Kiki and Jacques (2 page)

As they walked in the door, he spotted a pile of gifts on the floor. Jacques wanted a soccer jersey for his birthday, and he wanted it bad. His favorite team was Arsenal, and everybody knew it.

“Hey, the birthday boy's home.” Dad lay sprawled on the living room couch watching TV, a beer can in one hand. Donny Gagnon had heavy arms and a wide neck, and his stomach peeked out from the bottom of his shirt.

“Hi, Dad.” A white rabbit with a brown nose hopped into the room. “Pelé!” Jacques scooped the rabbit into his arms, and Sammy scratched behind its ears. Jacques had named Pelé after his favorite soccer player, the greatest striker of all time.

“Watch out that bunny don't poop on the couch.” Grandmère Jeannette appeared from the kitchen. “
Mon père
, may he rest in peace, he liked a good
lapin
stew.”

Jacques shot Sammy a “she's insane” look, but smiled as he rubbed Pelé's back. Grandmère Jeannette loved the rabbit nearly as much as he did. She was always feeding him bits of carrot or apple peels and talking to him about her
lapin
-shooting father from Quebec.

“How was practice?” Dad got another beer from the fridge and handed the boys Cokes as they sat down to dinner. The dining room and living room were barely separated by an open arch, so Jacques could see Pelé hop onto the faded green couch and make himself comfortable—Grandmère Jeannette was obviously pretending not to notice.

Dad took a slug of beer. “You're a shoe-in for captain this year, am I right?”

“There's a new Somali kid,” Jacques said. “He's good.”

“No kiddin'.” Dad scratched the stubble under his chin.

“Not just good,” Sammy added. “The dude is awesome.”

“Huh,” Dad grunted.

“Jacques saw some Somali ladies outside the shop today.” Grandmère Jeannette set a platter of fried
chicken wings and drumsticks on the table. “Strange, Africans moving up here when everybody knows that Lakemont's mostly French Canadian.”

“Grandmère,” Jacques interrupted, “Sammy's family isn't Canadian.” Sammy was Jewish, and his parents were from Cleveland, not Quebec. But Jacques had to admit that most of his friends had relatives from Canada and went to church at St. Francis, where the late-afternoon Mass was held in French on Sundays.

Grandmère Jeannette's cheeks flared. “I'm real sorry, Sammy!”

Dad picked up a chicken wing and turned to Jacques. “You'll be showing this new kid a thing or two, right?”

Jacques felt a sharp pain hit his stomach. “I dunno, Dad. . . . Like I said, the new guy's talented.”

“You're not going to let this kid move in and make captain,” Dad replied. “No way.”

Jacques looked down at his plate, silent. What was he supposed to do?

“Wait 'til you see my pie.” Grandmère Jeannette rose and hustled toward the kitchen. “It's called Triple Threat Chocolate. I got the recipe from Lucy Labelle's aunt.” She returned with a pie smothered in fudge and topped with twelve slightly dented red and yellow striped candles. The same candles from Dad's cake last month, Jacques realized.

“That Lucy's a sweet girl, don't you think?” Grandmère Jeannette winked.

“She's okay, I guess.” Now Jacques was the one feeling his face go red.

It was finally time to open presents. The first package was soft and squishy, and Jacques glanced at Sammy with a surge of hope. As soon as he pulled off the wrapping, though, he realized how stupid he'd been.

“Thanks for the fleece. My old one was way small.”

Dad had found work last spring in the back office of L.L. Bean. Jacques was the most warmly dressed kid at school, but he longed for stuff that wasn't bought with an employee discount. He ripped through the rest of his gifts: two flannel shirts—one that still had a tag that said “returned”—a bag of socks and a gym bag. He sighed and searched beneath the pile of gift wrap, just in case.

“Wicked cool gear” Sammy whispered. Jacques kicked him under the table.

“Somethin' wrong?” Grandmère Jeannette lifted her glasses.

“No, it's just that . . .”

“Money's real tight right now,
mon cher
.”

“That's enough; you don't need to worry the boy.” Dad spoke sharply, then turned toward Jacques. “Listen, buddy, I've been thinking about this Somali kid. It's high time you toughen up. If your coach was workin' you hard, like when I was playing ball, you'd be rock solid by now.”

