Threat warning

CHAPTER FIVE

This year’s school bus driver, Mrs. Pantone, was an absolutist when it came to pickup times. Either you were at the corner at 7:21, or you weren’t. If she didn’t see you, she didn’t even slow down. Once, Aafia had been within twenty yards, running for all she was worth, when the old biddy just sped off without her. Her parents didn’t want to believe that such outrageous things could happen in middle school, but it was the truth.

But not today.

Today, Aafia missed the bus because she’d been lazy. She’d been up way too late studying for her science test, and that-let’s be honest-was because she’d spent way too much time chatting with her friends online. But given the news of the day, what choice did she have? Merilee Berdan had actually kissed Steve Bayne. On the lips! Sharee Northrup had seen it happen in the hallway between fourth and fifth period. They even did tongues!

So now Maddy Carter was like all pissy because she really likes Steve and now is telling everybody that Merilee is just a slut. Merilee found out about that, and, well, it was hard to break away to study for the science test.

Aafia grabbed a Pop-Tart out of the cupboard next to the fridge as she hurried to the kitchen door, beyond which her way-pissed dad was waiting with the engine already running. It was going to be a long ride to school, filled with lectures of how achievement in school is the only route to achievement in life. She’d hear all about how much her parents had suffered to carve a life for their family here in America, and how her sloth was an insult to Allah himself. Blah, blah, blah.

Merilee and Steve had kissed!

Aafia grabbed her coat but didn’t take the time to put it on as she rushed out to the carport and slammed the kitchen door behind her. She didn’t mean to slam it, but now her mom was going to be pissed that she had, and that was another special moment to look forward to on the far side of the day.

Was it possible that middle school in Pakistan was that different from middle school in America? Or were her parents just too old to remember what was important when they were kids?

As she’d expected, the atmosphere inside the minivan was even colder than the Michigan winter as she dumped her stuff on the floor of the front passenger seat and climbed in. She had barely pulled her door closed before they were backing down the driveway.

“I’m sorry, Father,” she said in Urdu, hoping to strum a nostalgic string in him.

“English, Aafia,” he snapped. “You are an American. Please do not mock me.”

So much for nostalgia. In English: “I’m not mocking, Father. I was just… I don’t know.” Like so many others in their town, her father had lost his job at the auto factory almost two years ago, and hadn’t been able to get even an interview since. He had long been self-conscious of his accent, but in recent weeks, he’d come to believe that his accent and his dark features were roadblocks to his career. In Pakistan, he had been a supervisory engineer for the automobile company, and in the late 1990s had accepted a transfer here to Michigan to head up an even larger department. That was before Aafia or her brother had even been born.

She didn’t understand the details, but after September 11, 2001, things changed for the family. Even though Pakistan was an ally, and even though Aafia and her family were Sufis, a sect of Islam that was far separated from the jihadists who committed those terrible crimes, many white-skinned neighbors either couldn’t tell the difference or wouldn’t acknowledge it.

Her father told stories of slights and insults at work. For a long time, he tried to ignore them, but after several years-and after children started to arrive-he couldn’t take it anymore so he filed suit through the American courts to force people to stop saying those terrible things.

Aafia remembered the day when he won the case in court. Money was paid-she didn’t know how much, but apparently it was a lot-and the company was told to mind its manners and make sure that the other workers did the same. On a day when she expected her parents to be happy because they’d won, they turned out to be sad instead. Her father had said then that nothing had really been fixed, and that he feared he might have just made it all worse.

How could that be? Once the courts told people to behave, isn’t that what they had to do? Isn’t that why we have courts in the first place?

About a year after that, everybody lost their jobs, and nothing had been right at home ever since. To keep busy, and to keep money coming in, her father had accepted a job as a taxicab driver, but that made him sad, even angry sometimes.

“I am a mechanical engineer,” he’d said one night at the dinner table last week. “I am very talented at what I do, and now no one will let me do it. Now the only work I can find is to be a servant for strangers.” Then he’d started to cry.

Aafia and her brother were sent away from the table at that point, but she believed that her father cried for a long time that night. He and her mother talked and talked and talked. They were still talking when Aafia had fallen asleep.

Her father broke the uncomfortable silence in the car. “You disappoint me with your foolishness. What is happening to you, Aafia? You used to be responsible.”

“I try, Father,” she said. “I really do. And I am, most of the time. I get all A’s.”

He started to say something in an angry tone, but then he stopped himself. His features softened. “Yes, you do, don’t you? Yes, you do.” He looked at her, offered a smile and then returned his eyes to the road.

