Borderline (7 page)

D
ad's already arrived home when I wheel in. His morning tour of Toronto's new high-security bio lab got canceled, and he managed to catch an early flight. There's wrapped gifts in the living room. Guilt much?

“Great conference, great city,” Dad says. “I'll take you soon.” Sure. And introduce me to your secret girlfriend while you're at it.

“How did the speech go?” I ask innocently.

Dad doesn't miss a beat. “Terrific, thanks. Auggie phoned last night to say he'd heard great things on the grapevine.”

“So Dr. Brandt's out of the hospital?”

Dad gives me a funny look. “Never in. Gallstones, I think. May we be spared, Inshallah.” He's smooth, my dad. “Come, open your presents.”

Mom gets a bunch of body lotions and bath oils. Apricot, lavender, and eucalyptus. She has us smell them. They come from France. Three cheers for the duty-free shop.

I open my box. There's a navy cotton hoodie with
TORONTO
stitched across the front in big felt letters. “Gee, thanks.” I put it aside.

“Aren't you going to try it on?”

“Why? It's not like I went.”

“Sami,” Mom says with this sharp Your-Dad-Just-Got-Home-And-He's-Trying-So-Don't-Start-In-Okay look.

“Sorry.” I sigh. “It's really nice. I'm tired is all.” And I put it on and try to smile while Dad takes pictures of the three of us in every possible combination times a million. He only lets up when Mom mentions the lamb stew will be ready soon, so maybe we should tidy up and do prayers.

I recite Maghrib, but the whole time I'm thinking, How did Dad learn to be such a good liar? When else has he lied? And what was he doing on Saturday night? I wonder through supper too, as I stuff my face with lamb korma and bluff my way through half-fake Events Of The
Weekend, like how I played video games Friday night, went to a movie at the mall on Saturday, and studied all Sunday.

The doorbell rings.

Dad answers. Mom and I keep eating. I figure it's Jehovah's Witnesses. Mom bets it's the real estate salesman from up the street. We're both wrong.

“Can I help you?” Dad's voice is dry and high-pitched, like he's trying a little too hard to sound normal.

We hear a couple of men's voices, low and serious.

“Come in, come in,” Dad says. “Neda? Sami? We have visitors.”

I run to the front hall and practically crap my pants. These men aren't visitors. They're cops. Two locals. Their squad car is sitting in the driveway.

“Don't worry about your shoes,” Mom says, like the cops really care about her floors. “Sorry, the place is such a mess.”

Dad leads us all into the family room. He and Mom bunch together on the sectional and smile like they're entertaining friends from the golf club. I sit off to the side. To keep from getting scared, I pretend I'm watching a TV show. A bad TV show. I mean, shouldn't one of them stay at the front door in case there's more of us upstairs,
planning a sneak attack?

Anyway, the younger cop's kind of lanky, with a big Adam's apple. He stands with his right hand lazing on his gun belt, checking our rolled prayer rugs when he thinks no one's watching. The older cop has a burn scar on his left cheek, where it looks like he got smashed by a hot iron or something. He sits on the ottoman, at a right angle to his partner, and pulls out a notepad.

“So what can we do for you?” Dad asks.

“Would you like some coffee?” Mom offers.

“No, thanks,” Scarface says. “New York State Police asked us to drop by.” He sees Dad take Mom's hand. “Relax, relax. There's nothing to worry about. Yet.”

“Yet?”

“Over the weekend, your son was caught trespassing on private property in the Thousand Islands.”

“You've made a mistake,” Dad says. “He was here with my wife.” Dad looks to Mom to back him up. Mom looks to me for an explanation. My mouth bobs open and shut.

“You're ‘Mohammed Sami Sabiri'?” Scarface asks me, looking up from his notes. “You're acquainted with Martin Pratt and Andrew Johnson?”

I nod. About this TV show—I want to change channels.

Scarface turns to my folks. “These names, along with addresses, were taken by the Stillman family's caretaker. The family doesn't wish to press charges, but they want the partying on their land to stop before it gets out of hand. Over the past month, the caretaker's found beer cans, condoms, drug paraphernalia. We're not saying your son's involved with any of that”—he looks back to me—“but keep your nose clean. Okay?”

“Some friendly advice,” Lanky nods to Dad, “covering up for your kid is never a good idea.”

“I don't. I—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Lanky says. “Enough said.”

The cops shake our hands. Mom shows them out. Dad sinks into the sectional like his guts have been ripped out. I try to say something, but he holds up his hand without looking at me.

“Thanks for your time,” from Scarface as he leaves. “You take care, now.”

“Thanks, yes, you as well,” Mom says. “And don't worry, we'll keep an eye on Sami.”

The front door closes. Mom returns. She clears her throat. “After you canceled Sami's trip to Toronto, he was invited to the Johnsons' cottage. I gave permission.”

Dad stares so hard at the potpourri bowl on the coffee
table, I expect it to explode. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I should have. I'm sorry.”

