Borderline (2 page)

M
om passes me the chick-peas. “So, Sami, what are your three Events of the Day?”

Welcome to my family's dining room, a.k.a. The Interrogation Chamber.

The Johnsons eat in front of various TVs, depending on who's watching what. The Pratts eat together in their kitchen. What a zoo! Marty, his parents, three younger sisters, widowed grandma, and her aging rat-dog Mister Bubbles, everyone elbows up, yakking, sticking their forks into each other's food, while Mrs. Pratt frisbees fresh platters off the stove, and Mr. Bubbles hops onto laps to lick noses and beg scraps. Honest, the Pratts could charge admission.

We Sabiris, on the other hand, are “Civilized.” That means we sit at the dining room table, Mom and Dad at either end, with china plates, linen napkins, butter knives, and candles, and discuss the Events Of The Day, meaning three things that've happened to us since breakfast. Dad says this builds families. I say it sucks my brains out.

The three Events Of The Day ritual started my first day back to school. Now, three weeks into the term, every day is same-old-same-old, and what used to be an Event is so old it ought to be buried. I mean, the only Event in my life worth mentioning happens tomorrow: my trip to Toronto with Dad. But okay, if Mom wants to drive me Skippy, I may as well have some fun.

“My three Events Of The Day.” I pause, scoop chick-peas onto my plate, and pass the bowl to Dad. “Event Number One.” I swivel the serving spoon through the rice dish, catching as many raisins as I can. “Today in the caf, three juniors barfed the lasagna special.”

Mom closes her eyes. “Sami, please, we're eating.”

“So were
we
.”

“I thought we agreed our events would be positive.”

“This
is
positive. Last year, guys were hurling on day one.”

Mom looks to Dad for reinforcement. “Arman?”

Dad grunts absently, lost in his chick-peas.

I decide not to press my luck. “Okay, something
positive
. As of period three, I'm no longer the biggest nerd in school. The title's gone to Mitchell Kennedy.”

“Ah, Mitchell.” Mom brightens. “The friend from your noontime study group.”

“Mitchell's hardly my friend. And we're hardly a study group. More like the Loser Lunch Bunch. Anyway, Mitchell's already read our entire science textbook. And today he told Mr. Carson. In class. It went over
real
well.”

“Maybe he shouldn't have bragged,” Mom says. “But it never hurts to work hard. You should invite Mitchell over sometime.”

“Why?”

Mom sighs. “So don't.” She offers me the tray of pistachio chicken. “And event number three?”

I take a breast. “Mr. Bernstein's had a miracle.”

“Mr. Bernstein. Your history teacher, right? The older gentleman we met at the Academy open house?”

“Right.” I hold the tray for her. “Mr. Bernstein's hair has been gray since forever. But overnight it magically turned black.”

Mom laughs. “I like Mr. Bernstein.” She takes a thigh. “He's so gracious. So fit. So stylish. He has a lucky wife.”

A wife? Mr. Bernstein? Yo, Mom, get with the program. I set the tray beside Dad.

“Your turn, Arman,” Mom says. “What's new in the world of microbes?”

Dad looks up from his chick-peas, frowns, takes a chicken leg, and places it in a nest of rice. “Well…” He pours orange gravy over it. “Well…” He carves a bite, sticks it in his mouth, chews slowly, swallows, and pats his lips with his napkin. “Well…”

“Yes,” Mom says, “we've heard that bit.”

Dad sets his napkin aside and plants his hands on either side of his plate, “All right. Here it is. About tomorrow, Sami. Our weekend. My colleague, Auggie Brandt, was scheduled to speak at the Saturday night dinner. But he's sick. He's asked me to fill in.”

“You told him no, of course,” Mom says.

“I wanted to. But Auggie's done me a lot of favors. So…”

“There is no ‘So,'” Mom's eyes narrow. “Saturday, you're taking Sami to a doubleheader. The two of us discussed this. We planned it. We agreed it was important.”

“I know. And it is,” Dad says. “But I can't.” He turns to
me. “Sami, I'm sorry.”

I shrug. “There's still the Leafs game tomorrow night. And Saturday I can go to the ball games on my own.”

Dad shakes his head. “Not possible. Tomorrow night I'll be preparing. And I don't want you out alone in a strange city. We'll do our getaway some other time.”

“You mean the whole weekend is canceled?”

He opens his palms, like it's out of his hands.

The bottom drops out of my stomach. “No, Dad, please! I've told everyone. Besides, it's Canada. Nothing bad ever happens in Canada. It's safer than day care.”

