by Maria Padian
Also by Maria Padian
Brett McCarthy: Work in Progress
Jersey Tomatoes Are the Best
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2013 by Maria Padian
Jacket photograph copyright © 2013 by Thomas Szadziuk/Trevillion Images
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Visit us on the Web! randomhouse.com/teens
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Padian, Maria
Out of nowhere / by Maria Padian
p. cm.
Summary: Performing community service for pulling a stupid prank against a rival high school, soccer star Tom tutors a Somali refugee with soccer dreams of his own.
eISBN: 978-0-375-89610-1
[1. Soccer—Fiction. 2. Refugees—Fiction. 3. Somali Americans—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.P1325Ou 2013
[Fic]—dc23
2012005653
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.1
For my grandparents: Catherine Veronica Flanagan, Michael Joseph Padian, Margarita Prados Arreche, and Fernando Claudio Morales, who came with their hearts and their stories to America
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter One
It’s like he came out of nowhere.
I was stuck, okay? I’ll man up to that. We were playing Maquoit High School. I mean, more than half their guys play four-season private club soccer. Olympic Development Program, that sort of thing. So yeah, I’m in the midfield with the ball and there’s no one—repeat, no one—open on our team, and Maquoit’s big man, the one we call Sasquatch, is bearing down on me. Six foot three, hairy, and he flies over the field. He’s about to end my young life unless I dribble forward, right into their two equally behemoth defensive players.
I’m thinking, Is this what you want, God? Fine. Hurl me headlong into those two Maquoit defenders, who will not only strip the ball from me but lay me out on the green, green grass. Fine. So long, life.
That’s what I was thinking when I heard him.
Not God. I never hear God. I heard him. Saeed, the new guy.
“Pass bahk!”
There was something about his cry, and I don’t just mean the accent, that startled me. His voice … commanded. So while I didn’t see him, I didn’t hesitate. I mean, what the hell, there was nobody else open. So I flipped the ball behind me in the direction of that strange voice, then did the unthinkable: I took one step toward Sasquatch and planted my feet. Prepared for the impact.
The sidelines roared, and on my right this blur, this shadow dressed in our team uniform, flashed past me. I watched as he scooped up my pass and moved like blowing smoke, weaving a path toward the goal. The Maquoit defenders couldn’t close ranks on him in time. Sasquatch couldn’t change direction. I think half our team didn’t even realize he had possession, the guy was that quick. So when he lasered the ball into the net, inches from their goalie’s hands, and Sasquatch, traveling at forty miles per hour, body-slammed the wind right out of me, I don’t think anyone saw the impact. I heard cheering, yelling … before I hit the ground.
I don’t know how long I lay there, gently pressing each rib and testing for cracks, focusing on the challenge of pulling air into my lungs, before a face loomed over mine, blocking the sun.
“Bouchard? Hey, man, are you dead?”
Alex Rhodes, the Maquoit captain. I hadn’t spoken to Alex in a long time. But he has one of those voices you remember. Sense of humor you remember, too. I bent one knee, squinted. A second face appeared next to Alex.
Saeed. He was the first from our team to reach me.
“You okay?” he said.
I nodded automatically, even though I was anything but. I tried to draw another breath and it worked a little better. I had a sense of bodies moving close and a voice telling people to step back. I tried another breath, and it was good, so I nodded again. A hand grasped mine. Pulled me up. And people clapped. Outdoor claps, the sound carried by the wind, like Wiffle balls striking plastic bats. I turned to face him.
He was the kind of skinny you noticed. Like, you could make out the skeleton just beneath the surface. But he was strong. That hand in mine pulled hard, and the muscles of his arms stretched sinewy and tight.
I’d known he’d be strong. I’d sensed it that first day he showed up at school, wearing a Manchester United T-shirt. Everybody in homeroom was asking him, “Dude, where’d you get the shirt?” but he didn’t seem to understand the question. Mike Turcotte, who has a knack for communicating in made-up sign language with all the new Somali kids, got Saeed to show him the tag on the shirt’s collar. “Damn!” he’d exclaimed. “That’s a real Manchester United shirt! Made in England.”
While the rest of the guys tried to figure out where in hell a refugee kid with zero money got a shirt like that, I’d pulled up a chair next to Saeed.
“You like soccer?” I’d asked. Pointing to his shirt, I used the English name: “Football?”
Relief flooded his face. He understood.
“Soccer,” he repeated, nodding vigorously. He pressed his hand against his chest. “Yes. I play.”
As I stood on the field with him, feeling my ribs and wondering if Sasquatch had just handed me a season-ending injury, those words came back to me. It struck me that “I play” was possibly the understatement of the century.
Saeed smiled at me, his lips stretched back against his teeth, bright white in his face. Black, black face. African black, not American black.
