Out of Nowhere (20 page)

“Are you not allowed to eat here?” I asked her.

She frowned and shook her head.

“I’m allowed. I’m just … shy.”

Shy my ass
, I thought, recalling the battle over
cilaan
. But here’s the thing: outside the restaurant she was a different girl from the one who’d been handing down judgments about lazy boys and going head to head with me over the alphabet book. I wouldn’t have called it shy. I’d have called it wary. Uncertain. She seemed to have retreated into herself.

Meanwhile, amazing aromas were seeping through the front door and out onto the street. My stomach growled, audibly. Myla burst out laughing.

“See? Tom will spontaneously combust if we don’t feed him. C’mon.” She linked elbows with Samira and literally pulled her into the restaurant. Given a choice between struggling with Myla on the sidewalk or going inside quietly, Samira picked quietly.

It smelled like an Indian restaurant times ten. Same spices, but way more intense. The air seemed thick with the smell of frying. One wall was papered with laminated eight-by-ten photos of the food, each numbered so you could order a particular plate. Goat curry heaped on colorful rice. Chunks of chicken served with a bread called
chapati
. Fried triangles stuffed with something.

“Those look like empanadas, with a different shape,” I commented to Myla.

“They look like samosas, with a different shape,” she replied.

“They are
sambusas
,” Samira said. She had her back to the other customers and spoke to us in a low voice. “They are dough. Which you fill with meat, and spice, and then you fry. They are very traditional. You should get them.”

“Yes,” Myla and I both said, then looked at each other. She laughed, even though it wasn’t particularly funny, and, you know, she just looked so
happy
. Like there wasn’t anyplace else she’d rather be at the moment. Suddenly the roller coaster was creaking back up again, so my arm slipped over her shoulders and rested there. She let it stay the whole time we were deciding what to order.

A very, very skinny guy waited for us at the register. As we approached him, I glanced over at the men sitting at the tables. One or two nodded at me when our eyes met. The rest minded their own plates. Perfectly friendly, but it felt like every customer in the place was watching us without staring directly at us.

“Could we have a three, a five, and an eight? And a side of
sambusas
, please?” Myla said to the skinny guy. He nodded, punched numbers into his register. He pointed to a case where we could get bottled drinks. Then he turned to Samira, who stood slightly behind us. He smiled at her and said something in Somali. She nodded. She looked relieved. As I pulled out my wallet to pay the man, he gestured to a small table behind his counter. Tucked away, out of sight of the other diners.

“I think you like this better?” he said to me and Myla. There was one free table in the open part of the room, but Samira was already making a beeline for the back. Myla and I followed.

I sat across from the girls. As we popped open our drinks, I
watched as this little cloud descended on Myla. Her happy expression had been replaced by something else.

“Are we getting stuck back here because we’re women?” she finally asked.

Samira’s eyes grew wide.

“No! He asked me if I would like to sit here.”

“And why would he do that?” Myla asked.

“He is very nice,” Samira insisted. “He knows … I feel more comfortable here.”

“Did he
ask
you to sit back here, or
tell
you?” Myla persisted.

“Ask! He asked,” Samira said.

I reached across the table. I covered Myla’s hands with mine.

“Hey, College,” I said. “It’s all good. Let’s just eat.”

She looked puzzled but let it drop. She also let my hands stay put, at least until the
sambusas
arrived. Which turned out to be the most delicious things I’d ever eaten. By the time the goat curry came, Samira had totally loosened up, declaring the dish only passable and claiming that her mother’s was far superior.

“You must both come to our home and I will make it for you,” she said, smiling. “Then you will see I am right.” Samira likes to be right.

When dinner was over, we loaded up Samira with three Styrofoam containers of leftovers to bring to her brothers and walked her back to her apartment. After she disappeared up the winding stairs, Myla and I wandered back in the direction of The Center, where she’d parked her minivan. As we walked, I draped one arm over her shoulders again. She didn’t object. Didn’t seem to notice, either.

