Borderline

I
'm next door in Andy's driveway, shooting hoops with him and Marty. The holidays are over next week, and we've hardly been together at all. Andy was in summer school for Math all July. After that, he and his family took Marty to their cottage on the Canadian side of the Thousand Islands. They just got back yesterday.

I could have gone too, except for Dad. Other times he's let me, but when he heard that Mr. and Mrs. J wouldn't be there 24/7, he pulled the plug. “You're too young to handle the responsibility,” he said.

“What responsibility?” I demanded. “We'll be swimming. Fishing. Dad, please. I'm almost sixteen.”

“I've said what I've said.”

Yeah, and it's totally not fair. I don't do drugs. I hate booze. And that stuff with Mary Louise Prescott happened over a year ago.

The worst was watching the videos Andy and Marty e-mailed of them hiking, swimming, and cannonballing off the Johnsons' dock. They even got to take the boat out on their own. “So, Sammy, what are
you
doing?” They laughed as they hot-dogged through the islands.

But now they're back and everything's fantastic.

At least it
was
. Dad's stepped onto our verandah. The day's been a scorcher, but it seems nobody's told him. Even home, after dinner, it's like he's still at work, supervising the microbe researchers at the lab. His jacket's off, but he's wearing everything else: silk tie, dress shirt, pearl cuff links, and flannels.

I tense as he stands by the railing, watching us play. I was doing great. Now I suck.

“Close, very close,” Dad says, as my third shot in a row rockets off the backboard.

I get the basketball before it bounces into the street, pass to Andy, and fix Dad with a stare. “You want something?”

“Can your mother and I borrow you for a while?” Translation: It's time for prayers. Years ago, Mom
convinced Dad to give me prayer calls in code, so I wouldn't be embarrassed in front of my friends. But Andy and Marty know the drill.

“You need me this second?”

“Not right away. But, say, in five minutes?” Dad flashes his fake smile, the one where his lips go stiff. “Sorry to interrupt your game.”

Go, Dad. Just Go.
I shoot out imaginary force fields, picture him flying through the air into tomorrow, but he hangs around like a bad fart.

“You boys have grown this summer!” he says out of nowhere. Dad makes stupid announcements like this almost every time he sees us. It's his idea of Taking An Interest. Well, if he really took an interest, he'd know Andy's been six feet tall since ninth grade; the guys call him Stiltz. And Marty doesn't grow up, just out. Fries, Cokes, chips. If he keeps at it, he'll turn into his parents.

Dad waits for one of us to break the silence. We don't. He bobbles his head like a dashboard ornament, gives us a tight little wave, and finallyâ
finally
âgoes back inside.

We play a bit more, but it's not the same.

Dad taps on the living room window. When he was a kid, he fled Iran because of the secret police. So what did he learn about freedom? Not much, apparently. I can't
even shoot a private game of hoops with my friends.

“Catch you later,” I say.

I take off my shoes and socks inside the front door, wash my hands, face, and feet in the hall bathroom, and head to the family room. I'm expecting Mom and Dad to be standing by the prayer rugs, waiting. Instead they're sitting on the leather sectional, eating grapes, and the rugs are rolled up on their shelves under the flat-screen TV. Mom's green silk hijab is folded loosely on top; she only wears it at mosque and prayersâa big relief, as far as I'm concerned.

“What's up?”

Mom's eyes dance to the ceiling the way they do when there's exciting news. Dad pats the cushion next to him. “I don't only call you in for prayers,” he says. I hate how he reads my mind. Does he know what I say to Andy and Marty?

I sit on the edge of the seat, take a paper napkin from beside the fruit bowl, and twist it gently in my fingers.

“You want to tell him?” Dad asks Mom.

“No, no, it was your idea.” Mom always likes to make Dad look good.

He rubs his thumb against his ring. “End of September, I'm off to a four-day security conference in Toronto.
I'll be leading a seminar Friday afternoon, and touring their new category-four lab Monday morning. But I can skip the weekend workshops.” He looks at Mom as if he's not sure what he's supposed to say next.

“Your Dad noticed the Toronto hockey teamâ¦,” Mom prompts.

“Yes, the Leafs,” he says. “They've got a preview with the New York Islanders, Friday night. Baseball's in town too: The Jays have a doubleheader Saturday with Boston.” He takes a deep breath. “I can get us tickets through the conference organizers.”

I lean forward, the napkin tight between my hands. “
Us
? You can get
us
tickets?”

