by Maria Padian
“Wow. Sorry, but … I’m in a state of shock, Uncle Paul. You were planning to come?”
He stares steadily into my eyes.
“You know, Tom, I don’t agree with everything you people are doing in here. But I sure as hell don’t agree with those bastards across town.”
One of the security guards comes up and motions Paul to a roped-off section near the front marked HANDICAPPED ACCESS. He wheels Donnie away and they disappear in the crush of people.
The program is, I’ll admit, a little boring. All the politicians need their turn at the mike, so there’s a lot of blah blah blah. But hey, at least they came. The mayor, who got this whole thing started, is “out of the state,” conveniently enough, and couldn’t attend. When they make that announcement, people start to chant and holler, so that’s pretty interesting. Then I notice Ibrahim has stepped up to the podium. He’s the first high school student to speak. The first Somali kid, for that matter. The whole auditorium quiets down to listen.
He does a good job. He’s reading from a prepared speech, and even though you can tell he’s freakin’ nervous—his voice shakes—he works to pronounce each word slowly and carefully. At first I don’t quite catch it, because I’m standing near the back and there are some little kids messing around and making a ruckus, but then their dad silences them. That’s when I catch what Ibrahim’s on about.
He’s telling them about our soccer team. He’s talking about, of all things, pasta parties. Music jams on the bus. Beating Maquoit. Becoming like brothers, all part of one family. He gestures toward Ismail and Mike, and they join him at the podium. People clap. Then he waves his hand out into the audience and starts calling names, and one by one I see guys from the team get out of their folding chairs and head toward the stage. Double M. Jake Farwell. A bunch of the JV guys. The group around the podium with Ibrahim swells, and the clapping increases, as more and more of the guys step forward.
Then Mike Turcotte leans in toward the microphone.
“We’d especially like our captain to join us up here. Tom Bouchard.”
Someone pushes me from behind. Myla. I didn’t know she was there; she’s been all over the place this afternoon.
“Go on, Cap. Your team needs you.”
I feel like I have to walk a long way, between a lot of clapping people, my face turning redder with every step. Never have I felt less deserving of attention, of applause. It gets worse as the guys see me coming, and they start to applaud as well. For me.
This is it, God, I think. The perfect time for the apocalypse. Or just a big, gaping black hole, right here, beneath your buddy Tom Bouchard. I’ll step right into it now, and disappear. Okay?
I reach the stage, mount the stairs, and stand at the podium with the guys. The view is awesome. It’s a sea of smiling, clapping, cheering people. Some I even recognize. Coach. My parents, who scored good seats in the middle. My guidance counselor, Mrs. Swift. All these people I’ve never seen in my life, but who braved the cold in order to prove that we’re better than hate, better than those guys across town.
That’s when I hear him.
Not God. I never hear God. I hear him.
We the team.
I whirl around. Double M and Jake Farwell stand directly behind me, and I look past and beyond them, but … no one. I look down the length of guys, but everyone is cheering with the crowd and waving to their friends in the audience. My heart swells as I realize just how badly I would have liked to stand on this platform with Saeed. How right it would have been for him to be here with all of us.
And I realize that in some way, forever, I will always be looking and listening for him.
Acknowledgments
I could not have written this book without the selfless generosity of the men, women, and young people who shared their stories with me. I was inspired by you all and hope I have created something that does justice to your spirit and your work. I am especially grateful to: Winnie Kiunga, Caroline Sample, Sarah Aschauer, Mike McGraw, Rick Speers and Molly Ladd and the staff at the Lewiston Public Library; Julia Sleeper, Kim Sullivan, Fahmo Ahmed, Fatuma Abdirahman, Kelley McDaniel and the students of King Middle School; Karin Dilman and the entire Shardi family, who welcomed me into their home; Gail and Peter Lowe; Beth Caputi and the Williams College Alumni Association; and my dear friend Ruth Bouchard Klein.
Many thanks to my wonderful agent, Edite Kroll; my excellent editor, Nancy Hinkel, who helped me shift the tectonic plates of this book when they needed shifting; editorial assistant Jeremy Medina, who handles everything with skill, speed, and good humor; and copy editor Sue Warga.
Thanks to my ever-supportive husband, Conrad Schneider, and my daughter, Madsy Schneider, who spent countless hours/years listening to me talk about all my imaginary friends.
Finally, my very sincere thanks go to Shobow Saban and Jonnie McDonough. You inspire us and make us proud.
MARIA PADIAN is the author of the young adult novels Jersey Tomatoes Are the Best and Brett McCarthy: Work in Progress, which was chosen as an ALA-YALSA Best Book for Young Adults and received a Maine Lupine Honor Award and a Maine Literary Award. A graduate of Middlebury College and the University of Virginia, she lives in Maine with her family. To learn more about her, visit mariapadian.com.