Aafia didn’t know what to do. When you’re geared up for a stern lecture, kind words are sort of unnerving. Not wanting to risk undoing whatever good thing had just happened, she chose to remain silent.

“So, this boy,” her father said. “This Steve. Do you like him too?”

Her head zipped around, her jaw agape.

“Your brother told me,” he clarified. With a gentle smile, he added, “You would be wise not to trust him with many secrets.”

“I don’t believe he did that.”

“Oh, don’t be hard on him. He’s young, and he loves you. He watches you closely. What’s important to you is also important to him. You should feel complimented.”

Maybe he’ll feel complimented when I kick his butt later, she didn’t say.

“So, this Steve,” her father pressed. “Tell me about him.”

Heat rose in Aafia’s cheeks. Was this a new form of punishment? Embarrassing questions for five whole miles? “I don’t know what to say.”

“Have I met him?”

If she just said no, then maybe the conversation would end. But that would be a lie, and Aafia was not good with lies. “You’ve seen him in my orchestra,” she said. “He plays the bass.”

Her father scowled as he searched his memory. “The tall black boy or the shorter white boy?”

Her jaw dropped again. She had no idea that he paid attention to such things. “He’s the white boy.”

“With the long brown hair. The dreamy, thick long brown hair.” He laid on that last part with exaggerated passion.

“Father!”

“Handsome boy.”

“Father!”

He laughed. Truly, this was a far more effective punishment than any lecture on bad behavior. “And what about his new kissing partner. Merilee, is it? Do I know her?”

“No.” She could say that definitively. “She’s a cheerleader.” She hoped her tone conveyed her level of disapproval.

“And what is wrong with being a cheerleader? Do you not like to cheer?”

Oh, please let this ride end.

“Who would not like to cheer?” he goaded. “Rah, rah, sis-boom-bah.”

She laughed in spite of herself. “What was that?”

“Isn’t that how one cheers?” He took his hands off the wheel and shook a pair of imaginary pompoms. He repeated his stupid rhyme. “That’s it, is it not?”

“Maybe a hundred years ago.”

“Then I must have it wrong. I am old, but I am not a hundred. So, what is wrong with Marilee being a cheerleader?”

He wasn’t going to let this go, was he? At least they’d breezed through the long traffic light. Getting stopped there could have added five whole minutes to the torture. “There’s nothing wrong with it exactly. It’s just that those girls can be really mean.”

“Is Merilee mean to you?”

The question startled her, made her feel bad. “No,” she said.

“So she’s a nice cheerleader. That must mean that some cheerleaders are nice, right?”

Aafia rolled her eyes. He was such a parent. Clueless.

“And if she’s nice, and she’s friends with other cheerleaders, then it only makes sense that the other cheerleaders can be nice, too.”

She looked out the side window. If he was going to be this dense, she had nothing else to say to him.

“Aafia, look at me, please.” It sounded like a real request, not a demand.

She turned and faced him.

“It’s wrong to treat people as if they are a group instead of as an individual. As my daughter, you must know that better than most.”

Her face grew hotter as shame nudged embarrassment out of the way. “Yes, Father.”

“You’re a beautiful girl, Aafia. The handsome boys will kiss you, too.”

She rolled her eyes. He didn’t really just say that, did he?

He went on, “You have to trust me when I tell you that these issues with your friends-the gossip and the giggling and all the rest-will seem so unimportant ten years from now. Crises come and go. But the only thing that lasts forever is education. It is the only important thing, and everything good that happens in your life will flow from your education. Do you understand this?”

Finally, the lecture had arrived. And finally, they were in sight of the school. “I understand, Father. I’ll try harder.”

They’d arrived with the buses, it turned out. The U-shaped driveway in front of the school was packed with hundreds of students streaming from dozens of buses. That meant her father would be stranded here even longer.

“I’m so sorry, Father.”

He made a gentle waving motion with his hand. “You go on inside,” he said. “Have a nice day, and try to think of all the gifts that God has given you. Now, give this old man a kiss.”

This was the father she’d known before-the one who laughed and teased. He seemed to be trying not to be so angry, and his effort pleased her. She unclasped her seat belt, leaned across the center console and planted a kiss on his cheek.

“I love you, Father,” she said, and the words felt strange. It wasn’t that she didn’t love him; it was just that they rarely talked of such things in their house.

The bitter Michigan air assaulted her cheeks and hands as she hurriedly shrugged into her coat and closed the door behind her. As she joined the stream of classmates making the way to the front door, she cast a look back over her shoulder to see her father inching the minivan through the sea of children as he disappeared between the two ranks of yellow buses.

She was just turning back to face the school when the explosion split the air.