Aftermath(11)

You can get a lotta mileage from a family tragedy, if it’s big enough and public enough. It’s the public part that does it – Southfield didn’t want the drama of expelling Jesse Mandal, the understandably troubled younger brother of poor Jamil.

“Mandal, I asked you —”

“Hey,” he says. And he nods. Because even being that troubled kid doesn’t erase who he was. He imagines Jamil sneering and saying, You can’t even be a proper badass, can you, freak?

Jesse’s greeting throws the seniors off-balance, but the biggest one bounces back with “Heard you won the track meet last week. Big track star, huh? Like your brother?”

Jamil didn’t do track. He thought it was for losers who couldn’t throw or catch or hit a ball. But Jesse doesn’t correct them. He just waits to see where this is going.

“My brother played football with yours,” the big guys says. “Want to know what he thought of him?”

Jesse remembers Vaughn tapping the trophy glass.

Fine boy. An all-around fine boy.

“Ben thought Jamil was an asshole,” the big guy says.

Then Ben was a fine boy himself, a fine judge of character.

Shame washes through Jesse as he thinks that.

When Jesse doesn’t respond, the big senior leans in. “He thought your dead brother was an asshole.”

“Okay.”

The senior glances at his friends for help. The red-haired one says, “Someone told me you’re Indian. If you want to pull that off, tell your mother to stop wearing a head scarf.”

“Bengali,” Jesse mutters, and he hates correcting them, but there’s still that kid inside him, who must patiently explain, as if people actually gave a damn.

“Bengali,” he says again. “My grandparents are from Bangladesh, which is beside India. I’m American. I was born here.”

“I’ve seen your mom’s head scarf, Mandal,” the big guy says. “You gonna tell me she’s just cold?”

“Half of Bengal is Muslim. My mother chooses to wear the hijab.”

“So you admit you’re Muslim?”

“I’ve never denied it.”

They look at each other. This conversation clearly isn’t going the way they expected. Jesse is new at RivCol, and he came with a rep for fighting, so they want to put him in his place. But they need to provoke him into throwing the first punch. That’s how it works. Whoever hits first is the instigator.

A few months ago, they might have gotten what they want. But Jesse has learned his lesson. When he hefts his backpack, the big guy steps in front of him.

“We want the new girl’s number,” Red Hair says.

Jesse tenses. “What?”

“The new girl. Raine or Sleet or Skye or whatever her hippie parents named her. We heard you and her go way back.”

The big guy snickers.

“No, I don’t have her number,” Jesse says.

“Then get it for us. She’s hot. Seriously hot.”

Now Jesse’s temper does twitch. He hears Jamil, as he watches thirteen-year-old Skye saunter off, his gaze glued to her ass. Mmm, she’s gonna be hot someday, little brother. I’m gonna be thanking you then, for keeping her around.

The big guy has that same leer on his face, and Jesse has to shove his fists into his pockets to keep from grabbing him by the collar, telling him he’d better not even think of bothering Skye, that she’s got enough to worry about without this.

Instead, Jesse says, as evenly as he can, “I can’t help you,” and then ducks out. He continues to the other side of the school. When he glances around, there’s no sign of the seniors. He swings around the corner and listens. After a moment, he hears voices and footsteps. The seniors are heading to the basketball court.

He should leave. He has practice in an hour, and he can’t skip it – private lessons from the very expensive trainer hired by his parents. The same trainer who made him a track star. Jesse cringes again.

Fake. Phony. Poseur.

Oh, that’s a good one, Jesse. Poseur. Showing off your vocab, smartass?

You’re dead, Jamil. Stay dead. Please.

Wow. Did you just say that? About your own brother?

Jesse hunches his shoulders against an imaginary wind. He hears the creak of doors and, a moment later, Skye steps out the side exit.

He steps around the corner fast.

He can’t speak to her. Not now. He isn’t ready. But…

He looks over his shoulder, to where he can hear the distant voices of the three seniors. Skye’s heading their way. Jesse needs to keep an eye on her.

Really? Does he honestly think they’ll bother her? They were trying to rile him up, using everything they could think of – take a jab at his brother, his mother, his heritage, a girl he’d been friends with…

Maybe that’s all it was, but he can’t be too careful. Skye doesn’t need their crap.

He lopes across the road, tucking behind a parked SUV and following until she gets on her bus safely.

Skye

Mae isn’t home yet. She won’t be for hours, despite what she said this morning.

“I’m taking off early to be home after your first big day.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“But I will. I’ll be home by four.”