Ground Zero(2)

Brandon couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Him? A bully?

“That’s what a bully is,” his dad said. “Somebody who pushes people around and never gets in trouble for it.”

Brandon frowned as he and his dad got on the escalator. He wasn’t the bully here! Stuart Pendleton was the bully!

Brandon suddenly remembered his plan—the one for making things right with Cedric. They hadn’t passed the Sam Goody store, but Brandon knew there was one here in the mall. He closed his eyes and went through the layout in his head. Back down to the J.Crew store, then right, past the Hallmark store and the Bath and Body Works. Yes. That’s where the Sam Goody was, with its CDs and DVDs and toys.

Toys like the Wolverine claws he’d broken.

Brandon patted the wad of dollars and change he’d stuffed in the pocket of his jeans before leaving home. While his dad was working in the restaurant at the top of the tower, Brandon would come back downstairs, buy a pair of Wolverine claws for Cedric, and—

“Whoa! Look out!”

Brandon turned. A Black man in a double-breasted suit with a shaved head and a beard stood behind them on the escalator, trying to juggle a briefcase, a folded-up newspaper, and a cardboard drink holder carrying three steaming cups of coffee. He was about to drop at least one thing, if not everything, and the drooping drink holder looked like it was going to be the first to go.

Brandon caught the edge of the cardboard tray before it toppled over, and his dad quickly grabbed hold of the briefcase.

“Whew. Thank you,” the businessman said. “That almost turned into a very bad day for all of us.”

Brandon and his dad helped the man rearrange his things, and they parted ways at the top of the escalator, in the lobby of the North Tower of the World Trade Center. Brandon stood for a second and stared. He’d been here many times before, but the size of the place always surprised him.

The lobby was as wide as four tractor trailers parked end to end, and so tall you could stack them three high and still not hit the ceiling. Up above, there was a wraparound mezzanine where a second floor would have been, leaving the space open and airy. Sunlight bounced off the windows of the smaller buildings across the street and made the North Tower’s lobby glow.

Brandon’s dad led him toward the reception desk, passing men and women of all colors and sizes wearing suits and dresses and delivery uniforms and casual clothes. Brandon’s dad had once told him that more than twenty-five thousand people worked in the North Tower alone. Most of those people weren’t here yet, but the lobby was still crowded.

A security guard took Brandon’s picture for his temporary ID badge, and Brandon waited for the machine to spit it out.

“I took him to the nurse’s station,” Brandon said.

His dad frowned down at him. “Took who to what nurse’s station?”

“Stuart Pendleton,” Brandon said. “The boy I hit.”

Brandon wanted his dad to understand he wasn’t a bully. That he wasn’t some mean kid who went around punching other people without feeling bad about it.

“Once I saw his nose was bleeding, I helped him up and took him to the nurse’s station.”

Brandon’s dad sighed. “That’s nice, Brandon. But did you ever stop to think that maybe you shouldn’t have given the boy a bloody nose to begin with?”

“Here you go, kid,” the security guard said, handing Brandon his temporary ID card.

Brandon stared at the picture of himself. Dark, messy hair. Brown skin and high cheekbones, like his dad. A slightly upturned nose and blue eyes, like his mom. His name—Brandon Chavez—was printed beneath the picture, along with the date:

September 11, 2001.

“Come on,” said Brandon’s dad. “Let’s go upstairs.”





“Five. Six. Seven. Eight.” Reshmina counted in English as she picked up sticks for firewood. “Nine. Eleven.” No—she had missed a number. Ten.

Reshmina stood and straightened her back. It was early morning, crisp and cool. The sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue, and Reshmina could see all the way to the towering mountain range that separated her home in Afghanistan from its neighboring country, Pakistan. The mountains were arid and brown, with snowcapped peaks. Down below, a green-and-gold patchwork of rice paddies and wheat fields and vegetable gardens lined a lazy brown river.

It was September. Soon, Reshmina realized with a pang of sadness, it would be time for the harvest. Reshmina’s parents would keep her home from school to help. Reshmina hated missing school.

“Taliban attack!” her twin brother, Pasoon, cried, leaping out from behind the bush where he’d been hiding.

Reshmina screamed in surprise, and the stack of firewood in her arms went flying.

Pasoon held a stick like a rifle and pretended to shoot at her. “Pakow pakow pakow!”

Reshmina shoved her brother with both hands. “Pasoon, you snake! Look what you made me do! Now I have to start all over.”

Pasoon cackled at his own joke. “I was just trying to help. See?” He offered her his fake rifle. “I brought you a stick.”

Reshmina snatched the stick from him. “Some help,” she said. “How long were you waiting behind that bush?”

“All morning!” Pasoon said, pleased with himself. “You took forever to get here.”