Borderline (6 page)

W
e get home midafternoon. Mom practically has a hemorrhage. She was taking a nap, heard me downstairs, and thought I was a burglar. “What happened to your weekend?”

“Andy's folks had to go away,” I shrug. “If we'd stayed, we'd have been on our own. I said you and Dad wouldn't want that. Long story short, we came home.” I hold my breath. It's not like it's a total lie. But it's not the total truth either.

“I'm so proud of you.” Mom smiles. “You had the courage to make an unpopular choice. And you have loyal friends.” She strokes my cheek like I'm a little kid. “It seems you boys have done some growing up. Your Dad
and I won't have to worry so much.”

Great. Can I feel more like a lying scum bag?

I go downstairs, unpack, and slip behind my computer. Andy and Marty are already online. Marty told his folks we're back early cuz the J's septic tank backed up. Nice. Andy's sorry about his meltdown and wishes he'd hung in. Now he's stuck alone and he can't stop thinking about guess what. “Wanna keep me company? Come over for a swim? The heater's working; water's warm. We could see a movie after?”

I put my bathing suit on under my pants and grab a towel. A swim, that's all I want. But the snake in my ear keeps hissing about Dad maybe having an affair:
His cell phone records. Why not see if there's any calls to strange women in Toronto?

Don't be stupid. There aren't any.

Why not be sure?

I go back to my computer. Dad's e-bills are in his e-mail account. Getting in is a snap. A while back, he showed Mom and me photos that Mr. Ibrahim, one of his friends from mosque, sent of his trip to Mecca. I watched him type his user ID: Arman158—his first name plus our house number. And his password: NARHET—
Tehran
, the city where he was born, spelled backward.

Dad's inbox has thousands of messages. I keep mine messy too, so if Dad snoops it'll be hard for him to find the gross-out links the guys send me.

The snake slithers inside me.
Is your dad the same? Trying to keep things and hide them at the same time?

No. Just because I'm sneaky doesn't mean Dad is.

I want to stop now, to sign out, but my fingers type
AT&T
in the search window. Up come Dad's cell phone bills. I scan for Toronto. Allah forgive me. Spying on my father. It's evil.

It's not
.
You're doing it to protect your mom.

How? By acting like Dad's cheating?

If he's innocent, what's the problem?

The problem is I dishonor him!

Who's going to know?

Me. I'll know.

You deserve to know.

But I still won't know. If the woman's not from Toronto—like, if she's just flying in for the security conference too—she could be from anywhere. In that case, his calls wouldn't be to Toronto. Every long-distance number on his bill could be suspicious. Or if they're using e-mail, their hookup plans could be in any of the thousands of messages in his inbox.

True. And what if your dad has an e-mail account you don't know about? Or what if they use text messaging?

AAAH! I want to rip the snake out of my head. But before I can, it strikes.

Three Toronto numbers leap off the screen. Does one of them belong to her? I write them down, kick myself. Why did I have to spy? I could've pretended everything was fine. Not now.
Now
I have to check these numbers out, or go insane.

I can't call from here: Dad pays my cell bill, he'd know what I did. I can't borrow Andy's or Marty's cells, either: I don't want them to know what I'm thinking.

Wait, I got it. Tonight, when the guys and I go to a movie, I'll sneak out during the trailers and call from a pay phone in the lobby.

I put my computer to sleep, grab my towel, and run upstairs. “I'm going to Andy's for a swim,” I shout to Mom, back in the family room.

“That's nice,” she hollers back. She blows her nose loudly. It figures; she's watching
Children of Heaven
again.

I throw open the front door. Brainwave. There'll be a file about the Toronto conference on Dad's computer. It'll have addresses and phone numbers for Toronto hotels
and contacts. If my mystery numbers are there, it'll mean they're legit and I can relax. Sort of.

I slam the front door so Mom will think I've gone, and sneak up to Dad's office. If Mom catches me at his computer, what'll I tell her? Oh my god, stop now. Turn around, go to Andy's. I try, but the snake is a puppet master. Next thing I know, I'm inside Dad's office, the door shut behind me. I tiptoe to his desk. There's carpets on the floor, but every step's an earthquake. My heart beats so loud, I swear I'll go deaf.