“I'm plenty tough, Dad! Kids at school don't mess with me or anything.” Jacques squirmed. He wished for
a moment that he played football like his father had. Dad had been on varsity all four years of high school, as well as an all-state quarterback. Every fall he played in a reunion game where perfect strangers slapped him on the back with admiration.

But Jacques didn't play football. He liked soccer—the feel of the ball as it smacked off the strike zone of his cleats, and the rush as he raced past the defenders, risked a shot and hit the goal clean.

Jacques picked at his food and glanced at the photograph of his mother on the dining room hutch. Her long brown hair was pulled back, and her crystal blue eyes jumped straight out at him.

Dad used to say that Mom was far and away the cutest cheerleader ever to attend Lakemont High. They had started dating junior year. Dad had gone off to college on a sports scholarship, but after a month, he broke his ankle and couldn't play football. Without the scholarship, there hadn't been enough money to keep him at school.

Mom had four brothers and two sisters. Both of her parents had worked at the Lakemont Mill, and after it closed down, she couldn't afford college either. Mom's father found a new job in Rhode Island, but when the family moved to Providence, Mom stayed behind to marry Dad. Grandmère Jeannette was happy to have Mom join her at the bridal shop, and Dad got a good job driving an eighteen-wheeler.

When Jacques was little, they'd go as a family to
watch the high school football team. Mom knew every cheer, and for homecomings, Dad wore his old team jersey.

Jacques smiled to think how his mother always yelled the loudest at the football games, but when they got back, she would take him to the park and let him kick around a soccer ball. She'd liked whatever he liked, and that's what he missed most of all.

The first day of school was warm and breezy. Kids greeted each other with loud whoops and high fives. Lucy and Nicole were standing with Sammy and Tim O'Shea in front of the large brick school building. Lucy had strawberry blonde hair with layered side-bangs, and her lips were always shiny. When Jacques arrived, he noticed Lucy's hazel eyes flick his way, even though she was busy admiring Nicole's new wedge sandals.

Nicole liked to match from head to toe; her nails, eye shadow and shoes were all aqua blue. She tossed her straight black hair over her shoulders whenever she was flirting, which was pretty often.

Jacques turned away from the girls and glanced around the school yard. Where were the African kids?

Boucher came by and was taking bets. “If that Mohamed dude doesn't show up today, there's no way Coach will let him play on the team.”

Jacques was wondering more about the girl with the scar.

“Over there!” Sammy nudged Jacques. A van filled with Somali teenagers pulled in front of the school.

Mohamed stepped out first, followed by six boys and four girls.

“Look what they're wearing.” Boucher snickered.

The Somali boys were dressed neatly—too neatly. Each boy wore tan khaki pants with a belt and collared polo shirt, all carefully tucked in. Jacques looked down at his own oversized T-shirt and cargo shorts.

As the group walked past them, Jacques mouthed, “Hey Mohamed,” but the boy stared straight ahead as if he didn't see him.

The Somali girls wore ankle-length skirts and long-sleeved shirts. Large scarves were wrapped around their heads, covering their hair and shoulders. Sammy said these were called
hijabs
. Jacques couldn't imagine wearing heavy clothes like that, especially on a warm September morning. Most of the girls he knew wore shorts until November, and Nicole had been sent home last spring because her sundress didn't reach her fingertips when she held her arms straight to her sides.

Suddenly, Jacques heard a faint giggle. He found himself eye to eye with the girl from Main Street. For a split second, she looked directly into his face and grinned. She had clear white teeth, with a gap in the middle that reminded him of Grandmère Jeannette's. He saw that the jagged scar ran from the edge of her eyebrow all the way past her cheekbone. Sammy's mom said that many thousands of people had been killed in Somalia's civil war, and that sometimes boys
were kidnapped to become soldiers, with girls treated even worse.

The second bell rang. Jacques grabbed his backpack and headed inside to find his room assignment. By the time he reached homeroom, the Somali girl with the bright smile and long scar was standing by the blackboard.

“Settle down, class!” Mrs. Sinclair motioned for Jacques to take his seat. “We have a new student today. Her name is Saynab, but she says that she likes to be called by her nickname, Kiki. Is that correct?” Mrs. Sinclair looked anxiously at the girl.