“Not
us
,” Mom bats the air with her hand. “Just you and your Dad. I couldn't be dragged kicking and screaming.”

I smile. Whenever there's sports on TV, even playoffs, Mom leaves Dad and me for a bubble bath or to squirrel away with a book. The exception is golf. She'll watch that crap for hours. Go figure.

“We'd be flying out of Rochester early Friday morning, coming back late afternoon Monday, Inshallah,” Dad says. “You'll be missing two days of school, but I'm sure I can make arrangements with the Academy.”

Two days off school? Has Dad had a brain transplant?

“We haven't done anything special for quite a while,” he continues. “I was thinking a fatherâson weekend would be nice. That is, if you're interested.”

I'm interested, sureâin having two days off school to see baseball and hockey. But the fatherâson part, that's scary. It's bad enough when Dad and I are alone watching TV. We sit on opposite ends of the sectional, like there's this invisible border between our cushions and we're in totally different countries that don't talk to each other, or even speak the same language. When there's a commercial and somebody should say something, one of us leaves for a snack or a pee. So to go all Friday through Monday, with just the two of usâ¦

Dad sees me hesitate. “Of course, you and your friendsâ¦You may have plans.”

“Maybe. I don't know. They just got back.”

He takes a deep breath. “I understand.”

Mom shoots me a look:
Your father's trying.

I know and I'm being a shit and I hate myself. But I can't help it. Before Mary Louise Prescott, things were normal. Dad could be fun. He'd tease me, and I'd laugh. Even when I messed up, we could talk. I wasn't just a disappointment.

Dad stares awkwardly at the sliding patio doors. Our backyard faces the Meadowvale Country Club. Through the glass, I can see the sun touching the row of maples that line the fourteenth fairway. “Time for prayers,” he says quietly. His shoulders wilt.

I can't stand it. “Dad,” I hear myself say. “About the weekend. Why don't I just say yes?”

He looks at me like he's not sure he heard right. “You want to come?”

I nod. “Sure, I guess. Yeah. I can do stuff with Andy and Marty anytime.”

A smile rolls over his face. His chest swells. His fingers stretch.

Oh my god, is he gonna hug me? Am I supposed to hug
him
?

From the look on Dad's face, he doesn't know what to do either. He clears his throat, claps his hands, and goes to the prayer rugs.

Whew, that was close!

Two

A
fter prayers, Andy drives us to Mr. Softy's in the Deathmobile, aka his Mom's old Camry. We call it the Deathmobile because of all the scrapes it's been in. Mrs. J thinks parking lots are expressways, and she's not so great on curbs. Andy inherited it last fall when he got his permit. Since he turned seventeen, top of the summer, he's had his full license. Now he's free as a bird, meaning we are too.

We eat our cones, propped against the hood. I brag about my trip with Dad. The guys are jealous about the tickets, but they don't let me off easy.

“Your dad was gonna hug you?” Andy gasps. “What, and get his shirt dirty?”

“I knew I shouldn't have told you.”

Marty laughs. “You could've picked up spores from his lab. Started glowing in the dark.”

“Funny, Marty. Original too.”

We toss our cone wrappings in the garbage bin and head to the small neighborhood park across the street, where we sit on the ledge of the fountain, dangle our feet in the water, and chill.

Andy and Marty have been my best friends since fourth grade. Before them, I didn't have any friends, period. Our mosque is a half-hour drive away in Rochester, so I never got to hang out with the kids from my Saturday morning madrassa. And at public school, I never fit in. There was this little clique that used to point at me and make bomb sounds. At recess, I'd stay inside and pretend to nap. The teachers didn't say anything.

Things changed when Andy arrived. It was a Saturday. I was nine, lying on my belly, staring at this anthill by our curb, when a moving van pulled in next door. Men hauled boxes and furniture, and a woman yelled, “Fine, just don't go far,” at this skinny kid in a Bart Simpson T-shirt who was running around the yard like his pants were on fire.

In a flash, Skinny disappeared. I figured he'd blasted
off to Mars or something, and went back to watching the ants drag a grasshopper head into their colony. Next thing I knew, there was a pair of sneakers in front of my face. I looked up. It was Skinny, along with this chubby guy from up the street who was in the other fourth-grade class.

“I'm Andy. I just moved in,” Skinny said. “So, who's gonna win the World Series?”

I scrunched my nose. “How should I know?”

The kid from up the street snickered.

“Marty here says your name is Mohammed.” Andy grinned. “That's, like, the Prophet, right? So, if you're the Prophet, who's gonna win the World Series?”

