by Maria Padian
“No problem, bro. It’s all good.” Donnie’s backpack landed beside me with a thud. He flopped on the ground.
“Didn’t mean you.” I tilted my head toward Samira’s retreating back. “I meant her. Saeed’s sister.”
“Saeed the soccer dude?” Donnie asked. “I didn’t know he had a sister.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. I told him then. About the hostile looks and the stuck-up attitude. As I spoke, this incredulous expression spread across Donnie’s face.
“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” he said. “You are dating the hottest female in our high school and you want to know why some girl who goes around dressed in multicolored bedsheets is giving you the evil eye? You care about this why?”
“They don’t wear bedsheets. Get with the cultural program, man.”
“Whatever,” Donnie said. “I don’t see why this is getting to you. Who knows what the hell they’re thinking behind those burkas? Who cares?”
I stared at him.
“Wow. That sucks. Even for you,” I said. Donnie laughed. I shook my head.
“What?” he said.
“That was, like, totally out of line.”
His eyes widened.
“Since when did you start getting all politically correct? Please. You know I don’t give a damn what color somebody is or what they wear. This is the land of the free and the home of the brave and they can join the club and do fuck-all, as far as I’m concerned. Which still doesn’t explain why you’re so upset that one girl out of five hundred at Chamberlain High isn’t worshipping at your altar.”
Ahead of us, the long line of mustard-yellow school buses was preparing to pull out. Drivers had begun flashing their taillights and retracting the little stop signs that stuck out the sides. Only one bus seemed behind the curve; people were still standing on the sidewalk, waiting to climb aboard.
“Besides, when has Tom Bouchard ever given a rat’s ass about what some girl thinks?” Don continued, grinning at me. He was being a real comedian.
“You know, just because you’re a total douchebag about girls doesn’t mean I am,” I replied.
He burst out laughing.
“What?” I demanded.
“You think dating below your pay grade isn’t being a total douche?”
Unbelievable.
“So Cherisse isn’t rich enough? Tell me I’m not hearing this.”
Donnie shook his head.
“I’m not talking about money. I’m talking about quality. Hey, I mean, I get it! If I were big man on campus with a side of rock star, like you, I’d date the high school hottie, too. But you gotta admit: she’s not in your league.”
Something was wrong with the bus. Kids on the sidewalk were stepping back to make space for kids who were getting out.
“You sound like my parents,” I told him.
He shook his head. “No, your parents want you to date Liz Painchaud and the rest of the National Hypocrites Society. I just want to see you with someone who doesn’t suck.”
I tried to imagine what sort of guy would date Liz Painchaud, destroyer of male egos (“You guys are all idiots,” she likes to say), destroyer of test curves (“Sorry, kids, but Liz got a hundred again”), and destroyer of fun (“Mrs. Wilkins, I know you said we were watching Gangs of New York today, but could we review for the history exam instead?”). She is a terrifying person. The type of intellectual snob who will most likely attend the sort of college my guidance counselor keeps pushing at me.
The other bus drivers, oblivious to whatever was going on with the stalled bus, began pulling away from the curb, forming a rumbling elephant line down the long driveway leading away from the school. The other bus was still disgorging students. A few jumped out. Like they were in a hurry.
“How did we even get on this topic?” I asked.
“You were trying to figure out why Saeed’s sister hates you.”
“Right. You know, you’re asking me why I care, and here’s the thing: I have to see her. I might have to work with her at that K Street Center. And she’s even turning that Myla against me. I mean, I was getting along with her pretty well, then Samira had to make a huge deal about how I was only there because I had gotten in trouble and needed community service.”
“I’m sorry. Who are we talking about?”
“Myla. She’s a volunteer there. She goes to Mumford. She was talking to Samira that first day I went for homework help.” I stood up, glanced at my watch. “You ready to hit the hardware store?”
Don looked like he was concentrating on something. “What’s she look like? This Myla.” I shrugged.
“Kind of a hippie. Pierced nose. Wears clothes the color of dirt. She’s really small. I thought at first she was one of the kids at the place.”