“And what about tonight?” His eyes are wounded. “To my face, he said he stayed home and played video games Friday. Why did he lie? Why did you let him?” Dad clutches his head in his hands. “My God! The police at our door!”

“Dad—”

“Enough! Alcohol. Condoms. Drugs. What have you been up to? How long has it been going on?”

“Dad, nothing's been going on.”

“Police don't come to a home for nothing.”

“Look, we went to an island. We thought it was okay. Andy and Marty, they had a couple of beers, that's all. I had a soda. The other stuff wasn't us.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because it's the truth.”

“Hah!” Dad claps his hands. “You're grounded. I will personally drive you to school for your nine o'clock classes. And I will personally pick you up after I finish work. You will wait for me, studying, in the Academy library. Understood?”

“Yes…,” I whisper. “But for this week…this week…”

“Speak up. What about this week?”

I shrink into myself. “This week, can I be at school at eight?”

“No,” Dad shakes his head fiercely. “There'll be no horsing around in the halls. You're in enough trouble already.”

“That's just it,” I say. “I have to be there. I have detentions. From the vice principal.”

“What?” Dad whirls on Mom. “Did you know about this too?”

“No, Dad,” I jump in. “I didn't say a word. And anyway, it's not my fault. Stuff happened, but not like the vice principal thinks. Eddy Harrison, he told lies about me.”

“Lies!” Dad yells. “Lies, lies, lies! It's all lies with you! Secrets and lies!”

“Look who's talking!” I hear the words. Are they still in my head? Or did I actually say them?

Dad backs up, breathing heavy. I guess I said them.

“What do you mean?” he dares me.

If I say what I know…what I think…

I glance over at Mom. She's afraid. What does she know, think?

“I said, what do you mean?” Dad repeats.

I look straight at him. “Guess.”

There's a flicker of fear in his eyes.

Then—

I see Dad throw back his shoulders.

I hear him say, “I have no son.”

I see him storm from the room.

And I see Mom look at me, bewildered.

I look back, ashamed. Ashamed for having lied to her, for bringing on the cops, for opening a door into a place we're all afraid to go.

Then I run. Run downstairs to my room. Dive under my covers. Bury my head under my pillow in the pitch dark of the basement night.

But no matter how hard I press it to my ears, or squeeze my eyes tight shut, nothing can make the world go away.

A
ndy and Marty text me around midnight. They're so lucky. The cops came by their places too. But they're not grounded. Andy's mom was fried on Xanax and vodka chasers. She kept telling Lanky how good he looked in his uniform, and actually asked Scarface what happened to his face. Battery acid at a chop shop raid, apparently.

Over at Marty's, Mister Bubbles went for Lanky's ankles. When they left, Marty's mom went bananas, till his dad reminded her how they were arrested for skinny-dipping in a public pool after their high school graduation, and burst into a rousing rendition of “Thanks for the Memories!” Me, I can't picture my folks skinny-dipping, ever. Naked parents? I'd rather go blind.

Anyway, life's cool at casa Johnson and casa Pratt. But at casa Sabiri, forget it.

Dad doesn't say a word to me at morning prayers, breakfast, or on the drive to the Academy.

We arrive in the office at ten to eight. Mr. McGregor fills Dad in about me running away when I was called to his office. He says the incident on Roosevelt Trail is being investigated, and he'll try to keep it out of my official record.

Dad apologizes for my behavior. “He wasn't raised this way. Please let us know if he's involved in any other mischief. My wife and I will support whatever punishment you see fit.”

I want to scream how it's all garbage, but what's the point? Eddy can shovel bullshit till the cows come home, and his father eats it up. My dad? No way. He won't even believe the truth.

“My wife and I appreciate your efforts with our son,” he says, all stiff and grave like he's holding it together at a funeral. “It's always a shock when one's child…” He pauses, collects himself. “We'll do our best to see that he's never a problem for you again.” He tries to look at me, but he can't. He walks out of the office like I'm dead.

 

I survive morning classes. But when I step into the cafeteria, I smell trouble. Eddy and his gang are hunched over their table, staring at me. For once, I'm glad Mom makes me a halal lunch; I don't have to be a target in the serving line.

I head to my place in the far corner with the Loser Lunch Bunch. They eat fast and head to the library before the paper bags start flying. But today they're AWOL, except for Mitchell. He buries his head in his book and pretends he hasn't seen me.

When I reach my chair, I know why. Two words are carved in the table where I sit:

SABIRI SUX

The gashes are scribbled in with magic marker. There's no way to get them out. They'll be there forever.

I want to throw up. I mean, I always knew I was hated. But this makes it real. Real for everyone to see. I have to leave. Now. I can't let them see me cry.

I turn to go. Eddy's gang gets up. They're grinning. I sit down. They sit down too. I spend the rest of the period trying not to think about the carving under my lunch bag, or Eddy's gang staring at me from across the room.

The bell rings. I dash through the cafeteria doors to Science before Eddy can catch me.

