Dan returns, carrying his tray piled with pasta in a thick yellow sauce (evidently a school favorite—I’m curious to try it after Ramadan), a carton of milk, and a small ice cream. He dumps his backpack on the floor, sits across from me, and tears open the ice cream first. “I brought my dad’s old combat boots for our trade. Mom said that I should get rid of them.”
“You sure he won’t mind?” It seems strange to me that anyone would want to give up a pair of good combat boots. Those shoes can last years if they’re treated well. My plar was always proud of his.
“He doesn’t care.” Dan rolls his eyes and rubs his sleeve against his nose.
“All right…” I pull my legs up on the bench and tuck my feet under my thighs. “I have the Game Informer magazines. We’ll swap at practice.”
“Cool. Any news from Layla about the figurines?”
“Yes.” The table next to ours breaks into crazy laughter, and I have to lift my voice to a shout. “Layla said Mr. Byrne gave her fifty dollars for the fisher boy, forty-five for the kids holding hands, and fifty for the shepherdess.”
“Nice!” Dan lifts his hand for a high five.
I hesitate, then half stand so I can reach across the table to lightly smack his palm. As I sit again, I can’t help feeling a bit pleased. My third trade—iPod for figurines—and fourth trade—selling them to Cobwebs—are done. We’re nine days into Ramadan, and right now I feel more clearheaded than hungry. Baba brings home plenty of nice food from the restaurant, so we have enough to eat in the evenings. I have to stay up later than normal for iftar and tarawih prayers, which means I’m more tired during class, but I’m doing okay. Baba is still quieter than he used to be, but he doesn’t seem to be much worse, so if all goes according to plan, he’ll be back to normal after Ramadan when I give him the rebab. For once, everything feels like it’s falling into place.
Between bites, Dan asks about our game plan for the soccer match this afternoon. We brainstorm ideas—me drawing diagrams in my notebook—until the first bell goes off with a loud bbbbrrring. Students burst into action, and the cafeteria volume lifts another notch. Two teachers start giving orders.
“Be right back,” Dan says, taking his leftovers and hurrying to the washer lady. While he is fighting his way to the window where they return their trays, I stand and tug on my backpack, thinking, as always, about my trades. I tap open my note app and look through them again. Layla will be bringing the money from Mr. Byrne to practice. I’ll have to hide it from Baba—maybe under my mattress? And I’ll have the boots from Dan—I could stash them under my clothes in the closet to keep them a secret.
Someone separates from the mob by the door. It’s Peter, coming toward me. My stomach sinks, and I glance around for Dan, wanting to leave. He’s passing his tray to the lunch lady now. It would be rude to go without him, but Peter’s getting closer.
“How’d you like that iPod, Samantha?” Peter calls. He’s carrying his backpack by the strap, and he flicks my Man United key chain with his other hand.
I keep my mouth shut. Teachers say if you let people like Peter speak their minds, they’ll leave you alone. That isn’t how it worked in Turkey or Afghanistan, but maybe it will work in America. If I ignore him, Peter might just move on.
I can’t help glancing at the key chain again. Baba’s eyes were so sad when I told him I’d lost it. If the money weren’t for the rebab, it would not have been worth the cost.
“What? You not talking to me anymore?”
I stare past him, wearing the blank expression I used during the smuggling and border crossing. Peter’s between me and the door. I have no exit. My neck starts to sweat, but I concentrate on staying mute.
“I just want to know, what have you been listening to on the iPod? The audio is great, right?”
His taunting voice begs me to react. He wants to crow. If I agree that the iPod worked, he bullied me and he wins. If I say that the iPod didn’t work, he tricked me and he wins. If I do nothing, maybe he’ll find someone else to goad. I won’t look at him.
Dan hurries over, grabbing his backpack from the table without a glance at Peter. “Come on, Sami. We’re going to be late.”
“Your best bud was just about to tell me about his favorite bands,” Peter says, turning his attention to Dan. He flicks the key chain again. “Assuming they have bands in whatever desert he crawled from.”
“Back off, Pete.”