I memorize how Dad's chair is placed, so I can put it back just right. I sit. To the left of his computer there's a small photo of him and me. It's under glass in a metal frame. I'm maybe six, seated on his lap. My head is tilted against his cheek. I'm tickling myself with his beard. We're laughing. That picture might as well be from another world.

I touch Dad's keypad. The screen lights up.

I click Documents, and open the folder marked Fall/Winter Conferences. Inside there's three PDFs: Toronto, September 19–22. Dallas, December 10–14. Washington, February
2
–6.

I open the Toronto PDF, check the table of contents, scroll to the Hotels page. Near the top: “Hyatt Regency,
370 King Street West. Phone: 416-343-1234.” Great. One of the three numbers. I'll bet he called to make sure his room was No Smoking.

I go to the Organizers page and spot the second number. It belongs to the Chair of the Events Committee.

There's only one number unaccounted for. Maybe it belongs to a workshop leader? I get their names from the Agenda pages and look them up on the Contact list. Nope.

No big deal. Maybe Dad planned a private get-together with a colleague? I check his e-calendar. Sure enough, he's logged a few meetings with male professors and research types. Each lists a cell. None matches my third number.

So what? I think. It means nothing. And that's when I notice something funny about the Sunday agenda. I double-check Dad's e-calendar against the official program. Same problem in both places: At 6:00
P.M.
Sunday, there's cocktails and dinner at The Restaurant at the CN Tower. The special guest speaker is Dr. Augustus Brandt.

Augustus Brandt. Auggie. The speaker Dad supposedly had to replace on
Saturday
—tonight—the night we were supposed to be seeing the Jays. But Brandt's speech isn't tonight. It's on Sunday.
Tomorrow!

I look at Dad's itinerary for tonight: “Blue Jays” on his calendar; “Evening Free” on the official program. I can't breathe.

Dad totally lied.

Why?

A
fter the swim, Andy and Marty come over for supper. Mom likes my friends, but she has a special soft spot for Marty. She was a chubby kid too, and knows all about the teasing.

What with Andy being a motormouth, Mom doesn't even think to ask for our Events of the Day. In no time, she's laughing so hard at his stories, she's practically gasping. Me, I don't hear any of it. It's like my mind is underwater. I struggle to break the surface, but that third phone number drags me down like a bag of cement.

It's nothing, I tell myself, nothing. When Dad fled from Iran, his grandma found a way to smuggle him to Canada. He was a teenager in Montreal, where he met Mom. They
only emigrated here when he got his scholarship to NYU. So, hey, maybe Dad called an old friend who's in Toronto now. Maybe they could only get together Saturday night.

The snake stirs.
A friend is more important than a man's son?

No, but Dad doesn't get to see his Canadian friends much. Me, he can take on a trip anytime.

So why didn't he say that? Besides, why wouldn't he want his friends to meet his son?

Maybe he would. But friends talk about the past. He might've thought I'd be bored.

He could have asked you. He didn't. Why? And why wouldn't he let your mom come either? She'd know his friends from the old days too. And by the way, why is the Jays game still in his calendar?

Who knows? Maybe he asked his friend to come to the game with us, then found he couldn't get an extra ticket. He had to save face.

By shafting you? Come on, Sami. Either your dad's having an affair, or he doesn't love you.

He does.

When was the last time he said it?

He doesn't have to say it.

Then when was the last time you felt it? This father–son
trip was your Mom's idea—not his—and you know it. You embarrass him. You break his rules. You laugh at him. Spy on him. What kind of son are you? No wonder he hates you.

 

After supper, we leave for the movie.

The multiplex is packed. Our show has three crappy seats together up front, but there's two decent seats by the aisle. I tell Andy and Marty to take them. “Stiltz needs the legroom,” I wink at Marty, and sit a few rows back.

No sooner am I by myself than I get major second thoughts about calling the third number. Who knows what I'm getting into? I should forget it, forget it, forget it. But the more I try to forget it, the more it's an itch I can't scratch.

The phones are near the concession stand. I tell the guys I'm going for popcorn, and take their orders so they'll stay in their seats. I don't want them to see me calling. They'd wonder what I was doing, why I wasn't using my cell.