I looked from Andy to Marty and back again. “Hunh?”

“It's a joke, dummy,” Andy sighed. “So is your name really Mohammed?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Is your name really Andy?”

Marty looked at me like I was mental. But Andy laughed. When Marty saw Andy laugh, he laughed too.

Andy grabbed my hand and hoisted me to my feet. “You know that fence that runs along the back of our yards?” he whispered, an eye over his shoulder. “Well, there's a space at the bottom behind the bushes at the
end of our garden. Me and Marty are gonna crawl under it, into the golf course. Wanna come?”

I knew I should ask Mom, but I didn't want to look like a wuss. Besides, she and Dad belonged to the club and were always complaining about kids trespassing. So if I asked, she'd say no for sure, and I'd be a snitch as well as a wussâand never have any friends, ever.

I scratched my butt. “Okay.”

Andy scouted for grownups, as we snuck onto the course and ran from tree to tree, crawling through the rough till we hit the dogleg on the tenth hole. There's a dip in the fairway, where you can't be seen from the tee-off. “Hey,” Andy said, “let's wriggle out and grab the golfers' balls. We can toss 'em in the tall grass, and watch their faces.”

This turned out not to be such a great idea, on account of Mrs. Bennett. She was standing up in her golf cart, watching Mr. Bennett's drive through her binoculars. I never knew old people could yell so loud. All of a sudden, there were golf carts everywhere, chasing us. We got away, but an hour later my parents got a call from the club manager. Being the only Iranian-looking kid on the course, I'd kind of stood out.

“I didn't touch any golf balls,” I told my folks. “I just
checked a few to see which brands went farthest.”

“You expect us to believe that?” Dad said. “Who were the others?”

“There weren't any others. I was on my own. I figured it was okay cuz we have a family membership.”

Dad smacked his forehead. “Lies and more lies!” He went on a rant about how he and Mom had moved to Meadowvale before I was born, when the subdivision first opened up; how they'd had to threaten to go to court to get the developer to sell to them; but how we finally belongâ“I'm on the club's planning committee! Your mother's in the Ladies' Invitational!”âonly I'd turned into this juvenile delinquent.

“But I didn't do anything!” I gave Mom a Bambi look. She put her arm around me. “Mohammed's a good boy. If he said he didn't do anything, he didn't.”

I felt like a total turdball. I mean, I'd never done anything bad before, at least not that I could remember. And I'd certainly never lied about it. Especially not to Mom.

Still, that night as I crawled under the covers, I couldn't help thinking about the fun I'd had with Andy and Marty, sneaking through the trees and bushes, pretending we were spies. They might be a little
dangerous in the Getting Me Into Trouble Department. All the same, I couldn't wait to see them again.

I got my wish. Next morning I was back at the anthill when Marty screeched up to Andy's door on his bike. I waved, but he hardly nodded. It was like us being friends was a dream. But in a sec, Andy barreled out, and everything was fine again.

“Hey, Prophet,” he hollered.

“Hey, Prophet,” Marty echoed.

They ran over, Andy in the lead. I hopped to my feet.

“Marty's gonna bike me round the neighborhood,” Andy said with a friendly punch to my shoulder. “You up for it?”

“Sure. I just have to askâ”

But Dad had already stepped out of the garage, a storm in his eye.

“This is my dad,” I said cautiously. “Dad, these are my new friends, Andy and Marty. Andy's just moved in.”

Dad nodded. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

“We're going biking,” I said. “Okay?”

“Your mother and I need you inside.” And he clapped his hands. I ran inside, humiliated. He sat me down at the kitchen table. Mom stood by the sink while he grilled
me: “Why did those boys call you âProphet'?”

I played with the fringe of the tablecloth. “I don't know.”

“Hands on the table,” Dad said.

I put my hands on the placemat and rubbed my fingertips over the cotton weave.

“Now then,” Dad repeated, “why did they call you âProphet'?”

“You know why,” I mumbled.

“Yes, I know why. But I want you to say it.”

I closed my eyes. “It's because of my name. Mohammed.”

Dad sucked in air through his teeth.

“Dad, it's just a nickname.”

“I know about nicknames,” he said slowly. “âProphet' is not
just
a nickname.”

“Dad, it means they like meâ¦. It means I'm their friend.”

“You don't need friends like that.”

Mom put a hand on his shoulder. “They didn't mean anything, Arman. They don't know any better, that's all. Mohammed will set them straight. Won't you, Hammed?”

