Kiki and Jacques (4 page)

The sick feeling in Jacques's stomach spread up to
his chest, making it hard to breath. “What was the kid's name?”

“He wouldn't say—just that he'd see you soon enough.” After blowing her nose, Grandmère Jeannette shuffled into the kitchen.

Jacques checked to see that the front door was bolted shut. He went into his bedroom and slammed his fist into his hand. How could Dad have lost another job? Why hadn't he said anything about it? Jacques ran his fingers through his hair, opened the closet door and stood tall in front of the mirror.

“I'm not taking any of your bull, Duane!” Jacques watched his reflection carefully. The orange freckles on his cheeks seemed to pop out. Long brown curls fell into his eyes, and his lips were twitching. Try again. This time, he crossed his arms in front of his chest: “You're crazy to think you can get away with it! You're gonna end up back in jail!” Crap, he still looked ridiculous.

“Were you calling me?” Grandmère Jeannette was knocking.

“I'm fine.” Jacques opened the door a crack. “I was practicing something for school.”

“One more thing . . .” Grandmère Jeannette hesitated. “You don't go sayin' nothin' about this to your father, okay? It's hard enough on him.”

“I can help more in the shop; I promise.”

“I just wish your dear
maman
was still here,” Grandmère Jeannette said softly. “She was the finest part of him. Donny's never been the same without her.”

Jacques's eyes stung as he felt his grandmother's hand touch his cheek. After she left, he went and took one last look in the mirror.

“How much money do I get if I say yes?” he whispered.

The next morning Kiki rushed into homeroom two minutes late. Jacques felt his face go hot as she flashed him a silent “hi.” When Kiki fumbled for a pen, Jacques reached into his backpack and pulled out three Sharpies for her to choose from. One of her books slipped off the desk, and Jacques dove to the floor to catch it.

When he picked himself off the floor, he noticed Lucy staring at him. At lunch, she seemed mad. “You're in my way.” She bumped her backpack into Jacques's shoulder.

“Hey!” He rubbed his arm. “I need to be in one piece for soccer tryouts today.”

“I don't think you've got much of a chance, anyhow,” Lucy replied. “I guess that was kind of mean,” she added, slamming him in the other shoulder.

“You think?” Sammy smirked.

“Did you see the Somali kids playing at recess yesterday?” O'Shea seemed to be missing the drama. “That Mohamed dude could go professional! He's amazing.”

“Thanks a lot.” Jacques gathered his stuff to go.

“Just sayin' . . .” O'Shea shrugged.

“C'mon.” Sammy stood and motioned to Jacques. As they walked out of the lunchroom he whispered, “They're idiots. And Lucy is plain jealous. She thinks you like Kiki.”

“That's crazy. . . .” Jacques was cut off by the sight of Mohamed striding past him and staring straight ahead. He looked six foot four at least.

When school let out, Jacques noticed that the wind had picked up. His long-distance shot was his trademark—a wide smack, and the ball would arch above the goalie's head and spin into the goal. But wind was a funny thing, as Coach liked to say. It could throw off anybody's game.

By the time he got to practice, Jacques's head was throbbing, and his shoulder felt stiff. Mohamed looked even taller and sharper as he sailed along the edge of the field. He was good at defense, midfield and offense—there was nothing this kid couldn't do.

“Get out there, all of you! Let's see what you got.” Coach Morrin's eyes were watery from the breeze, and he blew his nose with a loud honk.

Jacques ran the ball down the field, faked to the left, and after a gust of wind, placed the ball in. It soared over O'Shea's head into the sweet spot. Sammy flashed thumbs-up. Jacques jumped in triumph a split second before realizing that Mohamed was coming up fast from behind. Mohamed danced with the ball, skipping it between his legs, left and right and then just as a blast
of air hit them—
slam!—
straight like a bullet the ball swooshed right into the goal. It was horrible and beautiful. Jacques could see Boucher shaking his head and making a chopping motion across his own neck.

Jacques scored three goals with two assists, but Mohamed made five perfect goals. Jacques jogged back to the edge of the field, spent. He was beat, and he knew it.

“I'll post results on the door of the gym tomorrow.” Coach Morrin rubbed the back of his neck. “That wind was real strong today; you guys did okay, considering.”

