Anything But Okay

by Sarah Darer Littman

  “What do you mean by positive?” Farida asks. “This is real. This is what people think.”

  “I know. But school isn’t totally awful, and we need to show that, too,” I say. “Besides, if we don’t show something good, this will be such a downer.”

  “Especially compared to free ice cream,” Ken points out.

  “I think I’ve got something,” Adam says. He fast-forwards through a few interviews, then presses PLAY on one he filmed during lunch. Keith McCray looks into the camera and says, “A good member of our school isn’t a bully. A good member is an awesome friend.” He turns to Malik Jenkins. “My friend Malik is a good member.”

  Malik high-fives Keith, and the smiles they give each other are so genuine it feels like my heart’s about to explode right out of my chest.

  This is better than free ice cream. At least I think so.

  Malik is on the soccer team and Keith is the team water boy, and they’ve been friends for years. Keith also happens to have Down syndrome. Freshman year, two seniors bullied Keith something awful, and Malik and the other guys from the soccer team got involved trying to help Keith. Keith’s parents actually sued the school district and it was in the papers. The guys who did it ended up getting suspended and almost weren’t allowed to graduate.

  “Now, that’s what being an Argleton Astro is all about,” Crystal Clark says. “Or at least what it should be. That we’re not just here to get good grades and go to college or get a diploma and get a decent job. We’re here to learn how to be good people, too.”

  “So as I see it, we want to make sure that everyone feels like their contribution to the school matters, and it’s not just about prom and boys’ sports. That’s what we want to work toward,” I say.

  “And we have to show what the problems are first,” Tanzie Greene says. “Otherwise what’s the point of doing all these interviews?”

  “Exactly,” Farida says. “We’re not going to pretend Argleton High is problem free.”

  “And that the biggest issue is raising money for prom,” adds Tanzie. “Because it’s not.”

  Some kids might think it is. And I don’t know if this is going to be enough to overcome popularity, toilet paper, and ice cream. But at least I feel like now we have a plan.

  Later that night, I’m upstairs in my room, looking at some video footage that Ken edited together for me when I hear shouting from downstairs.

  “What now?” I groan to Peggy, who was curled up on the bed next to me but jumped off at the noise and is now slinking toward the door with her head hung low and her tail between her legs.

  I follow her downstairs to the family room, where my parents and Rob are in the middle of a heated discussion.

  “He’s never going to get a fair trial,” Mom says. “Look at the dirty tricks they’re using.”

  “What’s going on?” I ask. “What dirty tricks?”

  Rob is pale and tight-lipped. He picks up the remote and rewinds the news show from a national cable channel. There’s a clip of Mayor Abbott giving his usual campaign speech about immigrants and crime, and then he brings up the mall incident. The anchorman says that there’s new footage from a cell camera—taken by one of the employees at Big Al’s Burritos. When they roll the clip, it doesn’t show Wade or Jed harassing Ashar. All viewers see is Rob grabbing Wade and punching him in the face until Jed, Ashar, and I pull him off. It makes Rob look violent … and seriously unhinged.

  But then, to my horror, it gets even worse. They rewind the footage and focus on me. And they interview Wade, who tells them that my best friend, Farida El-Rahim, is Muslim and that her parents came from Iraq. The interviewer nods knowingly, like that means something sinister. Even worse, they bring in national security experts to discuss the danger of radical Islamic extremism, like that has anything to do with Farida and her family.

  This can’t be real. It can’t be. But it is. It’s a cable news show going out nationwide, dragging my best friend into a situation she had absolutely nothing to do with, just because she happens to be Muslim—and friends with me. This is my fault. Farida warned me this would happen and I didn’t believe her—not one hundred percent. I thought she was being super paranoid, that no one would go that far.

  But she was right. I still didn’t get it. She kept telling me and telling me, and I didn’t get it, because being white means I have the luxury of not getting it.

  “How can they do that?” I whisper, shocked. “How can they make this about the El-Rahims and radical Islamic extremism when they have nothing to do with that, and Farida wasn’t even there! And that video—it doesn’t show the whole story. It doesn’t show Wade and Jed—”

  “What do they care?” Rob says. “They already have their story.”