I don't hear anything Mr. Carson says. Just stare at the yogurt that dribbled into his beard at lunch, and worry about how I'll get to History without being nabbed by Eddy.

Somehow I make it.

Mr. Bernstein's moved on from ancient witch trials to “the witch hunts of the Cold War: a time of terror that destroyed the innocent along with the guilty.” He talks about the nightmare of being falsely accused. The horror of knowing you could be damned by circumstantial evidence and classified secrets based on fears, rumors, and lies.

It makes me think of everything that looks true but isn't. Like Andy's happy family. And mine. And about things that are partly true, except that the untrue parts turn the true parts inside out. Like what my folks think happened on Hermit Island. And I think about Dad. Things that I know, and things that I don't know, except in my heart.

All of a sudden, I don't feel so good. I raise my hand. “Can I go to the washroom?”

Mr. Bernstein nods. As I head out the door, Eddy asks to go too.

“I don't think so,” Bernstein says drily.

I head down the second-floor hallway to the stairwell at the rear east end of the school. My secret spot is the cubbyhole under the stairs on the first floor. I showed it to Dad at last year's open house, told him it's where I do my noon prayers. It's a great hideout. Way better than the can. For one thing, it doesn't stink. For another, it's totally safe: Even when classes are changing, no one can see you. Best of all, it's never checked by custodians or teachers. I know because last spring, as an experiment, I left a Mars bar wrapper crumpled up in the corner. It was still there in June.

I push open the glass stairwell doors and listen for the sound of footsteps coming up. Silence. Great. I scoot down and slide into my spot. My back slouches into the brick wall; my feet slide forward along the granite floor till my toes touch the underside of the stairs.

I pull my cell out of my pants pocket and text Andy. No reply. When Andy's in class, he leaves his cell on pulse. I figure he must be taking a test or something.

That's okay. I melt into the peace and quiet. There's no one to spy on me. No one to jab me in the back, throw spit balls at me, or call me names. I'm invisible. I close my eyes. My shoulders drop. I breathe—slow, slower—and float off into the private world behind my eyelids.

I'm in the past. At my madrassa. Dad's smiling at me as I kneel in front of my old teacher, Mr. Neriwal, and recite my first verses of the Qur'an.

And now I see Dad carrying me home. I'm even younger, half asleep in his arms. He nuzzles my cheek with his nose.

And now it's winter. We're on the ice rink Dad made for me in the backyard when I was two. I'm in tiny little skates, bundled up in my snowsuit, scarf, and leggings, and I'm holding onto the seat of a kitchen chair. Dad pulls the chair gently, gently across the ice. I slide along, laughing, as Mom records us on video.

Am I remembering what happened, or just remembering the movies I saw later? I don't care. I want to stay here forever. I'm back in the days when Dad loved me and we were happy.

 

The final bell wakes me up.

I hear movement in the halls beyond the stairwell. I roll out of my cubbyhole, and run up to the second floor—first, so no one will see my hiding place; second, to reach Mr. Bernstein's room before he locks up with all my stuff inside.

I pass Mitchell. “Eddy's looking for you,” he says.

“Where?”

“Don't know.”

Gotta move fast. I rush into Mr. Bernstein's room. He's at his filing cabinet. I don't look at him, just go for my books. I'm hoping he'll let me escape, but he doesn't.

“Sami,” he says without looking up, “next time you need to clear your head, tell me you're sick, and I'll write you a note. If you just take off, I look bad.”

“Sorry.”

“And Sami…” He closes the cabinet and turns around, a sheaf of worksheets in his hand. “Sami, if you ever need to talk, I'm here. You know that, right?”

“I do,” I nod. “Yes. Thanks.” I back out of the room, shuffling and bowing.

Eddy's waiting for me, a classroom away, slouched against the lockers on the opposite side of the hall. He puts two fingers to his eyes and points at me.

“What?” I toss my chin and head to the library. I make sure not to walk too fast; don't want him thinking I'm scared. Still, I go fast enough that he'll have to run to catch me. He won't do that, will he? There's too many teachers around, aren't there?

I want to look around to see if Eddy's catching up, but I don't. To stay safe, you gotta stay cool.

I keep my eyes focused straight ahead till I reach the library. Inside, I take a study nook by the wall near the book checkout, and start doing my homework.

Eddy watches me through the glass doors. He's grinning. “You're trapped,” he mouths on the other side of the glass.

I laugh and blow him a kiss. That pisses him off good.

I can't wait to see his face when Dad comes to pick me up. A parental limo service: the one good thing about being grounded.

 

Eddy keeps his distance Wednesday and Thursday. But I see his BMW outside the Academy gates each morning when Dad drops me off and in the afternoon when he picks me up. Dad doesn't notice. He's too busy being silent.

Friday morning I find an envelope wedged through the crack of my locker. Inside is a one-sheet, computer printout:

 

THINK DADDY CAN SAVE YOUR ASS?

WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE.