Out of Nowhere (8 page)

“We are so badass,” I heard him say at one point, but I was sitting with my head tilted back to slow the bleeding and ice on
my nose to prevent swelling, so even though I wanted to laugh, I couldn’t. Especially because I was so mad.

Jake was a midfielder. Roger was a striker. Two senior starters on the soccer team, now facing serious suspension time.

And we had a big game on Saturday.

Here’s the fact: Jake Farwell and Roger Pelletier are assholes.

Yeah, I party with Jake once in a while. I mean, he’s my teammate. But he and Roger are well-known jerks. Have been for as long as anyone can remember.

The other two guys? I didn’t know them, but word from Ismail was that they were dipshits, too. So what
we
all knew was that the fight on the bus had nothing to do with race or religion. It was just pure asshole-ness.

Of course, “Assholes Fight” is not a newspaper-selling headline in the post-9/11 world. “Ethnic Tensions Flare” sure is. So the night after the fight, a reporter called Coach.

I don’t know what Coach said to get the guy to back off, because nothing was ever printed. But the rest of us got an earful at the next practice.

“I know you didn’t ask for this,” Coach began. “But people are watching us. They’re watching to see whether you boys can work together. Play together. Trust and respect each other and become a team. And whether we like it or not, it’s a responsibility. And an opportunity.”

He said Enniston is a city on a hill, which I guess is right; it seems to get higher in places. But what he meant was that because of our situation, with all the new immigrants coming to Enniston, and most of them Muslim, people were gonna notice what we did. So while four boys fighting in any other city wouldn’t be news, in Enniston? When it’s white on black? Muslim on Christian? Front page.

The good thing was that we didn’t end up in the paper. The even better thing was that as a result of the fight, classes got canceled for an entire day. The not-so-great thing was that instead, we had to do civil rights workshops.

It was kind of stupid, actually, because not only are there hardly any fights at Chamberlain, but the few we
do
have are almost never white versus black. Most are between white guys who start out drinking together on Saturday night, then end up throwing things at each other. Once in a while an American black kid and an immigrant black kid will fight. But a lot of what’s going on is actually between the immigrant kids. Old fights they brought with them from Africa. Sudanese kids versus Somalis. Somali Bantus versus ethnic Somalis. I mean, they’re all Somali, but some are, like,
Somali
Somali (ethnic) and came to Maine a while ago, while the others, Somali Bantus? These were the dudes showing up more recently. In big numbers.

They didn’t hang out together. This was made real clear on workshop day, when Mr. Cockrell and Co. brought in these anti-hate-crime experts (huh?) who started us all off with this big assembly (yawn), then broke us into small discussion groups led by handpicked student leaders (uh-oh). There was no way out of that, me being a sports captain plus a member of the National Hypocrites Society (Donnie’s term, not mine). I got to lead a group with
Liz Painchaud—
Gee, thanks, God
—which should have meant I wouldn’t have to do much, since she loves to hear herself talk. Saeed was in our group, along with three Somali girls.

“Me and Lila are thinking of skipping this workshop thing,” Cherisse had informed me the night before. Not in person. A cell phone conversation from my bedroom, where I was supposedly compiling a list of colleges I planned to apply to. Mom was making the most of my groundation: no Cherisse on the premises, progress made on the apps. “Wanna join us?”

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Jake’s,” she said. Giggled. “Like, he’s really
hating
suspension. Not. The guy sleeps in, then watches ESPN all day while his parents are at work. Lila told him we’re jealous and coming over to par-tay. You in?”

I leaned back into the pillows on my bed, crunching papers that had somehow slipped behind me. I had the Fiske, Barron’s, and
U.S. News and World Report
guides to colleges on one side, and a stack of glossy brochures and college viewbooks on the other. I had to admit: all these places looked the same. All the students looked the same, in a carefully arranged, casually diversified way, with just the right number of Asians and brown people sitting next to athletic blondes and frat boys. Everybody smiling and appearing intellectually engaged.