  “Why didn’t they interview Ashar?” I ask, furious that everyone who watches this news show is going to get such a false impression. “How can they only show Rob’s reaction if they don’t show what caused it? How can they just say such awful things about people who weren’t even there? Why do they let Mayor Abbott spout this stuff unchecked? Aren’t they supposed to fact-check him?”

  “You’d think. But this makes for better ratings,” Rob says. “And the guy from Big Al’s Burritos probably didn’t start videoing until I went over and it looked like a fight might happen. Before that, it was just two high school kids mouthing off to another kid cleaning tables. He probably sees that every day.”

  “What can we do?” I ask. “It’s not fair.”

  “That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,” Dad says.

  “It could be more than sixty-four thousand dollars if we have to go to trial,” Mom says. “I should reach out to Layla. I’m worried that this could put the El-Rahims at risk. Not just the restaurant, but their safety.”

  Rob slumps onto the sofa and puts his face in his hands. Peggy goes to his side and rests her chin on his knee. Dad gives Mom a warning look, and she sits next to Rob and pulls his head onto her shoulder.

  “Don’t you worry about the money,” she says. “I don’t think it’s going to come to a trial, and if it does, we’ll figure it out.”

  “You shouldn’t have to figure it out,” Rob mutters. “If I’d held it together, you wouldn’t have to. And forget about the money—the El-Rahims might be in danger because I’m such a screwup. They’re our friends. People I was supposed to have been protecting with my service.”

  “If you’d been able to get an appointment at the VA hospital earlier, maybe you’d have been able to hold it together,” Mom says in a no-nonsense tone. “We can play the blame game all day long, but that’s not going to get us anywhere. We need to figure out our strategy for moving forward.”

  Silence, except for Rob’s haggard breathing and the sound of Peggy licking his hand to comfort him.

  “Wait,” I say suddenly, remembering something Rob said. “You say that they already have the story—this one that makes for better ratings. Like you’re this unhinged violent vet who belongs behind bars.”

  “Yeah,” Rob says. “And now they have bystander video to ‘prove’ it. So?”

  “Look, I know you’re going to hate this idea, but we have to do more of what we did when the house got vandalized,” I say. “Give them a better story. The real story. That Rob’s a marine who did his duty, but despite that can’t get an appointment with the VA, and then when he does his duty again, by standing up for someone who was being harassed because of his religion, he’s disrespected by two kids, pushed to the edge … and … well, something like that.”

  Dad rubs his chin, considering my words, then nods his head slowly. “Guess what, Val? I think our daughter might have a future in PsyOps.”

  Mom smiles. “I think you might be right.”

  “What’s PsyOps?” I ask.

  “It’s the branch of the military that engages in information campaigns to support our national objectives,” Dad says.

  “So you mean … like … propaganda?” I ask.

  “It all depe
nds on how you look at it, Stella. When another country does it, it’s called propaganda. When our country does it, it’s called PsyOps,” Mom explains.

  “But I just want to tell the truth about Rob and Farida, not spread propaganda,” I say. “What about the graffiti on our house? How come this national cable news show didn’t show any of that? They could have. But they didn’t even mention that it happened.”

  “It wouldn’t matter, Stella. Even if they showed the graffiti, I’m sure the world would think I deserved it,” Rob says with a sigh.

  Mom gets up and heads for the kitchen. “I’m going to call Layla. Maybe I’ll suggest she ask the Argleton Police Department to send a patrol car to drive by the restaurant a few extra times, just in case.”

  “I’ll call Jack Neustadt,” Dad says, getting up and pulling out his cell. “If he doesn’t have an idea of how to go about this, he’ll know someone who does.” He kisses me on the top of my head on his way out the door. “Did I ever tell you that you’re smart?”

  “Maybe. But it’s worth repeating,” I say.

  “Don’t exaggerate or Stella won’t be able to get her head through the door,” Rob says.

