Borderline (12 page)

T
hey keep Dad in jail.

Mr. Bhanjee tells us to hang tough. “Things look bad, but the evidence is weak. A single e-mail. And no mention of dangerous substances or any public threat. I'll be filing papers immediately, demanding to see evidence of this so-called ‘new, unidentified terrorist.'”

Dad's e-mail and the mystery terrorist: that's the big news on TV. There's speculation about who the terrorist might be. One of Dad's co-workers? Someone from our mosque? There's an interview with a criminal profiler. He says the secret conspirator is likely “an unemployed male with low self-esteem.” On the other hand, he could be “a high achiever.” A reporter suggests “he” could even be a
woman, noting the female suicide bombers in Iraq and Afghanistan.

“Great,” Mom says bitterly. “The suspect is anybody brown.”

If the weekend was bad, the rest of today is hell.

Mr. Bhanjee says not to jump to conclusions: “There's nothing to tie this unidentified terrorist to your father.”

Mom nods her head.

Are they blind? Dad and another suspect from the Rochester area are linked to the same foreign terrorist cell. And they don't know each other? What are the odds?

“I'm not going to school tomorrow,” I say, as another image of Dr. Death, a.k.a. Dad, flashes on the screen.

“Oh yes, you are,” Mom says. “All of them out there, they're waiting to see us crack. Well we won't. We're Sabiris. We stick together no matter what.”

“Mom! Think what he tried to do!”

She slaps me. I stare at her in shock. A look of horror crosses her face. She hugs me close. “Forgive me. But your father needs our strength. We musn't betray him.”

“Like, he hasn't betrayed us?” I whisper. “Like, he hasn't betrayed our country?”

A long pause. “We don't know that. All we know is, your father is your father.”

 

It's the middle of the night.

I'm staring at that framed photo on my bedside table, the one of me and Dad from his office. Who
is
he? Who is he really? I don't know. I don't care. I hate him. He's ruined my life. Mom's too.

I go to throw it in the garbage. But I can't.

Dad.

I remember the time I had whooping cough. I thought my lungs were going to rip themselves inside out. I thought I was going to die. Dad stayed by my side day and night for a week, rocking me and singing me Persian lullabies, not caring if he got sick. Just willing me to be well.

Or there was the time before I met Andy and Marty, when I was little and all alone. I remember how one day he found me crying, and he held me and told me how his granny smuggled him out of Iran, how he came to North America without family or friends, how he was so scared he wanted to die, how he met Mom and had me and then everything got better. “You'll get through this,” he said. “I promise.” And I burrowed my head into his chest, and for a while I didn't mind not having friends, because I had him and Mom, and nothing else mattered.

Mom's right. Dad wouldn't do what they say he's
done. There's got to be another explanation. Maybe Hasan pretended to be a scientist working on a project, or a conference delegate—the leader of a terror cell could easily forge credentials. Maybe Dad was giving Hasan secret research reports, thinking he was legit.

Then why did he want to break off contact? Why was he scared to get caught taking “the items” out of storage?

Because—because maybe Hasan claimed to be a bio-lab inspector. Maybe Dad was acting as a whistleblower!

A bio-lab inspector? The way he was dressed in those photos?

Okay. So what if Dad knew he was a fake, and planned a sting? Dad could have given Hasan stuff to set him up, but it wasn't viruses or spores, it was innocent stuff like flour and foot powders—only before Dad could spring his trap, the cops jumped.

How old are you, Sami? Two?

Fine, I don't have the answers. All I know is, sure Dad's strict, and he makes me mad, and he's embarrassed me more times than I can remember. But he's not this evil, wild-eyed maniac.

What does evil look like, Sami? If monsters looked like monsters, we'd know who to run from. But they don't. The scariest monsters look like family and friends. They're the
ones that get you. The ones you trust. You let them into your heart, and then it's too late. They've got you. You're dead. Ask Andy. He thought he knew his dad too.

No! I hit my head over and over, but the voice gets louder. I grab the photo of me and Dad, smash the frame face down on the floor, and shove it, hard, under my bed. I imagine the splintered glass tearing into the paper, shredding Dad's face.

The ceiling and the floor are spinning.

I run to the washroom and throw up.

N
ext morning I enter the Academy from the side door to hang out in my cubbyhole. But when I arrive, there's a sign taped under the stairs:
SABIRI'S SPIDER HOLE
. It's from Eddy. It's got to be. How does he know I come here? Who found out? Who told him?

One thing's for sure: I've lost my safe place. If I'm trapped here now, I'm dead.

But there's a bright spot. Wednesdays and Thursdays the schedule flips, and today's a Wednesday; I get History first period. I figure I'll be safe in Mr. Bernstein's room. But when I get there, I find the door is locked.