“Great pass,” he said, lightly punching the side of my shoulder. He pronounced each word hesitantly, as if it were a new food he was tasting for the first time.
“Great goal,” I said. Wheezed, actually. It was hard to talk. He turned and sprinted back to his position on the field. The other Somali guys crowded him, laughing and slapping him on the back.
Alex was retreating, too. He winked at me.
“Nice goal, but you’re goin’ down, Bouchard,” he said
. Quietly, for my ears only, glancing at the approaching referee: “Even if you do have Osama over there playing for you.” He turned and trotted back to center.
Yeah, fuck you, Rhodes, I managed to not say.
The ref spoke to me.
“You need to come out?” he said.
I shook my head. Nothing hurt anymore, and my lungs could fill again. As I walked slowly back to midfield, I scanned the crowd. My mom was in her usual spot, standing in front of the folding camp chair that Dad got her from Marden’s. On the other side of the field, Donnie Plourde and the rest of them were taunting a pack of Maquoit fans and acting mad-hammered. He probably was. Maquoit had better score fast and shut him up before a fight broke out.
To the left of Donnie and Co., I saw Cherisse. She had her girlfriends all clustered around her, and she was clutching her hands beneath her chin in this little worried pose. They squealed on cue when I nodded in her direction, and they gave her these little reassuring squeezes when they saw that her boyfriend was still alive. It’s something I can never quite get over: the way girls are always hugging each other. Like, even when we change classes, as if years have passed since their last hug and not just the forty-five minutes between math and history.
We didn’t win that day—nobody beats Maquoit—but we gave ’em a scare. Saeed scored once more, and I managed a goal. Maybe three seems lame compared to their five, but usually they dominated us. Three to five was a step in the right direction.
After the handshake line and Coach’s wrap-up I looked for Saeed. He was at the far end of the bench, slipping a backpack over his shoulders. As I walked toward him, this little kid approached. From the spectators’ side of the field he ran straight for Saeed, so fast you thought he was going to topple over. A girl chased him. Well, sort of chased. She wore a long skirt and couldn’t move like the kid. She was calling, “Aweys! Aweys, you come back here now!”
The kid closed the distance and jumped on Saeed as I reached them. I recognized him then. One of the little brothers I’d met the day I went to their apartment.
“Hey, man. Well done today,” I said. I put my hand out.
Saeed placed the kid on the ground. He shook my hand and smiled.
“Great game,” he said carefully.
I laughed. “Actually, we sucked. But we sucked less thanks to you. Where’d you learn to play like that?”
His brow contracted, forming a thin line over his nose. “Great pass,” he finally said, nodding at me. Smiling.
“I keep forgetting you don’t understand a thing I’m saying, do you?” I replied, grinning back at him. His smile deepened and he looked relieved. Pleased that he was pulling off a conversation.
“You know my brother’s English isn’t very good,” I heard.
It was the girl. The sister, actually. I recognized her, too, although I couldn’t remember the name. Sonya … Sasha? Anyway, she seemed a little out of breath from chasing the kid. Which probably wasn’t easy to do in a skirt. A long, colorful skirt all the way to her sneakers, and a leather bomber jacket on top. She wore big gold earrings that practically hit her shoulders, and unlike most of the Somali girls at our school, who covered up so that the only part of their heads you saw was this small circle of face, she had just a little black scarf tied around her hair.
Unlike her brothers, she wasn’t smiling at me.
And unlike her brothers, she spoke great English.
“Yeah, I know,” I said easily. “But his soccer kicks ass.” Her non-smile deepened to a frown at the word ass.
“I asked him where he learned to play,” I continued.
She hesitated for a moment, then said something to Saeed in what I assumed was Somali. He looked at me and shrugged.
“I, uh, always play.” He shrugged again. As if the outrageous soccer he’d just demonstrated on the field was no big deal.
“Where we come from, boys play soccer all the time,” the girl said. “Outside, every day. Saeed also played in the Ramadan leagues.”
Ramadan. Now that I knew. Only not in relation to sports.
“I thought Ramadan was the month when you don’t eat,” I said.
One corner of her mouth turned up. She was trying not to laugh at me.
“Ramadan is a holy month in which we fast during the day and eat in the evening,” she said. “In Nairobi, coaches form teams during Ramadan, and if you win, you earn money. Or dinner out, at night.” She looked steadily into my eyes. “When you’re hungry, a meal at a restaurant is a good incentive for scoring.”
The way she easily used words like incentive made you wonder how she could be related to smiling Saeed.
“Well, thanks for explaining that,” I said. “I’m Tom Bouchard, by the way. Tell me your name again?”
She bent to scoop the little guy into her arms. “I know who you are,” she said quietly. She glanced quickly at Saeed, then turned on her heel and headed back across the field. Saeed hooked his thumbs in the straps of his pack, nodded once more at me, and followed them.