  I stick my tongue out at him, proving that while I might be smart, I’m still not that mature when it comes to sibling relations.

  I may have figured out something that has a chance of helping my brother, but in the meantime, my completely innocent friend has been dragged into this mess, and this isn’t going to help her. I need to figure out some way to do that.

  When I go back to my room, I call Farida, fingers trembling.

  She doesn’t pick up.

  I text her.

  ME: I just saw the cable news. I’m so, SO sorry. I don’t know why they dragged you into this.

  ME: You weren’t even there.

  ME: It doesn’t make sense.

  ME: Forget that. I mean I KNOW why. You warned me they would do it. And it sucks. I want to do something to change it.

  ME: What can I do?

  ME: How can I help?

  ME: Call me? Please!

  Sighing, I go back to edited footage of the interviews Ken sent. But now, I’m looking at it differently. What would happen if we cut some parts versus others? I know we’re supposed to be editing this to present a full, honest picture, so that everyone feels heard.

  But what if we don’t?

  We could present a totally different picture of what happened in those interviews, just by cutting them together to present a version of reality that benefits my campaign more than Chris’s or Amy’s. But it wouldn’t be the truth. It would be selective truth.

  The question I have to ask myself is: How badly do I want to win? Would it be better to create a lie in service of the greater good so I win and Chris doesn’t? Or am I better off sticking to the truth and trusting that will be enough?

  I don’t know the answer.

  I pick up the phone and call Ken to talk to him about it.

  Farida still hasn’t texted me back.

  SABRINA CHAPMAN: OMG did you guys see the story on America News Channel? It had video of Stella Walker’s brother breaking Wade Boles’s nose. It’s sick.

  OSCAR DANIELSON: That guy is seriously messed up. He just hauled off and started whaling on Wade, man.

  CARA DELGADO: I don’t see why they had to bring Farida into it. That was just wrong. And totally racist. So what if Stella and Farida are friends? It had literally nothing to do with anything. And what was with all the “radical Islamist extremism”? That was bananas!

  DAVE EBERHARDT: I mean, it’s totally relevant. It shows the entire Walker family are Muslim sympathizers.

  CARA DELGADO: What are you even talking about? That’s ridiculous.

  DAVE EBERHARDT: Wade said Stella’s brother punched him because he wouldn’t apologize to a Muslim kid.

  CARA DELGADO: Apologize for what? I thought Wade said he didn’t do anything and Stella’s brother just punched him out of nowhere. See, he’s such a liar he can’t even keep his story straight!

  SABRINA CHAPMAN: Wade’s totally telling the truth! That’s what happened in the video.

  TANZIE GREENE: You do realize a video can be edited, right? And that video only starts right before the punch. We have no idea what was happening before that. It’s Wade and Jed’s word against Stella and her brother and the mall dude.

  DAVE EBERTHARDT: The video evidence.

  TANZIE GREENE: Uh, what part of “the video can be edited” didn’t you understand, Dave? BTW, the guy is Sikh, not Muslim. Which makes it even more messed up that they brought Farida into this news report because they’re not even the same religion.

  SCOOTER DOUGLAS: Jed said he was wearing one of those Muslim do-rag things on his man bun.

  MALIK JENKINS: Sorry to break it to you, Scooter, because I know you’re just dying to hate us and defend your boy at the same time, but we don’t have “do-rags” on our “man buns.” I have a feeling you’re talking about a Sikh guy, with a rishi knot covered by a patka. But hey, I guess to you all us brown people look the same, right?

  SCOOTER DOUGLAS: Go back to where you came from, loser!

  MALIK JENKINS: Where I came from? You mean Virginia Beach? That’s where I was born. I know it kills you, dude, but I’m just as American as you are.

  SCOOTER DOUGLAS: I don’t think so. With a name like Malik?

  CARA DELGADO: So Scooter is normal but Malik isn’t? Do you realize that you aren’t making any sense?

  SCOOTER DOUGLAS: Scooter’s just my nickname, idiot.

  CARA DELGADO: I know. I’m just saying that I wouldn’t pick a fight about people’s names if I actually choose to go by Scooter.