As I leave the theater, I raise my hoodie. How weird is that? I mean, who's going to know or care that I'm making a phone call? But it's like I've got this neon sign flashing over my head:
TRAITOR SON!

The phones are spaced around a column near the washrooms. I make a wide arc and pick one on the far side, away from the surveillance cameras over the concession's cash registers. Is this what happens to spies—they go paranoid?

I know this number by heart, but I take it out of my pocket and stare at it anyway.

I dial. The phone asks for money. Good thing I thought ahead and packed my coin jar in my knapsack. I drop in a ridiculous amount of quarters.

The phone rings. My temples burn. My hands shake. Any second, I may be hearing the voice of my Dad's girlfriend. What'll I say if she answers?

I panic. Hang up. The change fills the return cup. I scoop it out. A couple of coins fall to the floor. I pick them up and calm myself.

If the woman answers, I'll ask to speak to Dr. Sabiri. If there's a problem, like a jealous husband, I'll say, “Sorry, wrong number.” If she calls Dad to the phone, I'll hang up.

I redial. Drop the change. Hear a ring. Someone lifts the receiver. I hang up.

What kind of baby am I?

I better wait a few minutes before calling again. If anyone answers now, they'll be pissed at the false rings.
I arc back into the corner shadows and join the crowd at the popcorn lines.

I bring Andy and Marty their drinks and munchies as the trailers start.

“I'm going to the can,” I whisper—as if they care—and run back to the lobby. There's a man at the phones. He doesn't leave. I'll try later.

I slip out twice more, but there's always somebody hanging around. When our movie ends, the halls and lobby are too packed to do anything but flood out with the flow.

 

Next morning, Sunday, Mom drives us to Rochester for a charity thing at the mosque. While Mom's having refreshments in the basement with the rest of the congregation, I slip upstairs to the greeting area. It's empty. I go to the phones to the right of the men's entrance. I dial. Drop in the change. Grip the phone panel so I won't chicken out.

After two rings, a woman's voice, perky, twenty-something: “There's nobody here. You know what to do.” Beep.

I hang up. Go to the washroom. Douse my face in ice-cold water.

The voice in my head won't stop.
You know what to do.
It gets louder and louder, a loop in my brain:
You know what to do. You know what to do.

The thing is, I don't.

I
bike to school Monday morning. Friday seems like years ago, but not to Eddy Duh Turd. He and five of his football buddies are waiting outside the Academy gates; two in his BMW, the others in his pal Mark Greeley's SUV. I pretend not to notice and swing past them onto Roosevelt Trail.

They follow me, Eddy in the lead. Eddy doesn't rev his engine, honk his horn, or say a word. Just purrs along a few feet behind my rear tire. I speed up, he speeds up; I slow down, he slows down. Halfway along the track, he pulls up beside me. “Yo, sand monkey, wuzzup?” he calls out the window. “I said I'd be waiting for you. Why did you disappear?”

I pedal faster.

“You too chicken to talk?”

His buddies makes cluck sounds. Eddy squeezes me toward the curb. Let him try and push me off the road; my bike'll scrape the shit out of his paint job.

Eddy knows it too. He speeds ahead, brakes. I'm caught between his BMW and the SUV. The gang spills out of the cars. I try to dodge them. They box me in.

I stop. “What do you want?”

“Guess.” Eddy shoves me hard. I fall over, tangled up in my bike. He stomps on the spokes of my front tire. I scramble free, but he kicks me onto my back, jumps on top, and pins my hands to the ground. His crew circles us.

“Little reminder, sand monkey,” he says. “When you finally see McGregor, I never said a word to you in History. You swore at me for nothing. Got it? And by the way,” he knees me in the gut, “next time I tell you to meet me and my boys, you be there.”

“Harrison!” It's Mr. Bernstein. His Corolla's pulled up beside us.

Eddy leaps off me. His crew backs away. I get up.

“What's going on?” Mr. Bernstein says.

I brush off my pants. “No big deal, sir. I crashed my
bike. They were helping me.”

Mr. Bernstein isn't buying. “Six on one, Harrison.” He shakes his head in disgust.

