Length: 3200 words
Tense: present
POV: 3rd
This story is a little different from my usual. Very different, actually. It's somewhat inspired by this story, at least on a basic level. It's much longer than my usual. And it uses a lot more cultural references than I ever know. Most of it was composed alongside Wikipedia and Google. Please, if Jay-Z isn't the best example of a rapper, or Dr Pepper is as much a part of the sistum as a Coke, let me know. I understand a lot less of this than you'd think. Especially, if you speak one of the languages – most of it's from Google Translate, and probably wrong…
It was an experiment. One I probably won't try again soon, as it was a lot of work. But maybe it was worth it – read and see!
“Move it.”
Ahmed looks up. Not that he needs to.
“You hear me, Arab-boy? Putchur fuggin head down ’n shove!”
Ahmed steps deftly aside. He’s paralyzed. His mind’s already playing it out, the threats, the taunts and the rumors all colliding into a terrible reality. He grimaces, tensing.
But McGregor bumbles past him, right on by.
Maybe McGregor had to get by, nothing more. Maybe he’s finally seeing through Ahmed again.
Ahmed hears crying in the playground. He kneels to the hard green tile of the cafeteria, and lets the warm air rush out of his lungs. It’s not me! Allah as-Salam, it’s not me! He wants to lean into the floor and kiss the smooth tile. It’s not time for prayer, yet. He’s in a room full of whites, Mexicans, Chinese. Ahmed doesn’t care. He falls to the ground in the corner of the room, and bows to the shadows. Kids around him carry their trays to and from the counter, and Ahmed hears the rattle of cutlery. They ignore him. He is invisible, at last.
Ahmed’s parents taught him the value of being unseen. The kid who is unseen will not be hurt. He will not be vulnerable to the waves of hatred that wash over the bleak brown hills. Invisible, he is free, they say. What could one want, more than his freedom.
First grade, and Ahmed had learned to be invisible. He stayed in the back of the classroom. He never offered his hand in class. Mr. Hendricks never gave him good marks, but never failed him, either. Ahmed had considered himself lucky.
Second grade. Third grade. He remained unseen. He remained unspectacular.
But he began to feel the itch of greed. He wanted more. Each day, from his bench, he saw the kids out in the yard, kicking balls, jumping hopscotch. What if? What would it be like to join them? What would it be like to shoot hoops with the flat basketball, or jump the thin lines of squares cut into the tar with flecks of shale? How would it feel to be like them?
Fourth grade. Ahmed makes his move. He struts out onto the field, casually. He’s seen how the cool kids do it – the McGregor gang swaggering around, heads rocking to the unheard music of their iPods. He’s seen the Mexicans, slapping each other on the back, “Mi hombre!” He’s seen the surfers who drive each Sunday morning through the hills and to the beach, the dark-eyed kids who pilfer cigarettes from the librarian, the jocks and the rappers and the kid with a school of friends. He knows how it’s done.
Ahmed struts out, popping his shoulders to the side. He struts to the basketball court. It’s the Mexicans who are playing, and they look up at him. Marcos misses his pass, and the ball bounces across the yard, clattering into the chainlink fence. Ahmed hears the metal clink decisively – he realizes the yard’s gone quiet.
“Hola, amigos. Thought I’d join.”
Ahmed says it with confidence, but even as he says it sweat rises out of him, and he’s drowning in it. He knows it’s wrong. His voice lacks the edge, the harshness. It’s soft like the wet palms of his hands, quiet from lack of practice.
“What’s that, musulmán? ¡Habla!” Marcos laughs. The players look at Ahmed, surprised. Maybe they doubt he will speak. Maybe they don’t believe he spoke in the first place. Maybe they’ve already forgotten. Most of the kids watching have never heard Ahmed’s voice. He’s distinctly aware of that, now. He’s distinctly aware of the five Latino boys, the youngest still with a year on him. He feels all the eyes on his mouth.
“I wanna play.”
Federico laughs, nudges Carlos. “¿¡Oiste?! El chiquito quiero jugar!”
Marcos had forgotten. He’d gone to fetch the ball. He bounces it, catches it on his finger and twirls it. He jumps, casually dunks, grabs the rebound. He turns for a pass, and sees Ahmed.
“Oy, muchacho! ¡Agarra!”
Marcos throws the ball, hard. Ahmed catches it, but it’s too much. He falls over backwards. He hears laughter. He feels his rump scoot along the tar. He imagines the big black spot that’s formed there.