I decide to hide out in the can just down the hall. It's empty. I enter a stall, lock the door, and sit cross-legged
on the toilet lid so no one'll know I'm here.

Two minutes of silence, except for the drip in the far sink. Then Eddy's gang barges in from the hall. They're laughing, goofing off. Sounds of pissing at the urinals. The paper towel dispenser working overtime.

Then all of a sudden, the can goes quiet.

Eddy whistles softly. “Sa-biiiii-ri…? Where arrrrre you? Sa-biiiii-ri…?”

Oh god, they know I'm here. They've known all along.

Eddy knocks on my stall. “Can Sammy come out and play?”

I stay very still.

“I asked you a question, sand monkey.”

My heart flips. “I'm taking a dump. Do you mind?”

“With your feet up?” he mocks.

Group laughter. One of the laughs is coming from overhead. I look up. It's Mark Greeley. He's standing on the toilet lid in the stall to my right, staring down at me over the partition. “Hi there, terror boy.”

“Screw off!”

“No way, terror boy!” It's Eddy, hanging over the partition to my left. He grabs my ear, pulls hard. My feet go to the floor. One of his crew grabs my ankles from
under the stall door and yanks. I fall backward and crack my head on the bowl as he tries to haul me out. I cling to the base of the toilet, but I'm half outside the stall. The other goons kick me in the gut. I let go. They're all over me.

“Waterboard the little shit!” Eddy shouts.

Suddenly, my legs are in the air, my arms pinned. I'm lowered headfirst into a dirty toilet. I try to twist away, but Eddy grabs me by the hair and forces my face under the water.

“Your dad's a traitor,” he shouts. “Say it!” He pulls my head up.

“No!” I cough.

He shoves me back under. I can't think, can't breathe. He hauls my head up. “He's a fucking terrorist! Say it! Say it!”

“You're the terrorist!” I choke.

Eddy smashes my head back into the bowl. I'm gonna pass out, drown, die—or even worse, say anything they want—when out of nowhere Mr. Bernstein yells, “What's going on?” And they drop me hard against the porcelain and run, and I'm on my knees sobbing, and I can't stop, I can't, and Mr. Bernstein kneels beside me, and he hugs me and says, “It's okay, it's over, they've gone.”

Only they're back.

“Perverts!” Eddy shouts, as he shoots a cell-phone video of Bernstein holding me.

Mr. Bernstein throws up a hand. “Get out of here!”

But Eddy's already in the corridor. “Perverts in the can! You gotta see this! We got perverts in the can!”

 

Mr. Bernstein cleans me up and brings me to the office as first period starts. Our class is unsupervised, but he says this is more important. He reports the fight to the secretary and asks to speak to Mr. McGregor.

“Mr. McGregor's in a meeting with Mr. Samuels,” Ms. James says. “I'll have him call you down the minute he's through.”

We head to History. Halfway down the hall, we hear a roar from Mr. Bernstein's classroom. Teachers stick their heads into the corridor. I grit my teeth as we walk through the door.

The whole class is crowded around Eddy. He's showing the video.

They all freeze when they see us.

“Take your seats,” Mr. Bernstein barks. They do. He gives Eddy a dead cold look. “To the office. Now.”

Eddy winks at the class and slouches out the door,
holding up his cell. Within seconds, disturbances flicker up and down the hall. My stomach heaves. He's forwarded the video. I'll bet the whole school's seeing it. For all I know, he's put it on YouTube.

Mr. Bernstein tries to carry on, but ten minutes later there's a knock on the door. A teacher on a spare. “Mr. Samuels and Mr. McGregor would like to see you and Sabiri,” he says. “I'm here to hold the fort.”

Mr. Bernstein and I arrive at the office as Eddy's leaving.

“Get back in there,” Mr. Bernstein orders.

“Mr. Samuels let me go,
sir
,” Eddy smirks and saunters down the hall.

Mr. Bernstein goes red, but he hasn't got time to waste on Eddy. “Wait there,” he says to me, pointing at the bench by the sign-in, and he storms past Ms. James, into Mr. Samuels' office. “What's Eddy Harrison doing in the halls?” he demands. “I sent him here to be dealt with.”

“This meeting isn't about Eddy Harrison,” Mr. Samuels says. “You may wish to close the door.”

“No. Whatever you have to say to me, you say it out loud.”

“As you wish. Mr. McGregor and I have been watching a most disturbing video.”

“I was comforting a boy who'd had his head shoved in a toilet!”

“All we know is what we see, and what our clients will see,” Mr. McGregor says.

