Multiplayer (31 page)

“After school,” spat Sanjar, stabbing a bony finger at Hector. Students jostled by them in the crowded hallway of their school, while Sanjar stood with his face was so close to Hector that he could smell the seasonings Sanjar’s mother used in their food. He was shorter than Hector and more lightly built. His brown eyes, deep and thinking, burned behind his round-rimmed spectacles.

“After school, what?” said Hector, trying to act tough.

“Under the bridge.” Sanjar was shaking and his voice was trembling. His eyes glanced off the bright red cross on Hector’s Inter Milan jersey. “Meet me there.”

“What?” exclaimed Hector.

“I am going to fight you.”

The students passing them like a school of fish suddenly clustered around as if bait had been tossed in. He felt his face flushing. “I’m not going to fight you!” Hector growled, trying to seem unconcerned.

“A crusader,” said Sanjar, pushing the center of the cross. “Afraid to fight a Muslim?”

So that’s how this was going to go. Hector puffed his chest out. “I’m not afraid of any Muslim.”

“Then you will meet in battle, after school, under the bridge.”

Everybody was watching them now and Hector wondered what they knew. He saw Sabrah and Deion on the edge of the crowd, looking on in disgust. “I’ll be there,” said Hector, and pushed his way out.

No one joined Hector at lunch. He didn’t expect them to, but he also didn’t think it would hurt so bad. After school he walked his sister home. He usually walked home with Deion and occasionally Sabrah, but today he walked his sister home alone. Halie asked him where they were, but Hector’s lips felt numb. At the house, he dropped his bag off but didn’t say anything to Helen.

“Where are you going?” she asked as he prepared to leave.

“Got something to take care of,” he said and stalked out, wondering how he could possibly put things to right with only three days left until the President flew to Turkey. Three days until Mal-X and his terrorists enacted their plan. Perfected through endless training, they couldn’t lose, just like his father used to do. The world was about to change for the worse, Hector had it within his grasp to fix it, and he’d ruined it.

Ω

The bridge was actually two sides of a divided highway that spanned a creek. In the winter it could become a deluge, but in late summer it was more of a trickle. Between the roads grew tall weeds and cattails. The culvert beneath had a sidewalk at the foot of a steep concrete slope that ran up under the bridge. They had always joked it would be a good place to hide if there was a tornado.

When Hector arrived, a dozen kids sat on the sloped concrete rampart as if waiting for a gladiator match to begin. He didn’t even recognize most of them. Sabrah and Deion were with Sanjar like boxing trainers in his corner. When Hector pulled up on his bike, a hush descended over the crowd. More students followed him under the bridge.

A ring of bodies formed at the foot of the concrete slope. Others crawled up higher on the slope to get a better view. Hector, wearing his Templar cross, pushed his way through the crowd until he was in the circle. Sanjar turned to face him and Hector’s breath caught. Sanjar was still wearing his fez and baggy trousers, but he had gone home and changed into an Iranian national team soccer jersey. His eyes were frightened but hard.

Hector was shaking so badly he could hardly stand still. “You don’t have to do this,” he said as steadily as he could, staring at the red, white, and green crest on Sanjar’s shirt.

“Yes, I do,” said Sanjar and his voice quaked.

“You can’t win this fight,” Hector called back, praying Sanjar would back down.

“This Muslim,” snarled Sanjar as fiercely as he could, “is going to kick your Templar butt!” He took off his glasses and handed them to Sabrah, then walked back into the circle, squinting, with his little fists balled up in front of his face.

“Fight, fight, fight,” started low from the crowd, and rose in volume. “Fight.
Fight
.
Fight!
”

Hector felt sick at his stomach. He’d dreamed of beating up Sanjar many times, but now that he could, he had no desire. “Don’t do this,” he said. But Sanjar kept coming. “Sanjar, you don’t have to do this.”

Sanjar lunged forward, swinging wildly. Hector slipped aside and Sanjar stumbled forward. Then, Hector plucked the fez off Sanjar’s head and tossed it aside.