“I’m just trying to have a conversation! Why did you even pick this guy for the team?”
The team. Even though Dan told Peter I’m not a replacement, Peter’s angry that I took what he sees as his spot.
Peter pokes me in the chest. I let him. “Is there an on switch somewhere?”
Dan smacks Peter’s hand down. “I said back off.”
The air has tightened, an explosion ready to happen. Other kids separate from the crush by the door to come our way. They look curious, excited—spectators hoping for a scene. If Dan doesn’t cool off, we’re all going to get in trouble. My mor used to say, Once you lose your head, you’ve lost the battle.
“Dan, stop,” I murmur under my breath.
“What are you so wound up about, Danny Boy?” Peter goads. “You’re both such retards. An iPod for a key chain? You were totally asking for it!”
“You’re a flipping jerk!” Dan jabs a finger at Peter. “But guess what, loser?”
I sense what Dan’s about to say. I try to cut in. “Dan—”
“I fixed the iPod, and Sami just made over a hundred dollars off it.” Dan crosses his arms and grins. “So who’s the real idiot?”
Frustration crackles through my chest. “Dan.”
“What?” Peter scowls. “You did what?” His eyes turn back toward me.
About ten kids have gathered in a semicircle now, trapping us in the corner, Dan and me with our backs against the wall. They jostle each other, and Peter notices his audience.
“What’s happening over there?” Mrs. Mulligan calls, spying our huddle. She shoos the last of the other students out. “Time to go to class!”
“You’re a dirty cheat!” Peter shoves me so hard I stumble. “If the iPod works, I want it back. That’s not a fair trade!”
Dan pushes Peter away. “He can’t get it back, bacon brain.”
“Then give me the money,” Peter demands, looking straight at me instead of Dan.
I shake my head.
He leans in. “You wanna know what we do to people like you, bomb lover?”
Bomb lover. A loud rush swells in my ears.
Glass shattering across the yard, Baba’s face as he reaches for me, a hollow roar that freezes me in place, and my plar—my mor—
“Shut up!” Dan snaps.
“What’s going on?” Mrs. Mulligan says, making a gap in the kids.
I shrink back from her, from them all. My throat has gone drier than dust.
“We’ll see who’s the idiot,” Peter hisses at Dan. His eyes flick to me. “You don’t belong here, terrorist.”
“The Taliban have claimed the attack,” the Afghan policeman says. Baba’s fingers dig into my shoulder …
Peter raises his voice. “Give me my iPod!”
“Hey, everyone, calm down.” Mrs. Mulligan steps between us. She’s wide enough that Peter has to retreat. “What’s this about? Why aren’t you all in class?”
Some of the watching kids sneak away. It takes concentration for me to focus on what’s being said. My skin turns prickly and cold, and I rub the scar on my arm again and again.
“He stole my iPod,” Peter says, nodding toward me. “He stole it and won’t give it back.”
“You’re a filthy liar!” Dan shouts.
“Calm down, Dan,” Mrs. Mulligan scolds. “Everyone, take a deep breath.”
She waits, hands on hips, for a few seconds. I try to breathe, but it’s hard. Is being accused of stealing enough to get me deported to Turkey—or even Afghanistan?
Mrs. Mulligan inhales and exhales loudly.
“So he stole it, did he, Peter?”
“I saw him going through my backpack last Thursday. I just didn’t realize he’d taken it until today.”
“Is that so?” Mrs. Mulligan lifts an eyebrow at him. “Peter, do you know where I was sitting on Thursday?”
“Uh…”
“Right where I always do. There.” She points to a nearby table, the one that gives a good view of the whole room. “I saw you hand over an iPod.”
“Uh…”
“Ha!” shouts Dan, triumphant.
My heart gives a feeble beat.
“However”—Mrs. Mulligan shoots Dan a look—“you all have created a significant disruption. We need to talk to Principal Myers about this.”
“But—” Dan protests.
“That’s not—” starts Peter at the same time.
“No complaining. Come on.” Mrs. Mulligan points us out the door.
As he falls into step beside me, Peter leans over to whisper, “Who do you think they’re gonna believe caused this—me or ISIS Junior?”