“Yes,” the girl replied in a low soft voice, “sometimes I am calling myself Kiki.”

“Kiki's family is originally from Somalia; they've recently moved here from Georgia.” Mrs. Sinclair paused and glanced around the room. “Lucy and Nicole, I would like you to be Kiki's school buddies today. Please help her get settled.” Gesturing toward the back, Mrs. Sinclair added, “Kiki, take that empty desk next to Jacques.”

As Kiki sat down, she turned and whispered, “Hi,” her round lips curling above the gap between her teeth.

Jacques couldn't remember later that day whether he said hi back or not. He hid behind his math binder while Kiki spent most of the period filling out forms in large block letters. Jacques half wished that Kiki would turn his way again, but was half afraid that she might. When the bell rang, Kiki filed out behind the other girls.

At lunch, Jacques watched Kiki go with the rest of
the Somali kids to the back of the cafeteria. The girls sat together at one table, the boys at another.

Jacques was about to sit next to Sammy and Tim O'Shea when Lucy slid over to make room. Nicole flashed thumbs-up, and Lucy started to giggle.

Nicole was breathless, as usual. “My father says the Somalis will be gone in a week! It's way too cold in Maine; they're not used to it. . . . That tall boy could hardly read! I heard he's supposed to be in eighth grade, but they're holding him back.”

Jacques winced as he pushed his tray to one side. “Hey, Nicole—didn't Mrs. Sinclair tell you to go over there and help? You should ask them if they need anything.”

Nicole glared back at him. “They seem just fine to me. If you want to help, be my guest.”

“It looks like they're doing okay,” Lucy added.

Suddenly, a voice rang out: “HEY SOMALIS! HOW DO YOU LIKE THE HAM SANDWICHES?” A girl gasped, and then the far end of the cafeteria erupted.

“What just happened?” Sammy put down his drink.

“It must be Boucher.” Jacques' stomach tightened as he stood to look. “What an idiot. He should just shut up!”

Jacques felt sick. Somebody had tossed what looked like a half-eaten sandwich onto the middle of the Somali boys' table.

“What's going on?” Lucy asked. “What's wrong with ham?”

“Muslims don't eat ham, it's against their religion,” Sammy replied.

“But I thought that was Jewish people.” Nicole looked confused.

“Well yeah, we don't eat ham either.”

Several cafeteria ladies scurried over to hush the room, but the damage was already done. Muffled snickers and “Hey, Boucher!” spread throughout the lunchroom. The Somali kids pulled back from their tables and quickly gathered their things to go.

Jacques took a deep breath and stepped forward. Maybe he should yell out that Boucher was a tool or worse, but his palms were sweaty and he felt dizzy. It seemed over already, and he needed to get to his locker before gym.

By the time Jacques reached the hallway, Kiki was standing in front of her locker a few feet away, gently kicking it. Jacques still felt dizzy. He bent over to leaf through his binders while he caught his breath. He could see Kiki trying the locker combination over and over, but it refused to open.

Lockers at Lakemont Middle School were famous for getting jammed; plenty of kids lugged their books from class to class. But Kiki didn't know this. Jacques saw that she was biting into her bottom lip. What if she started to cry? Maybe he should go apologize for the stupid way Boucher had acted.

But when Jacques glanced sideways again, he was startled by the set look on Kiki's face. She wasn't going
to cry; she was simply going to get the locker open, no matter what. Kiki gave it such a sharp whack, it shocked him. What kind of trouble could a girl get into denting school property on the very first day?

Jacques rose to his feet and spun around as if noticing Kiki for the first time. In two long steps he was beside her. “What's the combination? There's a trick to it.”

He jiggled his thumb against the lock while he turned the dial. It immediately popped open.

Kiki grinned. “Thanks for that.”

Jacques saw that she had a dimple in the corner of her mouth just below the scar. A tiny wisp of black hair peeked out from the edge of her hijab.

A voice behind them started to boom. “My sister don't need help!”

“I was just trying to . . .” Jacques began.

“She don't need anything.” Mohamed's eyes narrowed to slits.

Kiki lowered her head as Jacques shrugged and walked away. He could hear Mohamed yelling. Why in the world was Mohamed so mad? Jacques hadn't been flirting with the new girl; he'd been trying to help.