dad looked straight at Jacques. “Most of all, she loved you. Anything you needed, anything you wanted, she’d just make it happen.”

  Jacques suddenly remembered the night before Halloween when he was six or seven. He had his heart set on a Spider-Man costume, but it cost too much. Mom came home and found him crying. She dried his tears and went straight to the sewing machine. When Jacques woke up in the morning, there was a shiny red and blue outfit on the end of his bed.

  Mom could always make things right. If only she was still alive. . . . If only.

  “You’re the one thing in my life that matters.” Dad’s hand rested heavy on Jacques’s shoulder. “After your mother died, you were the reason I got up every morning.”

  Jacques tried to say something, but his throat was too tight.

  “I’m getting help. I started one of them programs to stop drinking. I got a sponsor—somebody to make sure I don’t start hittin’ the bottle and screw up again.”

  Jacques swallowed hard. “That sounds good.”

  Dad wiped his face with a sleeve, then reached behind his back and pulled out a square brown box. “Whoa, I almost forgot. This is for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Late birthday present, I guess. Go ahead. Open it.”

  Jacques pulled off the lid. A shiver, the good kind, went down his spine. It was a regulation Arsenal jersey. And it looked brand-new.

  “Isn’t this too expensive?” Jacques smoothed the shirt against his chest.

  “I got a break from my pal at the sports shop.” Dad cocked his head, nodding. “And anyways, it turns out we’ve got something to celebrate for a change.”

  Jacques sat up straight. “Really?”

  “Louis Silverstein’s asked me to manage the Army Navy Store.”

  “Honest? For always?”

  “Just ’til he’s on his feet. . . . But after Christmas, my old boss says he’ll take me back so long as I’m sober.” Dad paused. “And I swear to you, I swear on my life that I will be. We’re gonna be okay. We’ll make it.”

  Dad reached out his hands, and Jacques took them. Big hands, football hands, squeezed tight.

  “It looks like I’ll be seeing your Somali friend—he’ll be helping out at the Army Navy on weekends.”

  “Mohamed got a job there too?” Jacques exclaimed.

  “Yup. Your grandmere’s beau seems like a real solid guy.”

  “Apparently, Mr. Silverstein wants to take her fishing.” Jacques grinned.

  “Fishing?” Dad looked sideways. “But . . .”

  “Grandmère hates fish, I know!”

  They both began to laugh. Then Jacques laughed so hard that he snorted twice and his stomach hurt, and he couldn’t stop to catch his breath.

  “Listen, so long as we’re talking like this—any girl caught your eye yet? I noticed Betty Labelle’s niece circling around you at church. She’s plenty cute.”

  Lucy and her yellow umbrella flashed through Jacques’ mind. “I better go do my homework.” He stretched and started up the stairs with the soccer jersey tucked under one arm.

  “Okay, but believe you me, someday soon, a girl is gonna get your attention.”

  Jacques paused, thinking about the “J” on Lucy’s binder.

  “And when she’s got a real pretty smile like your mom, it’s the best thing that can ever happen.” Dad flashed thumbs-up with a faraway look in his eyes.

  25

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  Grandmère Jeannette paraded through the apartment with a long feather duster, vigorously brushing each piece of furniture. She even dusted the top of Pelé’s cage. It seemed awfully early on a Saturday morning to be so busy.

  “Sweet as pie to take a day off . . .” she muttered to herself as she dusted all the windows. Grandmère Jeannette had arranged for Betty Labelle to watch the shop so they could have a family day at the lake with Mr. Silverstein, now that he was out of the hospital and on the mend.

  Dad and Jacques sat on the couch with steaming mugs and the sports section of the Lakemont News. When Grandmère Jeannette stepped in front of them, Dad nearly spilled his coffee.

  “Wicked nice hat you’re wearing!” Dad exclaimed. “But where in blazes are you going dressed like that?”

  Grandmère Jeannette shoved two gray locks under an orange cap with metal studs and casting flies stuck to the back. She was wearing a green and yellow plaid flannel shirt, sleeves rolled high. The shirt and hat didn’t exactly match.

  “As a matter of fact, the hat was a present from Louis. He says it’s the best thing for . . .”

  “Fishing?” Dad slapped his knee as he began to chuckle.