“I have a solution,” Mom interrupts. “I'll call Deb right now, trade my shifts at the pharmacy, and come along. It'll be a family trip.” She gives me a nod. “While your father works, I'll take you to the games.”

“But you hate sports,” I say.

“This weekend will be an exception.”

Dad's face clouds. “It's a nice idea, Neda, but not practical.”

“Who cares about practical?”

“Not in front of Sami,” Dad signals.

“Arman,” Mom says evenly, “if you can't accompany Sami, I will.”

“Impossible. I'll be working. I'll need to concentrate.”

“Then Sami and I will stay in a separate room.”

“Out of the question.”

“What do you mean, ‘out of the question'?”

I wish I was ten so I could slide under the table.

“I mean it's too late,” Dad says. “I've released the tickets.”

“You've what?” Mom rocks back in her chair. “Without talking to me?”

“There wasn't time.”

“There's always time. A simple phone call.”

“I wasn't thinking.”

“It's okay, Mom,” I say.

“No,” she whispers. “It's not.”

“I'll make it up to both of you, Inshallah,” Dad says. “The first free weekend I have, we'll all go to New York. How's that? Neda, you can do some shopping. Sami, I'll get us tickets to the Yankees. What do you say?”

I turn to Mom. “May I be excused?”

She nods. We both get up.

Dad's stunned. “Neda?”

But Mom's already halfway to the family room. It's the first time she's left a meal with dishes on the table. I hear the French doors close, the sound of the TV. I grab my plate and head to the kitchen.

“I said, I'll take us to New York!” Dad pleads.

“Yeah, right, whatever.”

“Sami…”

I spin around. “Look, Dad, just forget it, okay? It's no big deal. You obviously have way more important things to think about than me.”

H
oly shit. What just happened? Mom and Dad—they never fight, aside from private discussions in their bedroom. Plus Dad didn't order me back when I stormed out. Is there a full moon or something?

I go to scrape my meal into the pail under the sink, but the pistachio chicken still looks tempting. I bring my plate downstairs to my bedroom—which I'm officially renaming the Asshole Relief Center, in honor of Dad—and slip behind my computer.

Andy and Marty are already online. I fill them in about Dad and the weekend.

 

ANDY: tht sux!

ME: u sed it. mayb we can get 2gethr insted?

ANDY: cant. were off 2 my cottage.

 

They're going to the cottage without me
again
? I want to heave all over the keyboard.

 

ME: y dnt u tl me???

MARTY: u wr bzy.

ANDY: its not 2 l8. can u come?

 

My heart somersaults.

 

ME: w8 1 sec.

 

I race upstairs. Mom's left the family room for the kitchen, where she's putting Saran Wrap over the leftovers.

“Where's Dad?”

“Up in his office,” she says briskly. “He got a call. Don't bother him.”

No kidding. I made that mistake last week. The door was closed. He was on his cell. I tapped to see if it was okay for me to have a swim at Andy's. He went ballistic: “How long have you been listening in? What did you hear?”
You'd think I'd hacked into the Pentagon or something.

Mom sees me fretting. “What's so important you can't ask your mother?”

I spill the invitation.

“That's wonderful,” Mom says. “Of course you can go.”

“Thanks. But shouldn't we check with Dad?”

She takes me by the shoulders. “Sami, I've given permission.”

Right. And I'm not going to blow it. In a flash, I'm back at the computer: IM IN!!!!!

Andy types the drill for our trip.

I'll get picked up after class for the drive to Alexandria Bay, where the Johnsons moor their boat. I'll have my passport and a note from Mom, but going over the border by water is a snap. The Js have a pass. They're supposed to notify authorities before a trip if they have guests, and phone from a landline on arrival. They never do. On paper, there's penalties, but nobody hassles cottagers.

Andy's fingers explode typos: “btw” has become “blt.” We switch to webcams.

“So. Very important,” Andy rattles. “Bring rubber boots, flashlights, hoodies, sweaters, and windbreakers. It's cold on the water.”

“Check, check, check, and double-check,” I say.

Andy grins so wide I'm surprised his head doesn't split in two. “Wait'll you see the abandoned hermit's shack we found. It's a couple of miles from the cottage, on an island the size of your thumb.”

“What's this about a hermit?”

“Okay, maybe there isn't a hermit,” Marty corrects. “But if there isn't one, there should be. The shack's made out of rotted plywood, it's caved in, and there's garbage all around, like rusty oil bins and bicycles and smashed-up TVs. We pictured this wacked-out hermit dropping dead under a full moon, and wild animals eating his bones.”