He wants to vanish, now. He wants to slink off, to hide in the basement with his mother while the glass chimes in the storefront above. He wants to slink off to the bench, to shrink, melt into the wood, he wants to vanish right there, off into the wind.
“¡Te levanta, chiquito!” Carlos calls. Ahmed is frozen. He gives up – throws the ball to the tall Mexican. At least he throws it straight.
Carlos laughs, dribbles, shoots. He’s forgotten Ahmed already. Marcos shrugs, says something in Spanish to Federico, and they laugh it off. They return to the game.
Ahmed gets up, as slowly as he can. His left hand’s guarding the stain he can feel on his backside. He knows he should be worried about his mother. He knows she’ll be furious he’s ruined a good pair of pants. But all he can think is this: get back to the bench, the bench, back to the bench.
The Mexicans ignore him, now that he’s no longer in their way. The spectators are gone, back to their hopscotch, foursquare, highfiving clusters gathered around the fence. Maybe they were never looking.
Ahmed thinks he’s safe. He’s about to sigh, when he catches a smile. It’s across the blacktop, away from the fence, where the tar melts into the parking lot and the high summer grass. It’s Dan McGregor, and he’s looking right at Ahmed, right into his eyes, grinning like a clown.
Ahmed almost manages to forget it that night. His mother’s furious about the jeans. He gets a light spanking. She threatens to send him to school in a sirwal. He’s sent off to his room until evening prayer. After dinner there are a few extra chores.
By the time he’s going to bed, Ahmed is thinking about the pants. He forgets about McGregor. He remembers the Mexican boys instead.
He dreams he can dunk like Marcos. The whole school watches, cheering. He makes shot after shot.
Carlos smacks his back. “¡Mi hombre!”
The next day’s a Friday. Ahmed’s glad – he likes the weekend. He’s not like Fatima, who likes school, even though she gets worse marks than Ahmed. She told him, once in first grade. That was during the first week. It was before she’d realized he was invisible. It was before the school had forgotten about him.
The Friday starts out like any other day. Math. P.E. Social Studies. Ahmed doesn’t see McGregor all morning. McGregor’s in seventh grade, and Ahmed’s class only goes to sixth.
Recess. Mr. Hendricks lets them out late. He’s jabbing his finger at the Ottoman Empire and trying to reenact World War I. He doesn’t seem to notice the clock that the kids are all staring at, and none of them are audacious to speak up against his sharp ruler.
They finally get out. Ahmed is only thinking is what a bore the Ottoman Empire can be, and wishing it into nonexistence. He bumps into McGregor.
Ahmed starts, and stares up. McGregor’s at least a head taller than him, and his eyes are a cool blue, almost gray. His hair’s cut real short – rumor is he got a mullet last weekend, and his parents had to shave it off of him. They might’ve caned him, but he doesn’t show it. He owns the yard.
“Sorry.”
“Watch it!” McGregor is as loud as Ahmed is quiet.
“I— sorry, I don’t—” He can’t explain. It’s just that people normally stay clear of him. Normally they let him slide by, somehow, like he’s air slipping through their fingers. He’s never walked into someone before.
“Hey, Arab-boy!” He acts surprised. “Hey, I saw you on the courts.
Ahmed nods, unable to speak.
“Now, whatcha doin’ pushin’ me ’round? You don’t wanna be gettin’ on the wrong side o’ me, d’ya?”
“N-n-no.”
“Course not. You’d wanna be keepin’ me happy, dontcha?”
“I guess.”
“I know. I knew you gonna be a pal. Hey, Arab-boy, I’m feelin’ a tad o’ thirsty, y’know?”
“Oh, I—”
“Gimme a soda, you mind?”
Ahmed’s knees are shaking. He’s never used the vending machine – it’s overpriced, and only pays back half the time. But he knows where it is.
Ahmed doesn’t spend much money. He’s trying to save it up. He’s going to buy a car. He’s going to drive and drive, and he’ll stick his head out the window, hollering as he passes by. He’ll hit the puddles as he whips past McGregor, spraying his leather jacket with brown gunk, plastering his blond hair with leaves and slugs. And maybe he’ll keep driving, right onto the highway, over the bridge, into the mountains, the wind in his hair, Tupac and Jay-Z blasting from the stereo.
