Out of Nowhere (7 page)

Back in the main room an
Oprah
rerun was now on the TV and the gray-looking guys had left. I saw Myla seated in this small, glassed-in cubicle off to the side, behind a desk, talking to
someone. I only saw the back of the person, a woman wearing a blue head scarf. I stood in the entrance to the office.

“Hey, I’m gonna go outside and kick the ball around with Abdi for a while, if that’s okay,” I said.

Her eyes widened. “He’s finished? Wow. Good work,” she said. Something about her expression made me think finishing homework might be new for Abdi.

“You sound surprised,” I said. Second time that comment had passed between us. I felt the corners of my mouth turn up.

“I am.” She smiled.

“Did you think I couldn’t handle it?” I said. It occurred to me she’d known exactly what she was doing when she set me up with the little man.

Myla shrugged. “Obviously you could.” She held my gaze. Blue, blue eyes.

“Bribery works,” I continued, not in any big hurry to leave now. “Turns out he’s a Chamberlain soccer fan.” The woman with her back to me swiveled around. At first I didn’t recognize her. Then the expression of dislike on her face reminded me.

“Oh. Hey,” I said automatically to Saeed’s sister.

Myla raised her eyebrows. “You two know each other?”

“Sort of,” I said, at the same moment the girl replied, “He plays with Saeed.” Awkward pause. I wondered how much she knew about the Maquoit rock thing.

Probably a lot.

“Remind me of your name …?” I said.

“Samira,” she said flatly.

I nodded. “Her brother is an amazing soccer player,” I said to Myla.

“So I’ve heard,” she replied. “I need to make it to some of your games this fall. Check out the amazing Saeed. Oh, and you too, of course. Are you any good?” She grinned wickedly. Getting back at me for the “short” comment, no doubt.

“I hold my own,” I said easily.

“What are you doing here?”

Samira’s question, thrust so abruptly into my pleasant little skirmish with Ms. Mumford Student, startled me. Her voice sounded almost harsh. Accusing.

“Volunteering,” I said quickly. “What are
you
doing here?”

Her eyes narrowed and she tilted her head, processing this information.

Myla looked puzzled, at the two of us.

“Samira has been helping out around here with translating,” she said. “She’s pretty much a lifeline to a lot of new people in this community who don’t speak English.”

“Oh yeah?” I said. “That’s cool. By the way, I see those permission slips worked out. I mean, since Saeed can play and all.”
You’re welcome
, I managed to not say to her. I mean, what was
up
with this girl?

“It’s because you got in trouble,” Samira said suddenly. As if some lightbulb had just gone off in her head. She nodded, kind of in an old-ladyish way. “I heard my brother’s friends talking about it. You went to that other town and did something and now you have to do service to stay on the team.”

I shifted my pack a little higher on my shoulder. I stared steadily back at her.

I was thinking it might be a good time to find out what Abdi was up to.

“Yeah, that’s right,” I said quietly. No one spoke for a few long seconds.

“So,” Myla finally said, “coming here is a punishment?”

“I get to do service
instead
of being punished,” I said. “Coming here is my
service
.”

Myla glanced at Samira, shrugged, and opened a drawer in the desk. She pulled out a familiar piece of light blue paper. It was the service sheet we need to have filled out if we want our hours officially recorded. She scribbled something on it and pushed it across the desk to me.

“Whatever. I put you down for one hour,” she said. “When are you coming back?”

My mind scrolled through my week’s schedule. “Tuesday next week?” I asked.

Myla shrugged once more. “We’re always here.” She returned her gaze to Samira, who had her back to me now. I turned and left. Just walked straight out the door, didn’t touch the blue paper, didn’t even say thanks or goodbye or anything.

Because now I was super pissed.

I remember the exact day of the fight because it was really nice outside.

September is pretty much the best month of the year in Maine, which makes the fact that we’re stuck in class instead of hanging out at the beach
really
suck, but that particular day? When a couple of the white guys on varsity and two new Somali kids on JV decided to be assholes? Warm, cloud-free, and bright.