The minivan was her parents’ and it had about 180,000 miles
on it. They’d told her that if she could get it from Minnesota to Maine, she could keep it at college, and somehow she’d managed to coax it all the way to Enniston without breaking down. She mostly used it to tote kids from The Center around town. Sometimes even their parents. Doc appointments. Meetings at the school. Away games. That minivan was like the Little Engine That Could, chugging all the way to 200,000.

“So what do you think was up with that back-table treatment?” she asked me as we walked.

I shrugged.

“No clue. Maybe he wanted to keep us white people out of sight? Could’ve been bad for business, putting us near the front window.”

Myla laughed shortly.

“That’s a thought. Or maybe he just wanted to keep us
females
out of sight.”

“Yeah. Can’t say I blame him,” I replied. I glanced down.

My attempt at humor was totally lost on her. She looked annoyed.

“I’m kidding, College. You know? Joke?”

She sighed.

“I know. Sorry. I don’t mean to be a grouch. It’s just … sometimes I don’t
get
her! Samira. Like, it’s so obvious she’s been shoved in the back, in this dingy corner behind the cash register, for God’s sake, and she acts like the guy’s being nice to her! It kills me, you know?”

The roller coaster wasn’t just creaking down at this point. It was in full-scale free fall. Like, the part of the ride when everyone screams.

I stopped walking. Removed the arm. We’d reached her van. Time to figure out where the evening was headed.

“Can we not talk about Samira right now? I’m sort of feeling like the mayor. A little maxed out on Somalis.”

To say she didn’t get my second attempt at humor would be an understatement.

“That is so not funny, Tom, that I don’t even know where to begin. Except maybe to just say good night and thanks for dinner.” She fumbled in her shoulder bag, pulled out her keys, and pressed the automatic unlock button. She strode around to the driver’s side and got in. Before she could pull out or relock, I jumped into the passenger seat.

“Get out. Call a cab, Bouchard,” she said. She sounded almost tearful, she was that angry.

“You need to calm down, and we need to talk,” I said softly.

“You need to stop being an asshole!” she said furiously. “Every time I start to think that maybe, possibly, you’re cool, you go and ruin it. Some things are
not
funny, Tom! Some things are very, very serious. And what’s going on in this city right now, and that stupid letter the mayor wrote? Not funny.”

I was getting tired of this person calling me an asshole.

“You know what, College?” I fired back. “I don’t need some pointy-headed intellectual from away telling me about my city. You think I don’t get how serious this is? Trust me: I get it. Every time I walk into my school and see black kids wandering lost through the halls because the whole idea of changing classes—hell, the whole idea of
classes
—is foreign to them, I see a serious problem. I see Saeed doesn’t have a doctor to sign his sports permission forms, and his mother can’t speak English and she doesn’t have a job.
Kids spray-paint ‘Go back to Africa!’ in the bathroom. And every day, every single day, more Somalis show up. And if people around here get a little tired of it once in a while, I think it’s fuckin’ okay to say we’re a little tired! And it’s okay to make a joke! Jesus. You and my aunt Maddie.
No
sense of humor.”

We both sat there silently, breathing hard. I had surprised myself. I hadn’t expected that sort of shit to come out of me. I hadn’t realized it was all in there.

Myla broke the stalemate.

“You hate me, don’t you?” she said. “Pointy-headed intellectual? Great.”

“Actually, I have a mad crush on you. But don’t let
that
go to your pointy little head.”

“Ahh!”
She slammed her fists on the steering wheel, then buried her face in her hands. “You are so aggravating!”

“Yeah. Back at you, College.”

“Stop calling me College! Stop commenting about my height! Do you think I like looking like a twelve-year-old?”

“A very hot twelve-year-old. Maybe I should call you Lolita. Whaddaya think of that, College?”

That’s when she punched me in the arm. Hard.

“Ouch! Knock it off, Myla!”

“Yes, thank you! That’s my name. Myla.”

Silence returned to the minivan. The thought crossed my mind that this “date” was almost as fun as watching
Survivor
with Cherisse and Aunt Maddie.

“I don’t hate you,” I said finally.

“You have contempt for me,” she said sullenly. “You think I’m naive.”