Jacques and Sammy walked home in silence. When it was time for Sammy to veer off, he cleared his throat like he was starting to say something, but Jacques shrugged and walked away.

Rounding the corner by Grandmère Jeannette's, Jacques spotted a ball of white fur hopping across the front yard toward the road. He froze and drew a sharp breath. Pelé! How in the world had he gotten out? In a split second, Jacques heard the ear-shattering roar of a broken muffler coming fast from up the street, and that was when everything went into slow motion. Jacques couldn't remember later whether he saw the Harley motorcycle first or just heard its thundering engine. He dug into the pavement and sprinted. The rest came in flashes: Pelé, Ricky running toward the road, the black van speeding forward. Harley driver swearing, swerving, skidding. And then a girl in a flowing green skirt running up the street, screaming and waving her arms.
The screech, the bang, the honking as the motorcycle jumped and hit the edge of the sidewalk, spinning around him. Cursing, followed by darkness.

“You okay? You okay?” Someone was shaking his shoulder.

Jacques blinked, and closed his eyes again. Was he dead? Was this a dream? He opened one lid, looking straight into Kiki's face. Ricky stood beside her, redcheeked and crying.

“I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!” Ricky panted.

“What happened?” Jacques groaned. “Where's Pelé?” He propped himself up on his elbow, but his head felt light. The Harley driver revved its engine and roared away in a cloud of dust, honking and swearing. The van was gone too. The street was empty.

“That crazy guy nearly hit you!” Kiki's voice was hoarse. “Are you okay? Did you hurt anything?”

“You saved Pelé!” Robby held the bunny against Jacques's cheek as Jacques struggled to sit up.

“Are you hurt?” Kiki repeated, breathless.

Jacques shook his head. He wasn't sure yet, but he didn't think so. He sat in the middle of the street, his heart pounding against soft fur.

Ricky tried to explain. “Your grandma said we could take Pelé outside, and Robby was supposed to be watching, but I kicked the ball under the bushes, and we had to find it.” He stopped to wipe his nose on the back of a grimy hand. “When we came back, Pelé was gone!”

“Can you walk? You better get out of the road before another car comes.” Kiki looked anxiously up and down the street.

“What are you doing here?” Jacques muttered as he pulled himself to his feet.

“I was on my way to the library to get help with math. But then I saw the motorbike, and it was coming at Ricky so quick . . . and I started to run, but you got there first.” Kiki's strained expression melted into a crooked grin. “You
are
really fast. No wonder my brother says so.”

Jacques hobbled to the yard and collapsed on the grass. Oblivious to near disaster, the bunny began to purr.

Jacques gave the boys a weak high five. “You keep Pelé out back next time, okay?”

Robby tugged on Ricky's sleeve. “It's almost supper.” The twins ran into the house while Kiki knelt on the grass.

She pointed to the bruise on Jacques's leg. “This looks bad.”

“It's just a little sore, that's all,” Jacques said. “I guess I'm lucky it happened
after
soccer tryouts.”

“Oh yes,” Kiki replied. “Mohamed was all nervous about it when he left for school this morning.”

Mohamed? Nervous? Was that possible? Jacques rubbed the bruised knee. “I don't know why he'd be worried. Your brother is super good, like totally amazing.”

Kiki sighed. “They had a special team in Atlanta. There was a man there, a coach who spoke to
Mohamed about trying out, and maybe he could be, you know, a professional player someday.” Kiki stroked Pelé's long silky ears. “But Hooyo, she wanted to move here because my uncle had already come to Maine. So Mohamed lost his chance.”

“That's too bad,” Jacques said. “Maybe he can still do it. He could play at college someday. You too.”

Kiki shrugged. “I don't know if I am ever getting to college. I could not understand my math sheet, not at all.”

“I'm pretty good with numbers.” Jacques nodded toward the backpack sitting next to Kiki.

She hesitated, twirling the edge of her hijab. “Maybe I better go; I am supposed to make dinner.”

“It's just like school here—it's fine,” Jacques replied. “We can hang out for another minute. Nobody will care.” Jacques handed Pelé to Kiki, picked up her math binder and quickly showed her how to do the homework.

“You are like a math wizard,” Kiki said. “You know it better than the teacher.”