“I thought you liked seeing guys on top of each other,” Eddy mutters.

Snickers from the gang.

Mr. Bernstein pretends not to hear. “An assault on school property. You boys can expect a very serious chat with the vice principal.”

“Oh yeah? Sabiri says everything's fine. And we'll all back each other up.” Eddy smirks. “Besides, my dad's on the Academy board. See the new scoreboard on the football field? We all know who paid for it. So you see, sir, I'd be careful what I said if I were you. My dad knows all about you. Make up a story, and we will too.”

“Don't pull that crap with me,” Mr. Bernstein snaps. “Now move it.”

Eddy's gang returns to their cars.

“Watch your back,” Eddy whispers. I don't know if the message is for me or Mr. Bernstein. Eddy slouches into his front seat. The engines rev, and he and his gang take off.

Mr. Bernstein puts a hand on my shoulder. “You sure you're all right?”

I nod.

“It's tough, isn't it?” he says gently.

“What?”

“The names. The everything.” He gives a wry smile. “I was raised in Utah.”

For a second, we're on the same planet. I grin.

“Want a ride up the hill? Your bike's pretty banged up. We can put it in my trunk.”

“I'm okay, thanks.” I'm scared of Eddy coming back for me. But I'm even more scared of anyone thinking I need protection—not to mention seeing me get out of Mr. Bernstein's car. I flush with shame. I like Mr. Bernstein. Why do I care what these guys think? They're idiots.

Mr. Bernstein pauses. “I'd like you to tell Mr. McGregor what happened.”

“Nothing happened, sir.”

“That's not true. We both know it.”

I toe the ground. “Sir, I know you're trying to help, but here's the thing. There's a zero-tolerance policy for fighting. If I tell, I'd get suspended too. My dad would kill me.”

Mr. Bernstein puts up a hand. “Zero tolerance doesn't apply to bullying.”

“Who says it was bullying? You didn't see it, sir. You guessed. Which makes it my word against six Academy
athletes. Can you imagine Mr. McGregor suspending a quarter of the football team midseason? Especially when their parents are like Eddy's?”

Mr. Bernstein looks deep in my eyes. “Sami, if you don't speak up, the office won't act and I can't help you. But if you
do
, at the very least, Harrison and the others will have a note in their files.”

“A lot of good that'll do me, biking home. Or at the mall. Or anytime I'm alone. They'll get me big-time. Where will you be then, sir?”

His eyes cloud. “Life can be tough, Sami. But hiding only makes things worse. In the end, no matter how hard you try, you can't hide from yourself. Trust me.” He gets into his car. “See you in class.” And he's gone.

I push my bike up the hill and lock it at the side of the school. I think about going to the can to clean the scrape on my hand, check my ribs for bruises, clear my head. But Eddy or one of his gang could trap me and finish what they started.

I catch Mitchell squatting by our lockers, studying. His lips are moving overtime.

“Hey, Mitchell.”

Mitchell brushes the hair off his face. “Whoa. What happened to you?”

“Eddy. Watch the can door for me, will you? If you see Eddy coming, holler.”

Mitchell squirms. “There's a math test.”

“So what? Are you my friend or not?”

“Okay, okay.”

He hangs a million miles away, by the drinking fountain, while I go in to clean up. When I come out, he's gone.

 

I'm called to the office right after the anthem. Vice Principal McGregor makes me wait on the bench by the sign-in counter for two hours. It's not like he's busy. Every twenty minutes or so, he strolls out of his inner sanctum to shoot the breeze with his secretary. I guess having me wait makes him feel important. Eddy saunters by between periods one and two. He gives me the cut-eye through the hall window. I'm like a guppy in a shark tank. At last, in the middle of period two, the secretary says, “The vice principal will see you now.” Right. Like he hasn't seen me all morning.

I step into his office. Mr. McGregor's in his shirtsleeves, propped back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. It's quite a sight. McGregor's got bigger man-boobs than Marty. He nods at the chair opposite his desk. I sit. He
looks through me, like he's watching TV with the sound off. I wrap my feet under my chair, shift around a bit, and try not to stare at the tufts of red belly hair curling out from between the shirt buttons over his gut.