  “What’s so hilarious?” Grandmère Jeannette frowned. “Louis says it looks good. Just right.”

  “Well, he would say so!” Dad wiped drips of coffee from his jeans.

  Jacques covered his mouth with one hand, but he knew his grandmother could see him laughing.

  Grandmère Jeannette dusted the top of Dad’s head and marched toward her bedroom. “You boys need to be at the lake by three o’clock. And don’t be late. Louis is the punctual sort.”

  Dad winked at Jacques. “Looks like she means business. You and me better stay on best behavior.”

  After soccer practice, Jacques helped Dad pack the Honda with coolers and the barbeque grill. Grandmère Jeannette said that she’d meet them at the lakefront park with Mr. Silverstein.

  They drove past the old mill and the apartment building where Kiki and Mohamed’s family lived. A couple of doors down, in front of a large building with chipped stucco and peeling trim, Jacques spotted Yasin in the yard. He rolled down the window and yelled, “Hey!” as they went by.

  “You know somebody who lives there?” Dad asked. “Is that one of the Somali boys?”

  “Yeah,” Jacques said. “We play basketball together sometimes.”

  “Do you recognize the place?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “That’s where your mother and I lived when you were born. We had a tiny apartment on the fifth floor; your room was practically a closet. It was hardly much, but we were happy.” Dad shook his head. “I won’t ever forget the day we brought you home—all those stairs with us carrying one of them baby ca
r seats. And you squawking the whole time!”

  Jacques turned and took another look as they passed by. He wondered if Yasin might be sleeping in the very same room.

  Orange and copper leaves covered the pebble beach at the lake. It was getting late in the season; the park wasn’t crowded. A couple of older men and a few young Somali boys were fishing from a wooden dock.

  The back of the pond was ringed with evergreens, and the water sparkled along the rocks in the autumn light. Mr. Silverstein was right, Jacques thought. It was pretty and peaceful. Usually he just didn’t notice.

  Jacques helped Dad set up the barbeque and unpack the coolers. Suddenly, Dad elbowed him and pointed. He could see a couple at the far edge of the beach, near the woods. Mr. Silverstein was casting a line in the water while Grandmère Jeannette watched. His arm swung above his head and whipped forward with surprising grace. Mr. Silverstein was wearing red suspenders over a black checkered shirt, and Grandmère Jeannette had on her orange cap. From a distance, Jacques thought, they both looked a lot younger. Suddenly, Mr. Silverstein slipped one arm around Grandmère Jeannette’s waist and guided her hands along the fishing rod. Wait . . . was Grandmère Jeannette giggling?

  “Let’s leave the love birds for the time being, shall we?” Dad pulled out two Cokes and threw hot dogs on the grill. “By the way, I’ll need your help with chores tomorrow.”

  “There’s a girls’ soccer game in the morning,” Jacques said quickly. “I’m kind of supposed to be there.”

  “Ladies soccer, huh?” Dad grinned. “Somebody special on the field?”

  “Coach Morrin wants the guys to show support, that’s all.”

  Dad flipped the hotdogs and nodded. “Coach is right. We can do the work in the afternoon.”

  When Jacques looked up, Grandmère Jeannette and Mr. Silverstein were walking toward them. Grandmère Jeannette had the fishing rod in one hand and was holding something gray and shiny with a white belly in the other. Her hair fell in loose curls below the cap, and her lips were open in the broadest grin Jacques had ever seen. Hanging from a hook in Grandmère Jeannette’s left hand was a long fat bass for dinner.

  26

  The next morning Jacques pulled on his new Arsenal jersey and headed over to meet Sammy and Tim O’Shea on the way to the girls’ match. By the time the boys got to the field, a group of kids had already gathered on the sidelines.

  Lucy held a large neon poster with GIRL POWER written in capital letters and underlined twice. She was wearing a chunky green cardigan that made her eyes glow. When Lucy spotted Jacques she raised the sign higher and screamed, “GO, GO, GO!” even though the players were still warming up. She paused and glanced over her shoulder. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” Jacques mouthed back. His heart was racing, but it was good, all good. Maybe he and Lucy could go get pizza after the game.

  Mohamed and Yasin walked up beside them.

  “We going to see what the girls can do!” Mohamed exclaimed.

  Jacques grinned at the guys and nodded. “I heard some of them aren’t half bad.”

