Time Bomb(12)

The Koran, too, instructed him to wait in patience. It told him to celebrate Allah while waiting and that patience is what brought strength and prosperity. But Rashid wasn’t in the world that his father grew up in. The more he looked around, the more he saw the world as his cousins and some of the men at the mosque saw it. A world that looked at him with fear simply because he was alive.

Rashid had tried patience, but waiting wasn’t going to fix his problems. If he wanted things to be different, he would have to try something else.

One by one, Rashid checked to make sure nobody was in the bathroom stalls. Then he carefully set his bag on one of the sinks and unzipped it. Ignoring the hammering of his heart and the shaking of his hands, he pulled out his tools and hoped his father would be able to understand that this was what Rashid had to do.





11:05 a.m.





Cas





— Chapter 8 —


PIECE BY PIECE, Cas assembled her clarinet. When the instrument was together, she took a seat on the piano bench and began to play.

Mozart. Her favorite.

Not for the first time, Cas wished she played the piece better. It was one she’d started learning before she’d had to leave her last school. She’d been determined to get it as perfect as she could. Only her schedule last year didn’t give her as much time to practice as she needed. And at home . . . well, everyone else needed quiet when they were doing homework or when her mother was on the phone. When her father was around, he always said she should go for a run.

So to avoid conflicts at home, she’d practiced here fifteen minutes before and after school and eventually during her half-hour lunch period. Music was the one thing that made her happy. And when she played something beautiful, she almost could convince herself that she was beautiful too.

Sound filled the room. Cas closed her eyes so she could tune out everything else. So that nothing around her existed but the music and the need to create a resonant and pure sound.

The fingering still tripped her up. The tone got breathy, and here and there, she went off pitch. But it was better. And when she finished the piece, she started again to make it better still. Steady breathing. Leaning into each line. Feeling the flow of notes through her. Control of every moment. Maybe if she . . .

“Why aren’t you in marching band?”

She jumped. The instrument honked. Embarrassment flooded her at the realization that someone had heard her make that sound and of how stupid she probably looked through the practice-room window while she played. Slowly, she turned toward the voice and almost fell off her seat.

Frankie Ochoa.

Football captain. Big man on campus. The guy everyone in the school recognized but she’d never talked to—not once. She doubted he had ever noticed her at school, but now he was standing in the doorway, staring at her.

“What do you want?” she asked, glancing down at the bag near her feet. She let out a sigh of relief. The bag was zipped shut.

“I was on my way to the gym and heard the music. I wanted to see who was making it.” He leaned against the doorjamb and hooked his fingers through the belt loops on his shorts. “You sound good. Way better than anything they’re playing out on the field right now.”

She waited for him to follow up with a joke. But he just looked at her as if he was curious why she wasn’t saying a damn thing.

“Thanks,” she finally said.

“You’re Cas, right? I think we had advanced bio together last year.”

“Yeah. We did,” she said quietly. He was a year older than Cas, but she was a year ahead in science, so they’d been in the same class. He’d taken his frog off the tray and made it dance while Mr. Rizzo was passing out the rest of the specimens.

“I don’t know about you, but I escaped having any classes in the dungeon room this year. I’m like a plant,” he said with a smile. “I need sunlight.”

Everyone called Mr. Rizzo’s room the dungeon because it had only two skinny windows, which didn’t let in any sunlight. Mr. Rizzo tried to keep things interesting, but there were at least one or two kids every semester who fell asleep in that room.

Frankie stared at her again—waiting for her to speak.

Cas’s stomach twisted as she tried to come up with a funny or interesting response that wouldn’t make her sound like an idiot.

Thankfully, Frankie filled the silence. “I meant what I said, you know. You’re good. Is that why you decided not to be part of marching band? Too talented for the hacks?”

“What’s with you and marching band?” she asked. “Do you have a thing for polyester uniforms?”

He laughed.

“Not especially,” he admitted with an easy grin. “But there is something funny about watching people try to look dignified while wearing purple-and-gold polyester. It’s just not possible. I go to a lot of football games and have become quite the connoisseur of marching bands and their uniforms. Ours is the worst of the lot. Thankfully, we’re in the locker room when they play at halftime, so we’re spared what they’re trying to pass off as music. It’s pretty clear no one in that band practices the way you do. Talent means nothing unless you take the time to hone it.”

Before Cas could decide whether Frankie was serious about the compliment he’d just paid her, he looked down at his watch and pushed away from the doorjamb. “Speaking of locker rooms, I have to head down to practice.” Frankie took a step back. His expression turned serious as he added, “You really are good, you know. I’m glad I got to hear you play.” With that, he disappeared down the hall.