“Not so loud!” Andy hisses. He switches off his overhead light, like that'll make things quieter. “The thing is,” he whispers, “Hermit Island's covered in pines. From the water, that's all you see, plus a half-sunk dock. We stumbled onto it by accident. Key point: The island's got a small beach, great for goofing off. It's our own party central.”

“One rule, Sammy,” Marty interrupts. “No pouring your beer in the sand.”

“Ha ha.” When I'm with the guys at house parties, I carry a beer as a prop, so people won't think I'm a freak. Throughout the night I pour it down the toilet on pee breaks.

“Focus, team!” Andy says, eyes twitching. “Remember to bring sleeping bags. No, never mind, there's extras at the cottage. And a tent.”

“We're going to camp there?” I exclaim.

“Duh. Yeah.”

“With your dad?”

“You kidding?” Andy leans into his webcam; his left eyeball fills the frame. “Dad hates camping.”

“Won't he mind us taking the boat overnight?”

The Eyeball winks. “No way. We're in eleventh grade now. Plus I've turned seventeen, remember? I'm telling you, man, it's gonna be cool. Way cooler than the cottage. And best of all, no neighbors to get pissed if we're out late making noise.” Andy rolls his chair back. “We'll fish off the tires by what's left of the dock, get drunk—at least Marty and I will—and it'll be great. Sammy, you can be the designated pilot.”

“You mean it? Me? Behind the wheel?”

“You bet. I'll teach you how to steer. Nothing to it. But, hey, Hermit Island is secret. No telling anyone, right?”

“Right!” I fake knuckle the screen, and laugh.

Hermit Island! Piloting a boat! I can't wait.

 

And now I can't sleep.

It's three
A.M.
I'm going out of my mind. I'm excited about Andy's cottage. But I'm scared about Dad. My folks always talk things over before I get permission for anything. This time Mom's gone solo. What if Dad finds out?

Well, what if he does? It's not like Mom and I are being sneaky, is it? I mean, she didn't tell me
not
to tell him, did she? And if it's important for him to know, she'll tell him herself, right? Who am I kidding? After their fight?

Anyway, how would he find out? I'll be back Sunday; he's gone till Monday. And if he calls, Mom can say I'm out or in bed. Still…

Maybe I should tell him before he leaves. No, it's too late. He'd say we snuck behind his back. I'd have snitched on Mom, and my permission would be canceled on the spot. Especially given the vibes since supper. Like, evening prayers were from the Land of Get Me Out Of Here! None of us looked at each other. We didn't even say good night after.

I hear someone in the kitchen. It's Dad. He's pacing in circles, top of the stairs, murmuring from the Qur'an, verses about peace, justice, and mercy. I know because I left my room door open, so I could hear if he and Mom
got into it in the middle of the night. The cupboard door opens, closes. Now the fridge. Now the cutlery drawer. He'll be mixing a spoonful of molasses into a glass of milk.

I leave my room and crouch in the dark basement hall at the foot of the stairs. I hear Dad place a kitchen chair back from the table to sit—he never drags the chairs, says that could scratch the tiles. I hear the spoon rattle against the glass as he stirs, hear it clink on the small saucer where he always sets it. And now I hear a low groan, and the sound of Dad struggling to control his breath.

I go up the stairs, stop in the doorway. “Dad?”

He sits bolt upright. “Sami?”

“I got up to pee. Thought I heard something.”

He tries to smile. “Just me and my milk and molasses. You should get back to bed.”

“Can't sleep.”

“That makes two of us.”

I stand there, not knowing what to do. Then I edge over to the table and slip onto the chair opposite him. His eyes are red.

Dad catches me staring. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing.” I glance at the calendar on the side of the fridge, embarrassed.

Silence.

I try to think of something to say. I can't. Dad can't either. So we don't say anything. Just sit there, very still, for what seems like forever.

Finally, Dad says, “About our weekend…Are you okay?”

I shrug. “We can see the Yankees some other time.”

“Good.” He clears his throat. “Maybe you and your friends can get together, Inshallah. Do something fun.”

I shrink a bit. “Sure. Maybe.”

Dad reaches across the table. He grips my hand. “Sami…” His throat's so dry the words barely choke from his lips. “Sami, there's things I can't talk about. Things I can't explain. Understand?”

“I guess.”

“Good.” Dad gives my hand an extra squeeze. His knuckles are white. “Now go back to bed. Get some sleep.”

I turn at the railing. Dad's staring after me with this haunted look. I want to say, “I love you,” but I can't. He gives me his fake smile and his tight little wave.

I disappear into the dark.