  Suddenly, Lucy whistled and waved her sign furiously toward the field. “Jacques, isn’t that . . .”

  A tall man wearing a COACH jersey was sprinting in front of the team.

  “What the heck?” Sammy exclaimed. “It’s your—”

  “Dad!” Jacques shouted.

  Dad turned and jogged toward the boys as Jacques ran onto the turf.

  “What are you doing here?” Jacques gasped.

  “See that man over there, the girls’ coach? He’s my sponsor, the one that’s helping me with the drinking. So now I’m the assistant coach. His idea of therapy, I guess.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Jacques’s mouth was still open.

  “Thought I might surprise you.” Dad stretched his arms and grinned. “Can’t say I know that much about this game, though. You up for showin’ your old man a few drills later on?”

  “Sure, yeah. We could practice at the park.”

  The ref blew the whistle to begin. Dad saluted and ran back. The boys watched as Lucy and Nicole led the crowd in a synchronized wave.

  “Hey, look over there!” O’Shea pointed to the far end of the field. Jacques turned just in time to see the ball spinning through the air. A girl wearing a blue head scarf and long baggy gym pants was coming down from a header.

  Jacques pivoted, grabbing Mohamed’s arm. “What’s going on? Is that Kiki? She didn’t tell me! I thought . . .”

  “Coach Morrin explained to Hooyo that girls who play soccer can get college scholarships. So Hooyo spoke to all the family, and she decided to let Kiki try.” Mohamed ran his tongue over his lips. “Coach says boys can get the scholarships too.”

  Somebody booted a corner kick to the top of the penalty box, and Kiki lunged forward. In an instant, the ball hit the inside of her foot and flew into the air. The other girls slowed down to watch the ball speed toward the far edge of the goal, while the goalie tripped and rolled in a futile attempt to stop it.

  “She scored!” Jacques grabbed Sammy’s shirt. “Kiki got one in!”

  The rest of the team surrounded Kiki in a group hug.

  “Not too bad.” Mohamed knocked knuckles with all the guys, while Lucy and Nicole danced in circles.

  Jacques watched as Kiki flew across the field. She was every bit as fast as her brother, dodging left and right and making contact with the ball with the same natural ease.

  “GO, KIKI! GO!” Jacques yelled as loud as he possibly could.

  Kiki turned for a split second and raised both arms in the air. With a quick twist, she swung to the left and raced away, chasing the ball like nothing could ever stop her.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Writing is a labor of love, and many whom I love help me write. THANK YOU to my many friends and colleagues at Westport Writers’ Workshop, including Maggie Mudd, Valerie Leff, and Susan Lynton, as well as friends and readers Laura Toffler-Corrie, Sari Bodi, Christine Pakkala, and Michaela McColl, who listened over the years and poured over my prose—smiled when something was good and shook their heads when something was dreadful.

  Special thanks to my writing mentors: Suzanne Hoover, for her unfailing sense of craft and razor sharp nuggets of wisdom, and Pat Reilly Giff, for simply being the kindest, most generous, and encouraging role model in writing and in life.

  It was Pat who first raved about my amazing editor, Mary Cash. Thank you, Mary, for bringing out the best writing with sensitivity and care. And grateful thanks to my terrific agent, Susan Cohen at Writers House, for believing in this book, and her ace assistant, Nora Long, for her helpful comments.

  My childhood home in Maine, which in recent years experienced a large influx of Somali immigration, was the inspiration for this story, and my father, who sought out any and all opportunities for cultural exchange when I was a child, is a secret character here, along with my remarkable mother, who came to America as a refugee and was the wedding gown saleswoman extraordinaire at our family bridal shop.

  I could not have done this book without the help of wonderful, inspiring Somali teen readers. It was a privilege to see the experience of growing up in Maine through their eyes. Thank you for sharing your lives and for showing me how strong and resilient kids can be.

  Big hugs to my children—yes, especially you, Sarah—not only for reading, but for answering every last question I ever have about what a kid in any particular situation just might think.

  To my brilliant and darling husband, thank you for smiling through it all, or most of it. It was when you liked it, that I finally thought it was good.

  And lastly, heartfelt thanks to Mrs. McDonald, my fourth grade teacher at Lake Street Elementary School, who let me stay inside at recess and write.

 

 

 
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