“Cute?” Donnie pressed.
“Huh?”
He looked impatient. “Is the Mumford student cute? You know, good-looking?” He waited.
“I don’t know. I guess.”
Donnie made this sound. Like a horse blowing air from its nostrils. “What do you mean, you guess? A guy doesn’t guess. Tom Bouchard doesn’t guess. You assess. Instantly. Girl in sight: Hot? Not?”
I paused. I thought of something.
“She’s got great eyes.”
Don laced his fingers behind his head and stretched full out on the grass. Eyes closed, this shit-eatin’ grin on his face.
“Mystery solved, dude.”
“What mystery?”
“The mystery of why you give a flying whatever about what Samira thinks of you,” Donnie said. “You think the older woman with the great eyes has potential, and you don’t want her grouchy little Muslim friend saying anything to spoil your chances.”
That’s when we heard the yelling. The kids on the sidewalk were shouting something. One person was running back toward the school. Then, from the bus door, like they’d been shot from a cannon, four guys popped out. Arms and legs flailing, they were beating the crap out of each other.
Two were white; two were black.
“Whoa,” said Donnie, sitting up. “Fight.”
The bus driver emerged, and we could see him trying to separate the boys, but he was no match for four furious high schoolers. One of them happened to wheel around, and I recognized him.
Jake Farwell.
“Oh no, those are our guys!” I exclaimed. I sprinted toward the bus. Don followed me.
I took one just above my eye and my nose was bleeding all over the front of my shirt by the time enough of us were able to pull them apart. Donnie had Jake on the ground and was literally sitting on him; the bus driver had one of the black guys in a headlock. I recognized him. A junior varsity soccer player. Somali kid.
As soon as most of the action was over, the school resource officer and Principal Cockrell showed up. We could see them huffing and puffing as they raced across the lawn. The guy I was holding, Roger Pelletier, angrily tried to wrench himself from my grip.
“Cut it out, you stupid fuck!” I yelled at him. My nose wasn’t right. It seriously hurt. I was going to be really pissed if one of these jerks had just broken my nose.
“Get your hands off me, Bouchard!” he insisted. I pressed my knee into the small of his back instead.
Don and I never made it to the hardware store that afternoon. We got stuck in the principal’s office, describing what we had seen, and with the school nurse, who really doesn’t do much besides hand out ice packs. Don had this amazing shiner, which started swelling up like a multicolored flower.
“We are so badass,” I heard him say at one point, but I was sitting with my head tilted back to slow the bleeding and ice on my nose to prevent swelling, so even though I wanted to laugh, I couldn’t. Especially because I was so mad.
Jake was a midfielder. Roger was a striker. Two senior starters on the soccer team, now facing serious suspension time.
And we had a big game on Saturday.
Chapter Seven
Here’s the fact: Jake Farwell and R
oger Pelletier are assholes.
Yeah, I party with Jake once in a while. I mean, he’s my teammate. But he and Roger are well-known jerks. Have been for as long as anyone can remember.
The other two guys? I didn’t know them, but word from Ismail was that they were dipshits, too. So what we all knew was that the fight on the bus had nothing to do with race or religion. It was just pure asshole-ness.
Of course, “Assholes Fight” is not a newspaper-selling headline in the post-9/11 world. “Ethnic Tensions Flare” sure is. So the night after the fight, a reporter called Coach.
I don’t know what Coach said to get the guy to back off, because nothing was ever printed. But the rest of us got an earful at the next practice.
“I know you didn’t ask for this,” Coach began. “But people are watching us. They’re watching to see whether you boys can work together. Play together. Trust and respect each other and become a team. And whether we like it or not, it’s a responsibility. And an opportunity.”
He said Enniston is a city on a hill, which I guess is right; it seems to get higher in places. But what he meant was that because of our situation, with all the new immigrants coming to Enniston, and most of them Muslim, people were gonna notice what we did. So while four boys fighting in any other city wouldn’t be news, in Enniston? When it’s white on black? Muslim on Christian? Front page.