Mr. Samuels chimes in. “This week, the Academy was rocked by an association with terrorism. That video of you is the last thing we need. The Academy is a respected institution. We won't have that respect eroded on our watch. Do yourself a favor, Isaac. Retire on sick leave. We'll buy out the rest of your contract.”

“You're joking,” Mr. Bernstein exclaims. “Over this?”

“No,” Mr. Samuels says. “Consider this the last straw. We have complaints about your teaching methods on file going back years. Including three e-mails just yesterday, from angry parents whose sons report that you compared them to Nazis.”

“I didn't.”

“Care to go through a public investigation? There's also the issue of discipline: The other day, we understand, there were fireworks in your classroom. This morning, a near-riot. You've had a long and happy career at the Academy, Isaac. We'd hate to see it end in disgrace. The choice is yours.”

A long pause.

“What's going to happen to Sabiri?” Mr. Bernstein asks.

“Sabiri has vandalized school property, sworn in class, and been implicated in a fight on Roosevelt Trail,” Mr. McGregor says. “We've done everything to redeem him. Detentions. A suspension. Nothing's worked. We're left with expulsion.”

“You two are quite a piece of work.”

Mr. Samuels ignores him. “Your second period class will be canceled. You may take that time to collect your personal effects.”

Mr. Bernstein leaves the principal's office, shoulders back, jaw firm.

“Sabiri, you're up,” Mr. Samuels says.

“I already heard,” I say, and follow Mr. Bernstein out the door.

He walks me to my locker. It's like he's somewhere else. “When I came here, the field house didn't exist. The football scores were painted on plywood squares that slid along metal grooves.”

I hesitate. “What are you going to do about your job?”

He leans his back against the wall. “In my glory days, I'd fight. Today, who knows? By the time the fight'd be
over, I'd be older than death. Maybe I should see this as an opportunity. Howard loves to travel. And it'd be nice to spend time with our grandkids.”

Howard? Grandkids? I want to ask, but I don't.

Mr. Bernstein blinks. “Enough about me. You being expelled. This, we fight.”

“Sir, no.” I open my locker and cram my stuff into my gym bag and knapsack. “Now I'll get to be with my buddies at Meadowvale Secondary.” That is, if the school will take me. And if Andy and Marty are still my buddies. And if Dad isn't locked up forever, and Mom doesn't drop dead, and I don't end up in a group home.

I'm good at faking Happy, but Bernstein's a mind reader. He tilts his head. “What's the matter? Apart from everything.”

I slump against my locker door. “I'm scared.”

“Me too, sometimes. But here's what I tell myself.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “We can't choose what life throws at us. But we can choose what we do about it. Our choices are who we are. And who we are—that, no one can take away from us.”

“Like that's a big help.”

“Right,” he smiles. “Big advice from a man who just got ‘retired.'”

I smile back. We stand there, not knowing what to say or do. “Well, then.” I get my knapsack on my back and hoist my gym bag. “Guess I should go.”

He nods. “Since you're no longer my student,” he says, “let me just say: If you ever need help, or someone to listen, I'm in the phone book under Howard Taylor, on Beachwood.”

“Thank you. Thanks.”

And all of a sudden I get this brain glitch: Phone book. Numbers. Names. Addresses. Why didn't I think of this before?

“Mr. Bernstein, I'm really sorry, but I gotta go. Now.”

And before I can blink, I'm in the library at a computer. I google “Toronto” + “telephone directory” and choose the first site on the page. Then I click + “Find a Person.”

In the Name field, I type: Hasan, T.

Up come eight Hasan, Ts, with phone numbers and addresses.

I whip out my wallet and find the paper with the Toronto numbers I copied from Dad's computer. I check the one that I thought belonged to a girlfriend. Bingo. It belongs to T. Hasan on Gerrard Street.

I write down the address, log off, tear out of the
building, and race down Roosevelt Trail, gulping air as fast as I can.

I don't know everything, but I know this: Dad wasn't calling a woman. He was calling Tariq Hasan. The voice on the answering machine must've been Hasan's wife, mom, girlfriend, sister, who knows.

The good news: Dad wasn't having an affair. The bad news: He knew Hasan
before
he went to Toronto and ended up in that FBI photo—which makes the e-mail in court look even worse.

How did Dad get connected to a terrorist? What did they talk about? What did Dad pack up for him from “storage”? Where's the package now? What were “the plans” Dad said he admired?

Only Dad knows. And Hasan. Hasan's the key. Without him, Dad's finished for sure. But Hasan's in hiding. He could be anywhere.

No. Wait. I know how to catch him. And I'm the only one who can.

Andy and Marty.

I need them.

Now!