“Miss Woodhouse is half crazy. She's been at school at least a hundred years. My dad had her.” Jacques stood and picked up the soccer ball. “Watch this.”

Kiki giggled while Jacques set the ball in front of Pelé. The rabbit sniffed, then hopped forward, pushing the ball back and forth toward the house with his nose.

“He thinks that bush is the goal,” Jacques explained. “Look at him tuck it away.”

Kiki laughed. “He is a striker! He is going to make
the team for sure.” She rose and picked up her backpack. “Mohamed must be home by now. Thanks for the help. I will see you at school.”

Jacques bent forward to lift up Pelé, and that's when he noticed a guy in a gray hoodie and sagging gym pants jogging down the street away from him. Jacques couldn't see his face, but he knew exactly who was there.

Jacques pulled Pelé close to his chest. “You better keep your distance, Duane!” he hissed under his breath. “I'm warning you.”

There was a note on the gym door the next morning written in black swirling script that didn't look anything like Coach's handwriting.

Tim O'Shea read the words aloud: “Coach Out Sick. No Practice.”

“What the heck!” Boucher exclaimed. “What about soccer tryouts? Who made the team?”

“I guess we'll just have to wait 'til tomorrow,” Jacques replied. Thank you, God, he added silently.

Jacques picked up his backpack and cut through the boys still hanging by the door. Mohamed must be so sure of himself; he hadn't even shown up.

Sammy caught up with Jacques by the lockers. “You been asked to the Sadie Hawkins yet?”

“What?” Jacques frowned.

“Sadie Hawkins. The dance. Girls ask the boys. It's this weekend.”

“No,” Jacques said. “And it sounds stupid.”

“Right.” Sammy's face got kind of red. “But the thing is, Nicole just asked me, so I guess I'm gonna go.”

“Didn't you say you hated her guts?” Jacques asked.

“That was last week.” Sammy's braces gleamed in a sheepish grin.

Kiki was walking toward them. “How is your knee?” She smiled, but kept her eyes to the floor and didn't slow down.

“Fine,” Jacques mumbled.

“What was that about?” Sammy asked.

“Nothing.”

“She can't ask you to the dance,” Sammy said. “I doubt she can even go to the dance. They're not allowed. Muslim boys and girls don't hang out together 'til they are, like, married.”

“We're just friends,” Jacques quickly responded. He scanned the hallway, wondering where Mohamed was.

At lunch, Lucy stormed past their regular table and banged her backpack down next to three cheerleaders. Her cheeks were flushed, and she wouldn't look Jacques's way.

“What's up with her?” Jacques asked.

Sammy and O'Shea burst out laughing.

With Coach Morrin sick and practice called off, Jacques figured he'd go surprise Grandmère Jeannette after school. He broke away fast, hoping to avoid running into anyone, especially Mohamed. Two blocks from school, though, he bumped smack into Father Lazar, stepping out from the Save-and-Shop.

“Oh, hi, Father,” Jacques stammered. He suddenly realized that he hadn't been to confession all summer.

“Jacques.” The priest smiled warmly. “I was just thinking about you.”

“You were?” Crap, maybe it had been a whole year since confession.

“Yes, indeed. Jeannette mentioned that you play basketball.”

“Basketball?” Jacques blinked. “What I mean is—soccer is more my game.”

“I'm sure you are skilled at both, but we don't have a soccer field in the church hall.” Father Lazar chuckled. “Here's what I want to talk to you about: The clergy in town have been brainstorming about how to welcome our new African neighbors. We've decided to hold a family night this Saturday, with a basketball game for the teens.” Father Lazar paused. “It would mean a lot if you could come.”

Jacques shifted his feet. “There's kind of a dance this weekend at school. Sadie Hawkins.”

“I see,” Father Lazar replied.

“I might get invited by this girl. . . .”

“I understand,” the priest said.

But Jacques wasn't exactly sure that he did.

“You think about it. If you change your mind, bring some kids with you. They don't have to be church members—all comers welcome. The ladies are planning an impressive dessert table, did I mention that already?”

Jacques waved goodbye with a few grunts about having to help his grandmother. He sprinted the rest of the way to the shop, cutting through the alley behind Main Street. Mr. Silverstein, the owner of the Army Navy Store, was out back heaving empty boxes onto the curb.