The good thing was that we didn’t end up in the paper. The even better thing was that as a result of the fight, classes got canceled for an entire day. The not-so-great thing was that instead, we had to do civil rights workshops.
It was kind of stupid, actually, because not only are there hardly any fights at Chamberlain, but the few we do have are almost never white versus black. Most are between white guys who start out drinking together on Saturday night, then end up throwing things at each other. Once in a while an American black kid and an immigrant black kid will fight. But a lot of what’s going on is actually between the immigrant kids. Old fights they brought with them from Africa. Sudanese kids versus Somalis. Somali Bantus versus ethnic Somalis. I mean, they’re all Somali, but some are, like, Somali Somali (ethnic) and came to Maine a while ago, while the others, Somali Bantus? These were the dudes showing up more recently. In big numbers.
They didn’t hang out together. This was made real clear on workshop day, when Mr. Cockrell and Co. brought in these anti-hate-crime experts (huh?) who started us all off with this big assembly (yawn), then broke us into small discussion groups led by handpicked student leaders (uh-oh). There was no way out of that, me being a sports captain plus a member of the National Hypocrites Society (Donnie’s term, not mine). I got to lead a group with Liz Painchaud—Gee, thanks, God—which should have meant I wouldn’t have to do much, since she loves to hear herself talk. Saeed was in our group, along with three Somali girls.
“Me and Lila are thinking of skipping this workshop thing,” Cherisse had informed me the night before. Not in person. A cell phone conversation from my bedroom, where I was supposedly compiling a list of colleges I planned to apply to. Mom was making the most of my groundation: no Cherisse on the premises, progress made on the apps. “Wanna join us?”
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Jake’s,” she said. Giggled. “Like, he’s really hating suspension. Not. The guy sleeps in, then watches ESPN all day while his parents are at work. Lila told him we’re jealous and coming over to par-tay. You in?”
I leaned back into the pillows on my bed, crunching papers that had somehow slipped behind me. I had the Fiske, Barron’s, and U.S. News and World Report guides to colleges on one side, and a stack of glossy brochures and college viewbooks on the other. I had to admit: all these places looked the same. All the students looked the same, in a carefully arranged, casually diversified way, with just the right number of Asians and brown people sitting next to athletic blondes and frat boys. Everybody smiling and appearing intellectually engaged.
“Love to, but I’m a leader, remember? I even had to miss practice today for my ‘training.’ ”
“Oh, screw that, Tommy. What a joke. C’mon.” She slipped into her pouty-little-girl voice. “What would you rather do: talk about civil rights with Liz Pain-in-the-ass, or spend time with me in Jake’s big, empty house?”
“Yeah, I think you know the answer to that one,” I said.
“So …?” she said.
“No can do. I’m already in the penalty box. Skipping school—and you know Liz will narc—isn’t in the cards for Tom Bouchard right now.”
She made this annoyed, feline sound, like someone was squeezing a cat.
“Lame. Lame lame lame,” she said. “I’ve got a lame boyfriend.”
“I know, right? Where’d you dig up such a loser?” She didn’t laugh.
“Uh … that was a joke?” I said. Still nothing. The girl was seriously pouting.
“If I were you, I’d come to school tomorrow.”
“Right. Give me one good reason,” she said grouchily.
“Because from what I hear from Jake, you’ll be a third wheel if you and Lila go over to his house. Meaning they’ll be in a room and you’ll spend the afternoon on his couch watching soaps.”
“That’s why you have to come with me!” she whined. A real fingernails-on-the-blackboard sound. We ended the call pretty much after that.
Next day, Liz and I were in our assigned classroom, going over the plan for our workshop, when Cherisse sauntered in. There were a dozen students and two leaders in each group, and I’d already seen the list for ours. Cherisse wasn’t on it.
“Hey, boyfriend,” she said, sliding up against me and hooking a finger into one of the belt loops of my jeans. She stared frankly at Liz. “That is a great sweater, Liz. You have to tell me where you got it!”
