When the Moon was Ours(43)

The doorknob clicked, and then the hinges of the door whined open.

Peyton Bonner was standing in the doorway.

“I just want to say that this is why my mother doesn’t want us going to this school,” she said, in a nasal, indignant voice she’d probably grown out of years ago but dredged up to make a point with anyone more than twice her age.

Then she started into some story about how she’d heard Reese making racist comments about Sam’s mother, and that Sam had just been responding. She wasn’t making it all up; if there was a new slur running around the school, there was a good chance everyone could thank Reese and his friends. But what was she talking about?

“That’s not what happened,” Sam said.

But Mr. Woods wasn’t even looking at him.

Who was he going to believe? A dark-skinned boy who’d just had his arm against his classmate’s neck, or this freckled girl with curls the color of the construction-paper pumpkins six-year-olds cut out at the grade school?

For once, that was working in Sam’s favor.

Mr. Woods looked between both of them. Then he landed on whatever conclusion he’d been scraping toward, and his eyes stayed on Sam.

“Detention,” he said. “After school. One week.”

“You can’t do that,” Peyton said. “My father needs him.”

Now Mr. Woods looked annoyed, like he just wanted them both out of his office.

“You can serve it out after the harvest,” Mr. Woods said. “Whenever Mr. Bonner says he can spare you. Understand?”

“Thank you,” Sam said, biting back any other words so hard the two syllables came from between his clenched teeth.

He caught up with Peyton in the hall.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I don’t like having debts,” she said. “Now we’re even.”

Before he could ask her anything else, she was halfway down the hall, toward Ms. Owens’ office, where her sisters were probably waiting.

“Samir.” Mr. Woods stepped into the hall.

Sam’s back grew hot under his binder.

“I think you should go home,” Mr. Woods said. “Just for the rest of the day.”

Sam opened his mouth without knowing what he’d say.

Mr. Woods held up his hand. “It’s not a suspension. It’s a suggestion.”

Sam swallowed a laugh. A suggestion. That was vice principal for demand.

“I think you and Mr. Reese both need some time to cool off,” Mr. Woods said.

Sam saw the look on his face. He knew he couldn’t take back his proclamation, couldn’t decide now that he’d changed his mind and that Sam was suspended. This was how he could feel less like he’d been herded into doing what a fifteen-year-old girl wanted.

“I know your mother’s working today,” Mr. Woods said.

As opposed to any other day? Sam almost said, but held it back.

Everyone knew Sam’s mother because she looked after the children of a few wealthy families. She coaxed them into practicing the violin or flute with promises to tell them more about Laila and the boy who loved her so much he was called Majnun, because people thought his own heart had driven him mad. Brothers and sisters fought less when she was around, reading together instead of grabbing at each other’s hair. To them she was magic and warmth, and they did as she said. She cleared their cupboards of oversalted and sugared food, and taught them the sweet bite of parsley, how lemon juice brightened the flavor of cucumber and yellow tomato. Daughters declared artichoke salad their favorite food. Boys came to love the sharp tang of onion and sesame seeds.

When they did not want to eat their soup or practice their music, she bribed them with stories about goats whose wool changed color with the seasons. A moon bear appearing to travelers who’d lost their way, the white crescent on its chest bright against its fur. Banded peacock butterflies granting wishes to children who freed them from spiderwebs.

Those children loved her, and Mr. Woods wasn’t willing to cross their parents by pulling Sam’s mother away in the middle of the day.

“Do you have someone who can pick you up?” Mr. Woods asked.

Sam let out a breath through barely parted lips. “Yeah,” he said. “I can probably think of someone.”





sea of tranquility

Once they were out of sight of the school, Aracely pulled over. Mr. Woods hadn’t been willing to let Sam just walk home, so he’d had to let Mr. Woods call her.

She set the car in park. “What happened?”

Sam slumped into his seat.

She turned and faced him, one hand on the driver’s-side headrest. “Anyone ever tell you that you make one hell of an unresponsive seventeen-year-old?”

“Thanks,” Sam said. “I work at it.”

“Look,” Aracely said. “I know what you’re going through.”

“No, you don’t.” Sam sat up. “I still have to live like this. Nothing is gonna fix me. There’s no water that’s gonna make me into something else.”

“And I’d start from where you are if it meant what happened that night didn’t have to happen,” Aracely said. “We don’t get to become who we are for nothing. It costs something. You’re fighting for every little piece of yourself. And maybe I got all of me all at once but I lost everything else. Don’t you dare think there’s any water in the world that makes this easy.”