Time Bomb(4)

Now he felt he had only one option open to him.

“I should probably go now so I don’t have to stand in line all day,” Rashid said, feeling the weight of the bag pulling on his shoulder. “I will pray at school.” There were plenty of empty classrooms. Since it wasn’t a school day, he wouldn’t have to worry about people making fun of him washing in the bathroom first. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

His father smiled. “No need to rush. If you see people you know, you should spend time with them. You haven’t had the chance to see any of your friends this summer. The best life has balance. Maybe while you’re at school, you can see if there are any new clubs you’d like to join, although I still think you should take photos for the yearbook. The pictures you took this summer are very good.”

“I’ll look into it,” Rashid said, knowing he wouldn’t. He had other things to do. He just hoped his father would be able to understand.

“Good.” His father patted him on the arm and frowned. “Why are you taking your school bag?”

Rashid smiled to hide his nerves. “I’m bringing some notebooks and comic books and a couple of other things to put in my locker so I don’t have to bring everything on the first day. I like having stuff to read in study hall.”

He also read when his friends were late for lunch, to avoid drawing the attention of some of the football players, who liked to harass him.

“Using extra time for study is always good.” His father patted him on the arm again. “Do you have your Koran?”

“No,” Rashid said, shifting toward the door. “I’m leaving it here. I’ve got to go.”

“Wait a second.” His father disappeared out of the kitchen and returned holding a thick paperback that Rashid had no choice but to take. “You might be glad to have it at school with you.”

Rashid forced himself to thank his father, but he couldn’t meet his eyes as he walked out the door. He put the book in the bag and headed to school, still trying to decide if he was going to go through with his plan.

Was this really the time to draw the line in the sand?

He thought about the names he’d been called last year and how uncomfortable his non-Muslim friends looked when they pretended that they were all the same. That nothing had changed.

He wished nothing had changed. More than anything, he wanted to turn back the clock to before the beard and the suspicion it brought into focus. Things had already been hard then, but they had been better.

Hitching the bag so that the weight was better distributed, Rashid frowned and started walking faster. If he was going to change things, he had to do it today. He only hoped that he had the courage to do what needed to be done.





9:58 a.m.





Z





— Chapter 3 —


“YOU’RE KICKING ME OUT?” Sweat pricked Z’s back and forehead. He should have had two more months. His mother had said they’d agreed. And now he was getting screwed.

Z turned his back on the landlord’s son. He couldn’t look at the satisfied smile on the jerk’s pimply face without wanting to deck the guy. Z felt like hitting something—everything.

“Not exactly,” Nick said. “I mean, I know my dad and your mom talked about trying to lower the rent over the summer to help you out, but my dad realized that if he changed the terms of the lease for you, he’d have to do it for everyone, and you know how that goes. It’s not like my father wants to do this.”

Sure he does, Z thought. He just doesn’t want to say he wants to boot the guy who’s just lost his mother to cancer. That would make him have to admit he’s a crappy person. But that’s what he was. All Nick’s father knew was that a guaranteed rent check was dead and buried. It was time to find a new one, and to hell with anything else. Yeah—Z knew exactly how that went.

“I’m sure this is breaking your father’s heart.” Z clenched his fists and looked out the narrow window over the sink. If he closed his eyes, he could still see his mother standing there, washing dishes . . . when she had been well enough to do something that normal.

“Hey, don’t be like that.”

“Like what?” Z turned and stared at the guy. Nick straightened his shoulders but took a step back, tugging at the hem of his dirty T-shirt. “Your father made a promise to my dying mom, and two weeks after she’s gone, he sends you to tell me he was just kidding.”

Nick took another step back and swallowed hard. “He’s really sorry about this.”

“Sure he is.” Everyone was sorry. Z was so tired of hearing everyone tell him how damn sorry they were. Only they weren’t. But they would be. Soon. Very soon. Z unclenched his fists and turned back toward the off-white fridge that his mother had plastered with photographs. “Tell your dad not to beat himself up about it. It’s no problem, Nicky,” he added, yanking open the fridge. The cool air washed over him, helping to tamp down the anger he wanted to let break free. Despite the open windows, the apartment was sweltering.

“Hey, kid, if it was up to me, I would let you stay. I know things are tough. After everything that happened, this really sucks, but—”

“It’s fine,” Z said, grabbing a bottle of tap water out of the fridge. It wasn’t fine. There was nothing fine about being told by a twenty-seven-year-old guy who lived in his parents’ basement and had Cheetos stains on his T-shirt that you had to clear out in three weeks. Adios, boy. Don’t let the door hit your long-haired, tattooed self on the way out.