“Love to, but I’m a leader, remember? I even had to miss practice today for my ‘training.’ ”

“Oh,
screw
that, Tommy. What a joke. C’mon.” She slipped into her pouty-little-girl voice. “What would you rather do: talk about civil rights with Liz Pain-in-the-ass, or spend time with me in Jake’s big, empty house?”

“Yeah, I think you know the answer to that one,” I said.

“So …?” she said.

“No can do. I’m already in the penalty box. Skipping school—and you
know
Liz will narc—isn’t in the cards for Tom Bouchard right now.”

She made this annoyed, feline sound, like someone was squeezing a cat.

“Lame. Lame lame lame,” she said. “I’ve got a
lame
boyfriend.”

“I know, right? Where’d you dig up such a loser?” She didn’t laugh.

“Uh … that was a joke?” I said. Still nothing. The girl was seriously pouting.

“If I were you, I’d come to school tomorrow.”

“Right. Give me one good reason,” she said grouchily.

“Because from what I hear from Jake, you’ll be a third wheel if you and Lila go over to his house. Meaning they’ll be in a room and you’ll spend the afternoon on his couch watching soaps.”

“That’s why you have to come with me!” she whined. A real fingernails-on-the-blackboard sound. We ended the call pretty much after that.

Next day, Liz and I were in our assigned classroom, going over the plan for our workshop, when Cherisse sauntered in. There were a dozen students and two leaders in each group, and I’d already seen the list for ours. Cherisse wasn’t on it.

“Hey, boyfriend,” she said, sliding up against me and hooking a finger into one of the belt loops of my jeans. She stared frankly at Liz. “That is a
great
sweater, Liz. You have to tell me where you got it!”

Liz glanced down at her own chest, as if she were trying
to remember what she’d worn to school that day. It was a tan turtleneck.

“I … uh, couldn’t tell you, Cherisse. Are you in this group?”

Cherisse rested her head on my shoulder.

“Nooooo … I’m next door. But I asked them if I could switch. They said it’s up to you guys.”

Liz’s eyes widened. Other kids were starting to come in. Liz looked at me.

“These groups were carefully put together with gender and racial balance in mind,” she said.

“Oh, c’mon, Liz. One more in our group won’t matter.” I wasn’t in the mood to tangle with Cherisse.

Liz shook her head slowly from side to side. I could read her mind.
You are pathetic, Bouchard
, it said.

“Whatever, Tom. Just let me tell them next door that she’s in here.” She turned on her heel and walked away from us.

“Such a dweeb,” Cherisse muttered in my ear. “Remind me why we’re heeeeeere?” Semi-agonized tone.

“I thought you were cutting,” I said to her.

She sighed. “You were right. About Jake and Lila. She uninvited me.” I laughed.

I glanced around the room. Ellen Fitzgerald from my calc class had just come in. Three Somali girls entered together. A couple of guys I recognized from our JV team. And Saeed. He was the only Somali guy. The only other black guy was some kid named Jimmy who had just moved here from Portland.

We arranged our chairs in a circle and started with introductions. You had to give your name and tell everyone your favorite color, your favorite food, and something you liked to do. This was
the rap our trainers had given us the day before. First: intros. Second: talk about ground rules. Third: role-playing game. Fourth: discuss role-playing game.

The idea was that after one day of this, nobody would fight anymore and we’d all get along.

Liz went first. The second she opened her mouth, I was reminded of this woman I once saw on television who did Carnival Cruise commercials. Same sort of high-energy enthusiasm.

“I’m Liz Painchaud, and I love the color yellow! My favorite food is chocolate cake, and believe it or not, I love to cross-stitch!”

“Why wouldn’t we believe it?” Jimmy, from Portland. Liz looked a little knocked off track. Probably wasn’t expecting questions at that point.

“I don’t know. I guess because everybody thinks of me in other ways. Not sitting home doing cross-stitch. I haven’t exactly shared that before.”

So. Cross-stitch was a big “share” for Liz. Interesting.

“How else do people think of you?” Jimmy asked. Liz flashed me this help-me-out-here look, but I was actually curious to see how she’d answer that one, so I waited.