As I watched them go, I thought, Wow. That girl does not like me.
It’s weird when a total stranger already has her mind made up about you.
Chapter Two
Here’s the fact, and I know I’m gonna sound like a jerk, but whatever: girls like me.
Girls like me, and I like girls. A lot.
So the full frontal drop-dead glare and the way-unfriendly attitude I got from Saeed’s sister were a first. And undeserved. Not only because I don’t usually get that sort of reaction from females, but because I had actually been nice to her brother. Unlike probably half the people in our city and most of the kids in school, who would’ve been thrilled to see them all get back on the buses they’d arrived in.
You gotta wonder who the genius was that came up with the plan to put a bunch of Africans in Maine, the coldest, whitest state in America.
Okay, maybe Alaska is colder. But not whiter. And it’s true that the Somalis who began showing up in Enniston by the hundreds started out someplace else. Warm places like Georgia and Southern California. Our town wasn’t ever anybody’s first bright idea. We’d gotten what’s called a “secondary migration” (my aunt Maddie taught me that term), which is when refugees who have just barely made it out alive from some war zone are dumped in a city where there are plenty of cheap apartments, but as soon as they learn a few words of English, they realize their situation sucks. Like, the guy next door deals drugs and the schools are bad. So they move to a better place. Like Enniston. Which has pretty low crime, okay schools, and loads of cheap, empty apartments.
And empty mills. Big, abandoned textile factories that once hummed and spewed lint and gummed up the river and put a whole army of French-speaking immigrants from Canada, like my great-grandparents, to work. All dilapidated now, except for the ones converted to office space or restaurants serving brick-oven organic free-range something-or-other baked on a crust. I mean, I don’t eat that shit, but I have a few friends who landed jobs working in those places, so it’s all good.
Anyway, just around the time a bunch of Muslims took out the Twin Towers, a bunch of Somali Muslims started seriously secondary-migrating here. There had been a few of them in town for years, but this was different. Every day in school you saw more of them in the guidance office, these black kids who barely spoke English. They would wander, lost, through the halls, trying to figure out the whole concept of changing classes. The girls would wash their feet in the restroom sinks before lunch, which made them real popular with Cherisse’s crowd (not). One day I saw this Somali girl on all fours on the staircase landing. Everybody had to step around her, and I heard one guy say, “Dude, what is she doing?”
“Facing Mecca,” someone replied.
“Where’s Mecca?” somebody else asked.
“It’s out by the mall,” a third answered, which got a few laughs.
But not everyone was laughing. People were mad. Worried. Especially teachers. Who didn’t know what to do with hundreds of ki
ds who just showed up and didn’t know English. Hell, a lot of them couldn’t even read and write their own language.
My mom and her sister, my aunt Maddie, are very big into the whole immigrant-ancestor thing. They’re always going on about our mémère Louise and pépère Claude, who came here from Quebec to work in the mills. So when the Somali families began showing up in big numbers and people started freaking out, Mom and Aunt Maddie said it was just the “new wave.” As in immigrants. Not Blondie, or the B-52s, or that other crap music they listened to when they were in high school.
My uncle Paul, their younger brother, got really pissed off when they said that.
“Our ancestors came here to work. These people came here to collect welfare,” he fumed.
Sometimes it’s hard for me to imagine how Aunt Maddie and Uncle Paul came from the same family. They’re that different. He’s a total working-class dude, never went to college and proud of it, while she’s got a couple of degrees in something and is always going to talks at the local college. Mom says when they were young, Maddie was the most beautiful girl at Chamberlain High School. Voted homecoming queen her senior year … then turned it down and boycotted homecoming, calling the whole queen thing sexist and saying that football embodied just about everything that was wrong with America.
My girlfriend, Cherisse, would give up a vital organ or sell her soul to Satan if she thought it’d earn her homecoming queen.
Anyway, I didn’t quite get Paul’s attitude about the Somalis. Maybe it had something to do with how he works hard and hates freeloaders. He’s always coming up with ways for me to earn some cash. Like the day after the soccer game against Maquoit. Paul had a potential two cords of sixteen-inch logs with my name and Donnie’s on them. He lives just outside town in this little house he mostly built himself, surrounded by trees, and last winter ice storms took out two big oaks on his property. He’d spent the summer chainsawing them into monster-sized chunks, and he wanted me and Donnie to split and stack them.
When I arrived at ten that morning and walked around to the back of his house, I could hear the mechanical drone and smell the diesel from the splitter he’d rented. He was wearing his red chamois work shirt and had already split a decent-sized pile of green wood into three-sided lengths. Paul is a beast. He’d probably been up for hours, impatient to get started.