When he straightens, he’s already smiling.
* * *
TRADE LOG
Days: 20
Have: $145
Need: $555
PLANNED TRADES:
Game Informer magazines for combat boots (Dan)
COMPLETED TRADES:
1. Manchester United key chain -> iPod
2. Coins -> Game Informer magazines
3. iPod -> Figurines
4. Figurines -> $145
* * *
13
The three of us are kept waiting outside the principal’s office. We already talked to him once, but we had to go to afternoon classes. Now we’ve been brought here again. I hold my backpack in my lap and fix my gaze on the clock: 3:10. School is ending now, and our parents are supposed to come get us.
Which, for me, means Baba.
I start counting the tiles on the floor of the waiting area, again. When my head fills with numbers, it’s easier to avoid memories.
The school phoned Baba. I tried to convince them not to—I didn’t want Baba to take any time off, not when he’d have to make it up later. If I had the money on me, I almost would have given it to Peter just to make him stop all this, to keep Baba from getting involved.
But a hard stubbornness has settled in my stomach, and it keeps me silent.
Because he’s wrong.
Bomb lover keeps going through my head. Terrorist.
I pinch my wrist and concentrate on the tiles. Twenty-three, twenty-four … Just keep counting. Think about anything other than a past full of bombs and a future full of jail. Or a future deported. I’m not sure which is worse.
The bell rings and I start, nearly dropping my bag. In the main hall, voices shout and sneakers squeak and lockers slam. I lean my head on the wall. This is so far from the day I’d expected—going to the rec center, playing soccer, trading with Dan.
Dan’s sitting a few chairs over, sketching soccer-maneuver plans in his notebook. If he had held his temper, this wouldn’t have happened. I know he was just trying to help, but I feel annoyed anyway. Dan’s defense has only made me a bigger target for Peter. And Dan hasn’t shown the least sign of being aware that he made things worse.
The door to the office drags on the floor as Baba pushes it open. I sit up straight. He shoots me a confused, worried look but says to the secretary, “I am Sami’s grandfather. I was told to come meet the principal?”
The secretary nods. “Just have a seat for now. We’re still waiting on Dan’s and Peter’s parents to arrive.”
“Thank you.” Baba takes the chair next to mine.
I hug my backpack tighter, not sure what to say to him. Peter steals sideways glances at us, especially at Baba’s wiry beard and his gray lungee in its simple twist. Anger coils around my lungs, but I hold it in.
Baba doesn’t say anything, either. He is tired—I can tell by the way he lays his palms flat against his knees. I feel his uncertainty as he slowly examines the room—the tiled floor and water-stained ceiling, the secretary’s desk and old computer, the filing cabinet behind her, and the stuffed cat lying on top of it. This is the first time he’s been called to a principal’s office. I’ve never been in trouble, not even in the makeshift schools in Greece and Turkey.
The clock on the wall ticks slowly to three thirty. Most of the noise in the school dies down as people leave, and then the only sound is the secretary scrolling through her Facebook page. Though she’s made the window small on her computer to hide what she’s doing, I can still see the white-and-blue layout from where I’m sitting. Sometimes she snorts at a funny post. Peter watches the door, switching between hooking his feet around the legs of his chair and letting them swing free. Dan doesn’t look up from his soccer schemes. I’m beginning to wonder if he actually cares about anything but them.
At 3:35 a woman hurries in, pushing the door so hard it hits the wall. She’s dressed in a wrinkled suit, her hair pulled back but falling out of the tie. She’s on the phone and says quickly, “I know, but I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’m sorry. See you then.”
When she puts the phone into her purse, she accidentally drops her CharlieCard on the floor. It lands near Baba’s feet, and he picks it up before she can finish her tight sigh.
“Oh, thanks,” she says, accepting it and pushing her hair back. Taking a deep breath, she closes her eyes a moment and then turns to Peter. Her eyebrows lift a little in worry. She sits, touching Peter’s arm. “How are you doing, kid?”
He pulls away, rolling his eyes.