He puts a five in the machine. It’s all he’s got. There’s extra, so he might as well get something for himself. He gets a Coke and Dr Pepper. He’s mad that he has to use his money, but secretly he’s a little excited. He rarely gets to drink a soda.
“Gimme.” McGregor’s been watching him the whole time. Ahmed gives him the coke. McGregor pops it with his teeth.
Ahmed’s just about to do the same, or at least try. McGregor’s taking a big chug out of the can. He swirls it in his mouth, gives Ahmed a face, and spits. “This sort o’ crap!? Wuzzis, kid? You gimme a coke. You think you all cool! Nah, I ain’t like that, Arab-boy. I ain’t part o’ the sistum. I ain’t gonna bow ta the sistum. Take your fuggin coke, and gimme somethin’ else.”
Ahmed has no choice. He hands over the Dr Pepper. He takes the coke. McGregor’s spit back into the can, of course. You aren’t allowed to spit onto the blacktop.
McGregor takes a swig of the Pepper. Ahmed prays briefly that this is all over, and tries to slink off to the garbage. But McGregor’s cool gray eyes follow him all the way. “What, Arab-boy? Got a problem with the coke? You too cool for the drink I givin’ outta the kindness o’ my heart? You too cool for me, kid?”
Ahmed shudders. He almost objects – he’d say something about the sistum. He’s that desperate. But McGregor’s glaring at him, and so he raises the can to his lips. The gag reflex kicks in – he forces it back, and gulps some down. McGregor grins widely.
It tastes like his father’s cigarettes.
“You and me gonna be great friends, ain’t we,” he says, and then, by Allah the Most Compassionate, the teachers come out and call them back into class.
All that weekend Ahmed is paralysed with fear. He pretends to be ill. His mother buys it, and that gets Ahmed feeling a tad guilty. But he really does have a fever. Enough fear can do that to a kid.
By Wednesday his parents aren’t letting him stay home any longer. “School better for your health, ibni. You run now, go and play. School for you better than your room.”
Ahmed expects an episode like last Friday’s, and he’s pleasantly surprised. McGregor eyes him the first time they pass, but Ahmed makes it by without incident. The first half of the day passes with rising hope.
Near the end of lunch the big blond boy swaggers over, swinging his keys around his finger. Of course he’s got a car – no one remembers he’s only fourteen.
“I’m hungry.”
In his fear, Ahmed’s fast to respond. He shoves his tray across the table. McGregor grins, and starts to chow down on the remaining half. Ahmed wants to leave now, before it’s worse, but the eyes are trained on him like the barrel of a sniper.
When he’s done, McGregor says nothing. He gets up, throws his own empty tray on Ahmed’s, and walks away. For a moment, Ahmed doesn’t believe it. Then he lets out the huge breath he’d been holding. He takes the trays up to the counter, giving endless thanks to God. He’s praying all through English class. Thank you, Allah al-Muhaymin. Thank you, Allah al-Waliyy, Allah ar-Rahim, Allah al-Hamid. Thank you!
It’s just a little here and there. He has to give some lunch away. He has to buy a soda sometimes, or a Snickers. Sometimes McGregor shoves him, grunting, “Move it,” as he pushes by. Sometimes he thumps Ahmed hard in the chest – but that, at least, Ahmed assumes is an endearing gesture.
McGregor’s more a friend than an enemy, really. He made that clear himself. “I like ya, Arab boy. Now, be a happy boy I do, ’cause Lor’ knows what’ll happen if I ain’t be here to protect ya. I ain’t wan’inna see the other kids beat’p on ya.”
Indeed, more and more of the school seems to notice Ahmed. Since his association with McGregor, he had become visible. Not only that – he had become popular. Kids no longer seemed to drift by him, but they would look right at him as he approached, and back away in fearful awe. Ahmed began to see McGregor’s cool eyes in the reflection of his own.
And so fourth grade whirled by. The money saved for the car dwindled. Ahmed took on extra chores at home, watering neighbors’ lawns or cleaning their kitchens. He managed to scrape up enough money to stay in McGregor’s friendship.
His mother frowned at him, coming in one day and seeing him shake the last pennies out of his piggybank. “Ibni, aina fulusuka? You saved much! Where has it gone?”
Ahmed didn’t say anything, afraid of the paddle. But he was not ashamed. What could his mother do? He had earned it. It was his own money, and he could do with it as he would.