We spilled outside after the final bell, and those of us lucky enough to not have to load onto the loser cruiser (aka the school bus) just sort of collapsed on the front lawn. People stretched out, soaking in those vitamin D rays, which, our health teachers had informed us, would pretty much disappear from the Maine skies by November. I had plans to meet Donnie and head over to the hardware store. My team had the late practice, so I figured we could swing by the store beforehand and pick up paint and supplies.

The “untampering” of the Maquoit rock was scheduled for that weekend.

As I waited for Don, this little clutch of Somali girls emerged from the school. Samira was with them; I recognized her right off.

Dress code for these girls seemed to be “draped.” Long skirts and a head covering that pretty much looked like another skirt, only you got to have your face sticking out. I had been informed by the ever-informing Liz Painchaud (who was also president of the just-created Civil Rights Club and had been hassling me to join; she’d already snagged Mike Turcotte) that this headwear was called a
hijab
, and that while some Muslims insisted it was spelled out right in the Koran that women had to wear them, other Muslims said it was more of a culture thing and not specifically religious.

Yeah. I got that earful from Liz when she heard me say “head skirts.”

Here’s what I knew: Saeed’s sister was all over the map with it.

Some days she was rockin’ the
hijab;
other days the jewelry and a little kerchief. One day it was a sweatshirt and a head scarf; another day that bomber jacket. You never got much skin, and I couldn’t say for sure if I’d ever seen her hair, but she sure was stepping out (at least with her clothes) in ways the other Muslim girls hadn’t tried. The majority of them dressed more like old-fashioned Catholic nuns, with their wimples and floor-length habits.

The day of the fight was a University of Maine hoodie day for her. I remember first thinking,
Wow, she must be sweating in that thing
, then realizing it was Samira. She and her pack weren’t ten feet from me. I automatically raised my hand as they passed.

She saw me. Looked right at me, then through me. Not even a nod.

“Seriously,
what
is your problem?” I think I said it out loud. Must have, because even though she was out of earshot at that point, someone else heard me.

“No problem, bro. It’s all good.” Donnie’s backpack landed beside me with a thud. He flopped on the ground.

“Didn’t mean you.” I tilted my head toward Samira’s retreating back. “I meant her. Saeed’s sister.”

“Saeed the soccer dude?” Donnie asked. “I didn’t know he had a sister.”

“Oh yeah,” I said. I told him then. About the hostile looks and the stuck-up attitude. As I spoke, this incredulous expression spread across Donnie’s face.

“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” he said. “You are dating the hottest female in our high school and you want to know why some girl who goes around dressed in multicolored bedsheets is giving you the evil eye? You care about this why?”

“They don’t wear bedsheets. Get with the cultural program, man.”

“Whatever,” Donnie said. “I don’t see why this is getting to you. Who knows what the hell they’re thinking behind those burkas? Who cares?”

I stared at him.

“Wow. That sucks. Even for you,” I said. Donnie laughed. I shook my head.

“What?” he said.

“That was, like, totally out of line.”

His eyes widened.

“Since when did you start getting all politically correct? Please. You know I don’t give a damn what color somebody is or what they
wear. This is the land of the free and the home of the brave and they can join the club and do fuck-all, as far as I’m concerned. Which still doesn’t explain why you’re so upset that one girl out of five hundred at Chamberlain High isn’t worshipping at your altar.”

Ahead of us, the long line of mustard-yellow school buses was preparing to pull out. Drivers had begun flashing their taillights and retracting the little stop signs that stuck out the sides. Only one bus seemed behind the curve; people were still standing on the sidewalk, waiting to climb aboard.

“Besides, when has Tom Bouchard ever given a rat’s ass about what some girl
thinks
?” Don continued, grinning at me. He was being a real comedian.

“You know, just because you’re a total douchebag about girls doesn’t mean I am,” I replied.

He burst out laughing.

“What?” I demanded.

“You think dating below your pay grade isn’t being a total douche?”

Unbelievable.

“So Cherisse isn’t rich enough? Tell me I’m not hearing this.”

Donnie shook his head.

“I’m not talking about money. I’m talking about quality. Hey, I mean, I get it! If I were big man on campus with a side of rock star, like you, I’d date the high school hottie, too. But you gotta admit: she’s not in your league.”