“I think you’re smart and cute and you have a good heart,” I told her. “I think you do the right thing and I admire it. I also think this situation in Enniston is very complicated and you need to give the people around here the benefit of the doubt. Even the mayor. I’ll admit, she’s not the sharpest tool in the shed. But she cares about her city.”

I had been addressing most of this to the windshield in front of me. But then I heard this little choky sound and I turned to her. Two straight lines of tears streamed down her cheeks. This was so unexpected I didn’t know what to do. It crossed my mind that maybe Myla was also tired. That maybe she was maxed out, too, but didn’t think she was allowed to admit it.

“Oh God, don’t cry. Please. That shit breaks me.”

That’s when the floodgates opened for real, and I was holding this sobbing girl in the front seat of a minivan. She buried her face in my chest and just let it all out while I stroked her hair. Shampoo. Fresh laundry detergent. All the little Myla scents floated up to me. So when she finally lifted her face to mine, there was really no question what would happen next: my lips found hers.

She kissed back.

We pretty much lost track of time after that, but after a while we broke for conversation.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

“Sure.”

“Are you still dating that girl … what’s her name?”

“Cherisse. And no.
Not
in a relationship. Unless nasty texting counts as a relationship. I still get a lot of that from her.”

Myla rolled her eyes.

“And … are you still grounded?” she asked.

“I have no clue. No one’s ever said my groundation would ever end. Although they knew I was seeing you after homework help tonight. Why?”

Myla smiled, a little hesitantly.

“You feel like hanging out? Back at my room?”

I struggled to keep a neutral, nonchalant expression on my face. As if hot college girls invited me to hang out in their dorm rooms on a regular basis.

“I don’t know. What did you have in mind?” I asked.

“I could show you my flamingos,” she said.

Flamingos. In Maine. Intriguing.

“How can I refuse an invitation like that? Drive on, Lolita.”

Not long after that, the skinheads got involved.

Okay, maybe it’s not fair to call them skinheads. They were a … religious organization. The United Church of the World. They believed in white people. That was pretty much it. Which you had to admire for its simplicity.

Unfortunately for them, most of their members were in jail. And their founder had offed himself a while back. And their members who weren’t locked up had shaved their heads, covered themselves with tattoos, and made some harsh videos about blacks and Jews and all the “mud” races, which pissed a lot of people off, so their recruitment numbers were down.

Which may explain why they jumped on our little family fight in Enniston. They needed some free publicity.

The mayor’s letter had led to a follow-up letter by a group of Somali elders, which led to another group forming (Aunt Maddie and Co.) and leading these little marches and stuff, which made the news, and next thing we knew the United Church of the World decided the whites in Enniston needed their help. They
planned to rally here, which everyone assumed was code for starting a race war, and people began really freaking out (think: Aunt Maddie) because, thanks to our beloved mayor and her stupid letter, the skinheads were coming to town.

This was what Myla had meant by “very, very serious.”

Of course, Tom Bouchard had other things on his mind. In particular, soccer and Ramadan.

Here’s the thing I learned about Ramadan: it moves. Not like Christmas.

Christmas comes at the same time every year. I’m sure no one has any idea what day Jesus Christ was actually born (something he shares with my refugee friends), but the day we celebrate his birthday? December 25? Set in stone. Retailers the world over count down to that day, and even if some archaeologist unearthed a papyrus birth certificate in the sands of Bethlehem proving that Our Lord was actually born on the Fourth of July, I doubt anybody’d shift the date.

Ramadan, however, is a whole different deal. It’s based on the Islamic calendar, which is about eleven days shorter than the Gregorian calendar, which, BTW, is
our
calendar, which means that every year Ramadan begins eleven days earlier than the year before.

I got that off Wikipedia. After Mike told me our next game against Maquoit was during the fast of Ramadan. I looked it up. Just to make sure.

So … yeah. My senior year. The year Saeed and Ismail and Ibrahim and Double M were transforming our front line and Chamberlain started stacking up X’s in the win column, Ramadan began on October 1.

We were scheduled to play Maquoit on October 8.