“No need to mess up your hat,” Hector said. The crowd laughed, although Hector had meant it kindly.

A hot, little fire burned within Sanjar and he came at Hector again. He threw another wild punch that missed. Then he barreled in, wind-milling with both arms. Hector backed up and tried to ward off the blows, but one of them struck him in the lip. It didn’t hurt particularly, but he tasted blood.

“Kick his double-crossing ass, Sanjar,” shouted Deion.

Hector glanced at his old friend and the two locked eyes. An instant later he heard a tremendous knock and saw stars. He staggered back and shook his buzzing head. The crowd cheered. There was a knotted, numb, stinging sensation on his cheek. Rage swelled within Hector as Sanjar lowered his head and came flying in again. Hector pushed him aside and threw a half-hearted punch that caught Sanjar on the side of the head and sent him reeling.

“Enough of this!” shouted Hector. But Sanjar shook his head and came in once more. He grabbed Hector around the legs and wrestled him to the ground. Almost instantly, Hector was on top of him. “Would you just stop!” Hector blurted, holding down the thrashing Sanjar.

“Why do you hate me so much?” Sanjar snarled, and kicked and twisted beneath him like a snake.

“Because your people killed my father!” Hector jumped off and backed away.

“It wasn’t me!” Sanjar cried and came running straight at him with tears pouring down his face and blood trickling from his nose.

Hector swung and hit Sanjar in the stomach. The little Persian crumpled to the ground. For an instant, Hector looked up. His peers were watching him with a mixture of horror and revulsion. The chanting had stopped. Hector glanced down and saw Sanjar’s blood streaked over the cross on his shirt, and Sanjar on his knees at Hector’s feet, clutching his abdomen in pain, gasping for breath. Hector wanted to throw up.

“I didn’t kill your father,” Sanjar groaned, and climbed slowly back to his feet.

“You’re all the same!” Hector cried. “You never try to stop it. You never do anything about it. Sending them money. Giving them help. That’s why I turned your father in.” A gasp hushed the spectators, and Hector froze. He hadn’t meant to say that, but it was too late now.

“YOU!” screamed Sanjar, and attacked with renewed fury.

This time Hector waded through his wildly swinging fists. In an instant, he had Sanjar in a headlock and he dropped to his knees and held on tight. But Sanjar didn’t give up and pummeled Hector’s back and sides. Sanjar started screaming like an animal, trying to get away, bucking and kicking, and scratching. Hector lifted his eyes to the crowd for help but no one else knew what to do either. The festive atmosphere had evaporated and everyone looked on in mounting disgust.

Hector’s mind grew strangely calm and everything moved in slow motion. Was this what war was like, he wondered? Frightened to death. Fatigued and weak. Sick at your stomach. Fighting for your life. Unable to stop. Unable to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Wishing with all your heart it would just end. He could end this with a few hard punches into Sanjar’s face. But now that he had him, the thought of covering his hands with Sanjar’s blood made him nauseous. He didn’t want to hurt Sanjar. He didn’t want to hurt anyone.

He was just about to let go when Sanjar’s father pushed his way through the crowd. “Stop it,” he yelled. “Stop it! What is the matter with you boys?” He pulled Hector and Sanjar apart, but Sanjar kept lunging, snarling like a dog as Hector scampered back. “Sanjar! Sanjar!” It had no effect and Mr. Zahedi finally slapped Sanjar across the cheek. “Sanjar!”

Sanjar dropped to his knees and sobbed. “He killed me. He killed me for no reason…” The crowd had already scattered, leaving them there alone. “And he turned you into the FBI. It was Hector!”

“I know that, son.”

Hector froze, horrified. He knew? He had known all this time?

Mr. Zahedi wiped the tears from his son’s cheeks, and helped Sanjar to his feet. At that moment, Hector felt crushed, wishing with all his might he had a father to help him to his feet, too. Mr. Zahedi reached down to Hector. “Give me your hand, son,” he said gently, and he helped Hector to stand.