It was the last day of school. The classes had let out, and kids were milling about, enjoying the warm air, lounging on the backs of pickups, legs swinging. McGregor finds Ahmed, struts up and bumps him. “Watch it, kid.”
Ahmed knows the routine. “Sorry, sir. Whaddya want?”
“Want? Nuthin’, kid! School’s out, ain’tcha happy?”
“I guess.”
“I know. Hey, Arab-boy, I got sumthin’ ta show you.”
Ahmed follows him out across the grass, stepping carefully over old tires shimmering in the June heat. There’s a dilapidated barn a couple hundred yards behind the school. Brambles have grown up around it, and the floor is gold with their dead, flattened stalks. A spiky vine climbs up a wall and through a broken window.
“C’mon, kid.”
Ahmed’s intrigued. He’s scared, too, a little, but mostly he’s intrigued. He steps into the darkness, and feels the cool shade.
McGregor’s opening a box. There’re bags in it, a row of small plastic bags. He’s shaking one open – “Here – gimme a dollar.” Ahmed’s only got a five.
It’s summer, and Ahmed sees a lot more of McGregor than ever. Part of him is scared stiff, but part of him’s thrilled. It’s like he’s James Bond, or Superman, living two lives.
Summer ’05. Hot, hard, terrifying and yet thrilling. It’s when Ahmed becomes someone, if just for a while. He knows it’s not going to last. Already his parents are questioning him, asking him how he spends his afternoons. He can’t answer. He’s busted for coming late to dinner, and not just once. He’s thrilled by it – mostly by its transience. He feels the high of disobedience more fiercely than all the drugs.
By August Ahmed is grounded. He’s suddenly afraid again. He remembers promises made in that rusty barn. He remembers the stinging hot wetness of McGregor’s sticky blood against his palm. He remembers threats made, oaths taken. What will they do when he doesn’t come?
It hadn’t troubled McGregor all that much. Ahmed sees him from his room the next day, smoking. Out of school he smokes, a lot. He spits the butt to the ground when he makes Ahmed’s porch, his shoe smearing black ash against the impeccable white. Ahmed hears a boisterous knock.
Ahmed knows he should be worried about his punishment. He knows his mother will be furious, his father ashamed. He knows he’s done wrong, and yet, as he hears the voices rise below him, he can only feel that he’s been betrayed.
This was never an option. McGregor shouldn’t be here, not in his house. McGregor shouldn’t come here, not into this life. Ahmed had always saved his one getaway, his one place to hide. He’d always had a choice. He’d always thought that he could run, if it ever got too far, that he could hide in his house, in his bed, and once again be the invisible kid, the boy no one saw or cared about.
The door slams.
Ahmed’s mother comes up. He turns his back, and she paddles him, hard. Again – he’s crying, and not from the pain. Then the paddle falls, and she’s crying with him, muttering in Arabic, her small hands grasping for his. His eyes blur, and he can’t see, can’t see, only feel.
He stays grounded the rest of the summer. Not that it matters much. He’d never had any friends before, and he’s not missing company. Mostly he’s afraid, now. He’s afraid of McGregor, of that barn behind the school, the old broken tree beside it, the splintered shingles fallen off the roof.
He has told his mother most of it. Not the parts McGregor swore him to conceal. Not the parts he’s too deeply ashamed of. But most of it. Jameela Hussein knows where the money went. She knows who her son hung out with during recess, lunch, P.E. She is furious about it – she wishes dearly that it never happened, but Ahmed wishes so even more, and maybe that’s what makes her tolerant.
If they had lived in a bigger town, they might have moved him to another school. If they knew anything about history, geography, English, arithmetic, they might have tried to teach him themselves. As it was, they gave him the only advice she had ever known.
Be invisible. Listen, do not be heard. Observe, do not be seen. Do not form opinions against those of others, but never agree too easily. Step softly, and in shadow. Study diligently, but never excel.
Fall. the leavers on the trees drop and collect along the borders of the bleached asphalt. Some blow across the road. Ahmed swerves to avoid them, lets them drift off, over the cars, across the empty stretch of grass, off toward the foothills.
Fifth grade. Mr. Hendricks is waiting with a stern grimace. Maps and timestables clutter the sides of the room, covering the peeling paint.
The back row is empty, dark behind the boarded window. The back wall is bare, void of décor.
Ahmed walks back into the classroom.
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