Liz glanced down at her own chest, as if she were trying to remember what she’d worn to school that day. It was a tan turtleneck.
“I … uh, couldn’t tell you, Cherisse. Are you in this group?”
Cherisse rested her head on my shoulder.
“Nooooo … I’m next door. But I asked them if I could switch. They said it’s up to you guys.”
Liz’s eyes widened. Other kids were starting to come in. Liz looked at me.
“These groups were carefully put together with gender and racial balance in mind,” she said.
“Oh, c’mon, Liz. One more in our group won’t matter.” I wasn’t in the mood to tangle with Cherisse.
Liz shook her head slowly from side to side. I could read her mind. You are pathetic, Bouchard, it said.
“Whatever, Tom. Just let me tell them next door that she’s in here.” She turned on her heel and walked away from us.
“Such a dweeb,” Cherisse muttered in my ear. “Remind me why we’re heeeeeere?” Semi-agonized tone.
“I thought you were cutting,” I said to her.
She sighed. “You were right. About Jake and Lila. She uninvited me.” I laughed.
I glanced around the room. Ellen Fitzgerald from my calc class had just come in. Three Somali girls entered together. A couple of guys I recognized from our JV team. And Saeed. He was the only Somali guy. The only other black guy was some kid named Jimmy who had just moved here from Portland.
We arranged our chairs in a circle and started with introductions. You had to give your name and tell everyone your favorite color, your favorite food, and something you liked to do. This was the rap our trainers had given us the day before. First: intros. Second: talk about ground rules. Third: role-playing game. Fourth: discuss role-playing game.
The idea was that after one day of this, nobody would fight anymore and we’d all get along.
Liz went first. The second she opened her mouth, I was reminded of this woman I once saw on television who did Carnival Cruise commercials. Same sort of high-energy enthusiasm.
“I’m Liz Painchaud, and I love the color yellow! My favorite food is chocolate cake, and believe it or not, I love to cross-stitch!”
&
nbsp; “Why wouldn’t we believe it?” Jimmy, from Portland. Liz looked a little knocked off track. Probably wasn’t expecting questions at that point.
“I don’t know. I guess because everybody thinks of me in other ways. Not sitting home doing cross-stitch. I haven’t exactly shared that before.”
So. Cross-stitch was a big “share” for Liz. Interesting.
“How else do people think of you?” Jimmy asked. Liz flashed me this help-me-out-here look, but I was actually curious to see how she’d answer that one, so I waited.
“Well … I don’t know,” she said, laughing nervously. “But maybe we should keep going. Right around the circle …”
Jimmy shrugged. “Okay, Ms. Liz. But I want to get back to you on that.” He looked at me. “I think you’re next, Leader Man,” he said.
“Why do I get the feeling you’ve done this before?” I said. He smiled.
“Oh yeah. At my old school in Portland? We’ve got all kinds of people.” He started counting off with his fingers. “We’ve got Cambodians. We’ve got Iranians. We’ve got Mexicans. We’ve got—”
“Can we please continue around the circle?” Liz insisted. From Cherisse’s side I heard a giggle. She’d found a seat next to Devon, and they were doing something on their phones.
“Hey!” Jimmy said sharply. Everyone jumped. He glared at Cherisse and Devon. “Show a little respect. Put those away.” People don’t usually speak to Cherisse like that.
She and Devon rolled their eyes. One muttered, “Whatever,” but the phones disappeared into their backpacks.
“Next,” Jimmy said to me.
“Okay, so I’m Tom Bouchard, and I like a lot of colors, but I guess I mostly like green. My favorite food is steak, and I like to play soccer.” I looked to my right.
“I’m Ellen Fitzgerald. Blue. Chocolate chip cookies. Skiing.”
“I’m John Gagne. Uh, I’m color-blind, so … pass.” Everyone laughed. “I like to play pond hockey. And the best food in the entire world, hands down, is poutine.”
“Say what?” Jimmy.
“Poutine,” John repeated. “It’s French fries, covered in cheese curds, covered in brown gravy. I had it when we went to Quebec this summer, and it is amazing.”