“Sanjar, Hector, I don’t know what this is about,” said Mr. Zahedi, “but it ends now. Is that clear?” Then he looked at Hector. But not an angry look. There was no malice in his one good eye or in the scars on his face. It was more a look of pity. “I’ll take you home,” he said.

Hector nodded. “Yes, sir,” he croaked over a fist-sized lump in his throat.

Ch. 29

Hector’s mother seemed to already know what had happened, but she wasn’t angry. She led him to the bathroom where she washed his face and hands, then led him to his bedroom where she laid him down and gave him a soft kiss on the forehead. “Just relax,” she said, and left the door cracked.

He had really messed things up this time and wondered if they could ever be put to right. But even now, with everything that had happened, he felt his will harden. Every time the thought of kindness to a Muslim came into his head, he thought about his father. He didn’t want to hate Muslims, but he couldn’t help it. He’d never be able to trust one. His dad had died because Hector had thought of them as just like him. He could never let that happen again.

There was a gentle knock on the door and his grandfather entered. Hector sat up.

“Your momma said you need a man to talk to. Perhaps an old man will do, eh?” He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked closely at Hector. At the swollen lip and the red patch on his cheek. At the blood on his shirt. “Internazionale Milan?” said Pappous. “I thought you were a Bayern man.”

Hector glanced down at his shirt. “I just liked the shirt,” he mumbled. “But I guess it’s ruined, now.”

Pappous nodded. “Ahh. You just like the shirt.” His eyes shone in a way that told Hector the old man knew the truth. “Your mother says you got into a fight with your Persian friend. You want to win back Jerusalem?”

“
He
wanted to fight
me
,” said Hector. “I don’t pick fights.” But Hector’s voice stuck on the last words. He had picked a fight, just not this one.

“I am confused by that. Sanjar doesn’t seem like a violent boy. A misunderstanding perhaps?”

“No.”

Pappous cocked his head and a glimmer appeared in his old, dark eyes. “Something to do with Muslims perhaps, then?”

“I just can’t stand him,” Hector snapped. A lone tear rolled down his cheek, and rage burst from him as the full weight of his father’s death, of Chaz’s death, of how completely screwed up his life was, descended on him. “I hate all of them. And I don’t want to stop hating them. I just, just want to kill them. Kill them all!”

Pappous nodded and sighed. “Yes. Yes. I know how you feel.”

“You do not!” Hector screamed. He was not going to put up with a patronizing old man. Not this time. No one knew what this was like. No one.

Pappous gave him a tight lipped smile and said, “Hector, I grew up in Greece, during World War II and –”

“Oh God, I know,” Hector moaned. “You already –”

“I’ve told you nothing!” Pappous snapped so abruptly that Hector jumped. The old man’s eyes flashed and Hector recoiled.

“You think you are the only one who has lost a loved one to war? The only one who has lost a father?” He lifted Hector’s chin with a grizzled hand and looked sternly into his eyes so that Hector felt suddenly naked. “I was ten when my father was murdered by the Nazis,” said Pappous. “They hung his body in the village square to rot.” The image horrified Hector who recoiled further. “I dedicated my life to killing Germans. They had invaded my country. Murdered my father. Destroyed my life. I needed to destroy theirs.” Hector stared with wide eyes. Pappous looked over at him and nodded slowly. “I killed many during the war.” He gazed into space as if remembering unpleasant things from long ago. Then he spoke quietly. “But their deaths never made me feel any better. Not a single one.”

“And now you hate Muslims,” he went on. “All Muslims. Anyone from the Middle East.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Hector grumbled, reeling at Pappous revelations, but also feeling vindicated. “You hated Germans because they killed your dad. You got to kill them.”

“You think all Muslims are the same. Do you know why Farsim Zahedi lives next door to you?”

Hector wanted to say,
because he’s a spy
, but he didn’t. And Pappous continued without his answer. “Steve Zahedi worked as a rocket scientist in Iran. He was very good. Russian trained. He helped to design a large, powerful missile with a much longer range. He was in the right political party too. Major Zahedi was going places.”