  SHANE BAIRD: Stella should be disqualified from running for class president.

  MALIK JENKINS: For what, exactly?

  SHANE BAIRD: While this legal stuff is going on.

  MALIK JENKINS: Has Stella been charged with anything?

  SHANE BAIRD: No, but it’s pretty clear there’s some messed-up stuff going on in that family.

  TANZIE GREENE: “Pretty clear”? Nothing is clear except that you believe Wade and Jed.

  SHANE BAIRD: And the video.

  TANZIE GREENE: It scares me that we’re graduating in two years when you don’t understand logic yet.

  SCOOTER DOUGLAS: Go back to Africa, Tanzie.

  TANZIE GREENE: Just out of curiosity, where was your family from originally, Scooter?

  SCOOTER DOUGLAS: We’re American. My family has lived in Virginia for five generations.

  MALIK JENKINS: So you’re not Chickahominy or Mattaponi or Pamunkey in other words?

  SCOOTER DOUGLAS: Obviously not.

  TANZIE GREENE: So what is your family’s heritage?

  SCOOTER DOUGLAS: Us? We’re proud Welshmen.

  TANZIE GREENE: So when your family moved here, by your definition, they weren’t “real” Americans, right? How many generations of being born here did it take before they were able to qualify as Americans according to the Scooter Douglas definition?

  MALIK JENKINS: LOL! Yeah, please tell us the magic number, Scooter.

  SCOOTER DOUGLAS: I don’t have to tell you jerks anything.

  TANZIE GREENE: Point made.

  MALIK JENKINS: LOL.

  Roadrunner, buddy—

  I have to ask myself this question, because it’s starting to eat away at me, like so many other things: Why is it easier for me to talk to you than it is to my own family?

  I could always talk to them about stuff before.

  My family is tight. Or at least we were. I’d like us to be again. But …

  There’s always a “but” …

  I’ve screwed up life for everyone in my family that I can’t even look at them without feeling shame. Now Stella’s best friend is caught up in my mess, for absolutely no reason other than she’s Stella’s friend. Stella is my sister, and—oh yeah—her friend’s family is Muslim. Doesn’t matter that Farida wasn’t there. They created this story about an unhinge
d vet brought up in a family of radical Muslim lovers, and they’re gonna run with it.

  So much for the Constitutional freedoms we thought we were protecting with our lives.

  Is it any wonder I feel like a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit anymore? Like a part of me broke off over there, and maybe I’ll never be able to fit right again—in my family, or with anyone, anywhere.

  Maybe I’m going to feel alone with this stuff in my head for the rest of my life.

  Maybe they should have had an Island of Misfit Puzzle Pieces for us when we got back.

  A place where we could talk about what happened and figure out how to go from 360-degree alert 24/7 to being a person with normal senses and reflexes. If that’s even possible.

  My parents came back and got on with their lives, which just makes me feel like more of a failure. I carry their DNA. What’s the matter with me that I can’t do the same?

  About a few weeks after I separated from the marines, when I was feeling really down, Mr. Meyers from the Legion offered to take me fishing. I was going to say no, but there was something in his eyes, some glint of understanding, that made me say yes.

  We didn’t talk much about anything while we were out on the lake, but he did say “it was no picnic for anyone” when he returned from Vietnam.

  I should have asked him what he meant by that, but I was afraid to.

  Afraid to know how long it took for it to be a picnic again.

  I was thinking about that conversation last night when I couldn’t sleep. Again. That three o’clock in the morning thing. I tried to imagine a picnic, when things are good again. At first I thought about Virginia Beach, because I loved it before the war.

  The sand between my toes, the sun on my skin, girls in bikinis, waves crashing against the shore. Beach volleyball. The smell of salt and seaweed, and suntan lotion warming on skin. The senses of summer that brought me joy.

  But then I realized that the beach just reminds me of being over there, and that crowds mean danger coming from any possible direction when you’re least expecting it.

  A picnic on the beach wouldn’t be much of a picnic anymore. Do you think it ever can be again?