“We had an appointment Friday afternoon,” Mr. McGregor says at last.

“I forgot.”

“You forgot.” Mr. McGregor lets the words sink in. “You were summoned from class. And you forgot? Ten minutes later, I personally called you from the front steps. Again, you forgot?”

“Sir, I'm sorry, sir, I had a lot on my mind, really, I didn't hear you, sorry.”

Pause. “Respect,” Mr. McGregor says. “Respect is the cornerstone of life at this Academy.” He picks up a pen. “It's the cornerstone of life.” He taps the pen three times on his doodle pad, like he's profound or something.

“Yes, sir.”

“Eddy Harrison tells me you swore at him. Did you?”

“I don't know. Maybe.”

“Maybe you did or maybe you didn't?”

“I…I guess maybe I did.”

“Why?”

“No reason.”

“There must be a reason.”

“I don't remember.”

Mr. McGregor rolls back in his chair. There's a rim of sweat under his man-boobs. “Can you at least remember this morning?”

“It depends. What about this morning?”

A scary pause. “The Academy has a zero-tolerance policy for violence. You're aware of it?”

I flash on me getting expelled, Dad going bananas. “Yes,” I whisper.

“So perhaps you'd like to tell me what happened on Roosevelt Trail?”

“N-nothing, sir.”

“Nothing?”

“No, sir. Nothing.”

“You weren't in a fight with Harrison?”

“No, sir. Not really, sir. I don't care what Mr. Bernstein told you.”

“Who says he told me anything?” Mr. McGregor bunches his bushy eyebrows. “What would he have told me?”

“I don't know. I'm not sure.” I wriggle like a fish on a hook.

McGregor reels me in, nice and slow. “Harrison reports
that you were zigzagging your bike in the middle of the road. He asked you to move to the side, so he and his friends could drive by. You turned your head, insulted his family, and crashed into the curb. When he came to help you up, you blamed him for the accident and accused him of attacking you. Which is why he stepped forward, to clear his name in advance. Is Harrison's account accurate?”

“I…I forget.”

“Forgetting is a habit with you, isn't it, Sabiri? A theme.”

I stare at the carpet.

“Look at me when I talk to you.”

I glance back up.

“When Harrison was called to my office Friday, he came right away,” Mr. McGregor says. “You, on the other hand, chose to run. Today you answer every question with ‘I don't know' or ‘I can't remember.' Your cowardice speaks to your character, Sabiri.”

“Yes, sir,” I mumble.

Mr. McGregor sticks his head into the outer office and asks his secretary to send for Eddy. While we wait for Duh Turd, he paces the office, lecturing me on how I have to obey the rules, submit to authority, answer questions, and not waste his time.

Eddy shows up as the lunch bell rings.

McGregor makes us shake hands, then gives us a cold once-over. “No action will be taken regarding this morning's incident. But I've made note of it for future reference. In the meantime, Sabiri, for running away, swearing, and evasiveness, you will serve one-hour detentions for the rest of this week, in the main office before class. Harrison, for the remark overheard by Mr. Bernstein, you get a one-hour detention to be served now.”

Eddy and I leave the vice principal's office. He flops on the bench to do his time.

“I'll get you for this,” he says under his breath.

“For what? I didn't do anything.”

“Tell it to the undertaker.”

 

After lunch, I get to period three before Eddy's detention ends. At the last period change, though, I see Eddy coming toward me. Thank God I'm short and skinny. I slip sideways through the mobs in the corridors, zipping from one tall person to the next. It's like I'm in a video game:
Academy Hell Race
.

I make it to History and catch a break. Mr. Bernstein's changed the seating plan. He's moved Eddy to the back
corner: Siberia. Me, he's moved to the front by the door, where I'll have a chance to escape at the end of class. Luckily, he's shifted other guys too, so it's not obvious he made the change for me.

End of the day, another break. Eddy's got football practice. I wait till Mitchell tells me he's doing warm-ups, then walk my bike home as fast as I can. As I pass the field, I hear Eddy's crew chant: “Sa-
bi
-ri. Sa-
bi
-ri. Sa-
bi
-ri.”

At least I'll be safe at home, I think.

But I'm not.