Something was wrong with the bus. Kids on the sidewalk were stepping back to make space for kids who were getting out.

“You sound like my parents,” I told him.

He shook his head. “No, your parents want you to date Liz
Painchaud and the rest of the National Hypocrites Society. I just want to see you with someone who doesn’t suck.”

I tried to imagine what sort of guy would date Liz Painchaud, destroyer of male egos (“You guys are all
idiots
,” she likes to say), destroyer of test curves (“Sorry, kids, but Liz got a hundred again”), and destroyer of fun (“Mrs. Wilkins, I know you said we were watching
Gangs of New York
today, but could we review for the history exam instead?”). She is a terrifying person. The type of intellectual snob who will most likely attend the sort of college my guidance counselor keeps pushing at me.

The other bus drivers, oblivious to whatever was going on with the stalled bus, began pulling away from the curb, forming a rumbling elephant line down the long driveway leading away from the school. The other bus was still disgorging students. A few jumped out. Like they were in a hurry.

“How did we even get on this topic?” I asked.

“You were trying to figure out why Saeed’s sister hates you.”

“Right. You know, you’re asking me why I care, and here’s the thing: I have to see her. I might have to work with her at that K Street Center. And she’s even turning that Myla against me. I mean, I was getting along with her pretty well, then Samira had to make a huge deal about how I was only there because I had gotten in trouble and needed community service.”

“I’m sorry.
Who
are we talking about?”

“Myla. She’s a volunteer there. She goes to Mumford. She was talking to Samira that first day I went for homework help.” I stood up, glanced at my watch. “You ready to hit the hardware store?”

Don looked like he was concentrating on something. “What’s she look like? This Myla.” I shrugged.

“Kind of a hippie. Pierced nose. Wears clothes the color of dirt. She’s really small. I thought at first she was one of the kids at the place.”

“Cute?” Donnie pressed.

“Huh?”

He looked impatient. “Is the Mumford student cute? You know, good-looking?” He waited.

“I don’t know. I guess.”

Donnie made this sound. Like a horse blowing air from its nostrils. “What do you mean, you guess? A guy doesn’t guess. Tom Bouchard doesn’t guess. You assess. Instantly. Girl in sight: Hot? Not?”

I paused. I thought of something.

“She’s got great eyes.”

Don laced his fingers behind his head and stretched full out on the grass. Eyes closed, this shit-eatin’ grin on his face.

“Mystery solved, dude.”

“What mystery?”

“The mystery of why you give a flying whatever about what Samira thinks of you,” Donnie said. “You think the older woman with the great eyes has potential, and you don’t want her grouchy little Muslim friend saying anything to spoil your chances.”

That’s when we heard the yelling. The kids on the sidewalk were shouting something. One person was running back toward the school. Then, from the bus door, like they’d been shot from a cannon, four guys popped out. Arms and legs flailing, they were beating the crap out of each other.

Two were white; two were black.

“Whoa,” said Donnie, sitting up. “Fight.”

The bus driver emerged, and we could see him trying to separate the boys, but he was no match for four furious high schoolers. One of them happened to wheel around, and I recognized him.

Jake Farwell.

“Oh no, those are our guys!” I exclaimed. I sprinted toward the bus. Don followed me.

I took one just above my eye and my nose was bleeding all over the front of my shirt by the time enough of us were able to pull them apart. Donnie had Jake on the ground and was literally sitting on him; the bus driver had one of the black guys in a headlock. I recognized him. A junior varsity soccer player. Somali kid.

As soon as most of the action was over, the school resource officer and Principal Cockrell showed up. We could see them huffing and puffing as they raced across the lawn. The guy I was holding, Roger Pelletier, angrily tried to wrench himself from my grip.

“Cut it out, you stupid fuck!” I yelled at him. My nose wasn’t right. It seriously hurt. I was going to be really pissed if one of these jerks had just broken my nose.

“Get your hands
off
me, Bouchard!” he insisted. I pressed my knee into the small of his back instead.

Don and I never made it to the hardware store that afternoon. We got stuck in the principal’s office, describing what we had seen, and with the school nurse, who really doesn’t do much besides hand out ice packs. Don had this amazing shiner, which started swelling up like a multicolored flower.