“Hi, Susan,” she says to the secretary.
“Hi, Katrina. How’s the dog?”
“Doing better, thanks.”
The door opens again, and this time a woman with Dan’s same blond hair slips in, her cheeks—already red—getting even darker when she glances around the room. “Sorry, everyone, my—uh—Kevin was going to come, but—anyway, sorry I’m late.”
“No problem. I’ll just get Mr. Myers,” the secretary says, opening the principal’s door. “They’re all here, Jon.”
“This is stupid,” Peter mutters, picking up his backpack from the floor and throwing it onto the chair next to him.
“Shush, Peter,” his mom murmurs.
Dan’s mom sits, glancing from Dan—busy with his soccer sketches—to me. “Are you Sami? Dan’s said a lot about you.”
“I, um … yes.” I glance at Baba.
But he’s staring at Peter’s backpack. My Manchester United key chain is right there, clear for anyone to see. My heart suddenly feels like it’s been sucked into quicksand.
Mr. Myers comes out. He’s a gray-haired man with a thick mustache, a bit like the US president Theodore Roosevelt we’ve studied in class.
“Hello, Ms. Cooper, Ms. Reeves, Mr. Safi.” He shakes hands with each of them. “So we had a bit of a disturbance today. Started over an argument. Daniel Reeves says Sami traded a key chain for an iPod.”
Baba looks at me slowly. “Sami?”
I open and close my mouth.
“Peter agreed to the trade because the iPod was broken. Then Dan fixed it, and Peter wanted it back. At any rate, the argument escalated, which is why we’re all here.”
“I’m so sorry,” Dan’s mom says. “But I—I have an appointment with my lawyer in just over an hour, and I need to get across town. I really hate to do this, but could you just let us know what the kids are facing?”
Before Mr. Myers answers, Peter’s mom leans over to put her hand over Dan’s mom’s. “It’s okay, Meg.” She looks at Baba and the principal. “Can we call this whole thing end-of-the-year tension and leave it there? I’m not upset with Dan or this boy—Sami?—and from what you said they didn’t do anything strictly against school policy…”
“Actually, some of Peter’s statements would qualify as hate speech under our policy.”
Dan glares at Peter. “He called Sami a terrorist and a bomb lover.”
Baba
’s brows lower. I want to disappear.
“What?” says Peter’s mom. “Oh my gosh. He shouldn’t have said that, but I’m sure he didn’t mean it. Did you, Peter?”
Peter’s expression turns pleading. “I was only joking.”
“He was not,” Dan growls.
“Daniel.” His mom gives him a silencing look.
“I’m sorry.” Peter straightens up in his chair and clasps his hands in his lap. He looks directly at me, eyes wide and sincere. “I didn’t mean to say that stuff. I thought it would be funny, but it was dumb. I’m really, really sorry. Okay?”
They’re all watching me now. Mistrust grumbles in my chest, but when I look around the room, it’s clear from the faces of Pete’s and Dan’s moms, and even Mr. Myers, that they want me to agree. And if I don’t, then it will only expose my plan—Mr. Myers will want to know what happened to the iPod, and Baba will find out about the trades.
I give a small nod.
“Good.” Mr. Myers smiles. “Is everyone okay with that?”
Mrs. Reeves gives a quick glance at the clock on the wall and nods.
Ms. Cooper smiles gratefully. “Yes, I’ll talk to Peter more about it at home.”
Baba hesitates, but rises stiffly and murmurs, “Very well.”
Mr. Myers fixes Peter in a long look. “Peter, I hope you realize now that what you say can have serious consequences, even if you didn’t mean it.”
Peter lowers his eyes and drops his shoulders. “Yes, sir.”
Mr. Myers puts a hand on his office door. “All right, then. I’ll see that the issue is settled from our side of things.”
“Thank you,” Baba says, and Mrs. Reeves and Ms. Cooper echo him. I grab the door and hold it open for everyone. The mothers go out first, talking quietly together.
Dan passes me and whispers, “Don’t be too late for practice.” Then he sprints in front of the others.
The Eleventh Trade Page 7