My ears burned. “Yesterday, you were so proud about
fitting in,” I said quietly. “Well, what about me?”

“Belonging isn't the same as fitting in,” Dad replied. “Your mother and I have never compromised who we are. And we never will, Inshallah.” He sat beside me and put his hands on mine. “If you don't respect the Prophet, Hammed, you don't respect who you are. And if you don't respect who you are, no one else will either.” He paused. “Those boys. They were with you on the golf course, weren't they?”

I stared at the center of the place mat.

“Without trust there is nothing,” Dad said quietly. “Don't ever lie to us again.”

“I'm sorry.”

He gave me a squeeze. Mom kissed the top of my head.

Later, I went over to Andy's. Marty was already there. The two of them were watching Mr. J. mount the basketball backboard on their garage. I told them what Dad said.

“So what are we supposed to call you, then?” Andy asked.

“How about my name?” I said. “Mohammed. Or Hammed for short.”

Marty looked puzzled. “Don't you have another one?”

“What's wrong with Mohammed?”

“Nothing. It's just kind ofâ¦you knowâ¦”

I wanted to say how there's baseball players called JÃ©sus. And what about all the Matthew, Mark, Luke, and Johns? Or the Mary and Josephs? The Jacob, Isaac, Rachel, and Sarahs, for that matter? But I didn't. “My middle name's Sami.”

Andy brightened. “Sammy. Like Uncle Sam. Great.”

Actually, noâlike plain Persian “Sami,” I thought. But I didn't say anything. Andy seemed happy, and I didn't want to confuse him. Or maybe I just didn't want to sound weird or get asked any more questions.

Dad wasn't so pleased about my name change, but Mom cooled him down. “Give the boy a break, Arman,” she said. “Sami's his middle name. Your father's name. How can you argue with that?”

Sami/Sammy. The day my name changed is the first time I realized that The Truth and The Whole Truth aren't necessarily the same. And how even a simple thing like a name can mean different things to different people.

Anyway, before Andy arrived, Mom used to drive me to school on her way to work at Pharmacy Value. Now I biked with my new buddies. It was a whole other
world. I mean, Andy's a born Friend Magnet. I'd gone to Meadowvale Public since kindergarten, but on his first day there, he was the one making introductions. “You know Sammy?” he'd say on the playground. “He's my friend from next door.”

Kids who'd ignored me as “Mohammed,” the nut bar who sleeps at recess, paid attention to me as “Sammy,” the guy with the cool friend who could think up stuff to do that'd freak their folks. Marty got new respect too; he wasn't just “the fat goof” anymore. It helped that Andy was a year-and-a-half older; he lost an early grade when his mom tried to homeschool him, and got distracted.

I'm not sure what Andy gets out of our friendship; I'm not sure he thinks about it. I just know that no matter how many other friends he's had, we're the ones he pals around with. The chosen ones. His biggest cheerleaders. His entourage.

It's been great. But right before graduating to Meadowvale Secondary, I had that thing with Mary Louise Prescott and her mother's little club, and Dad stuck me in the Theodore Roosevelt Academy for Boys, where I'm part of the class leper colony. I still hang with Andy and Marty when I can, and we text, and sometimes play video games online, but after a year it's not the
same, us being at different schools and all.

I think about that as the three of us splash our feet in the park fountain opposite Mr. Softy's, and talk about the new year coming upâeleventh grade.

“We're gonna get Bonehead again. How'll we cope?” Andy groans to MartyâMr. Boney being the math teacher who landed him in summer school. Andy and Marty have all their other teachers in common too, thanks to arranging identical schedules.

Marty pokes Andy in the ribs. “Bonehead has nothing on Calhoun.” He imitates some teacher who apparently walks bow-legged, with his knuckles dragging on the ground.

Andy practically pees himself. “That's him! Remember last year when his foot got stuck in the wastebasket?” Whoops of laughter from the two of them. Me, I just sit there with a pasted-on smile. Who's Calhoun?

It's like I'm a ghost: I'm here, but they don't see me. They've moved on. I'm nothing but air. A wave of sickness washes over me. “I better go.”

They look up, sort of surprised. “It's not even eight,” Andy says.

“Dad.” I roll my eyes. I feel bad using Dad as an excuse, but hey.

They drop me at home and take off. I watch the Deathmobile disappear around the corner for adventures unknown. Part of me wishes I was still with them; the other part of me knows if I was, I'd be feeling even worse.

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