“Well … I don’t know,” she said, laughing nervously. “But maybe we should keep going. Right around the circle …”

Jimmy shrugged. “Okay, Ms. Liz. But I want to get back to you on that.” He looked at me. “I think you’re next, Leader Man,” he said.

“Why do I get the feeling you’ve done this before?” I said. He smiled.

“Oh yeah. At my old school in Portland? We’ve got all
kinds
of
people.” He started counting off with his fingers. “We’ve got Cambodians. We’ve got Iranians. We’ve got Mexicans. We’ve got—”

“Can we
please
continue around the circle?” Liz insisted. From Cherisse’s side I heard a giggle. She’d found a seat next to Devon, and they were doing something on their phones.

“Hey!” Jimmy said sharply. Everyone jumped. He glared at Cherisse and Devon. “Show a little respect. Put those away.” People don’t usually speak to Cherisse like that.

She and Devon rolled their eyes. One muttered, “Whatever,” but the phones disappeared into their backpacks.

“Next,” Jimmy said to me.

“Okay, so I’m Tom Bouchard, and I like a lot of colors, but I guess I mostly like green. My favorite food is steak, and I like to play soccer.” I looked to my right.

“I’m Ellen Fitzgerald. Blue. Chocolate chip cookies. Skiing.”

“I’m John Gagne. Uh, I’m color-blind, so … pass.” Everyone laughed. “I like to play pond hockey. And the best food in the entire world, hands down, is
poutine
.”

“Say what?” Jimmy.

“Poutine,”
John repeated. “It’s French fries, covered in cheese curds, covered in brown gravy. I had it when we went to Quebec this summer, and it is amazing.”

“Cheese curds. You mean like cottage cheese?” Ellen.

“No, it’s … you can’t get it here. The closest thing I can think of is those mozzarella sticks you get at the grocery store. But cheese curds are way, way better than that. They sort of squeak in your mouth when you bite them.”

“Damn.” Jimmy. “You’re making me hungry.” Everyone laughed again. I saw Liz glance at the clock on the wall.

“Next,” I prompted.

“I’m Jimmy Price and I like orange. My favorite food is anything Italian, especially spaghetti. I like to listen to music.”

The Somali girls were up next.

“I am Fatuma Hassan.” We could barely hear her, she spoke so softly. Everybody sort of leaned forward a little.

“Speak up, girl,” Jimmy said. She looked at him. He nodded.

“I like red,” she said a little louder. “I like
sambusas
. I like to read.”

“Yeah, those are good. I like them, too,” Jimmy said.

“
Sam
 … what?” Ellen asked.

“Sambusa,”
Fatuma repeated. She formed a triangle with her fingers. “Is dough, like this, and you put in spices, and meat. And fry. Is very Somali.”

“Goat meat,” Jimmy said. “I like ’em with goat meat.”

“Yes, that is best, but you can make with other meat, too,” Fatuma said. A little louder. She smiled at Jimmy.

“Ewww!” Devon. Or maybe Cherisse. Unclear who said it; they both made these grossed-out faces. “You eat
goat
?”

“Whoa!” Jimmy exclaimed, throwing himself back into his metal chair. He flashed me a what-you-gonna-do-now-man look.

“Okay, that was
totally
inappropriate,” Liz sputtered. She’d been holding a clipboard with some papers on her lap, and dropped it. I got out of my seat to pick it up for her. After I handed her the clipboard, I remained standing.

“Maybe we should have gone over the ground rules first,” I said calmly. Fake calmly, actually. Fatuma’s expression had gone blank, almost as if the comment weren’t directed at her. She slouched in her chair, sank a little lower into the loose folds of her clothes.
“And the first rule is
respect
. No matter what anyone says, we all have to listen and respect their contribution to the circle.” This was right out of yesterday’s leader training.

“So we’re not supposed to say what we think?” Devon replied. “She says goat and I’m supposed to say yum? Is that it, Tommy?”

“No, she says goat and you’re supposed to listen. Not judge, not mock,” I replied.
For once in your life
, I managed to not add.

“Like I said. Don’t say what we think,” she replied, just under her breath.

“Have you ever eaten goat?” Jimmy challenged.

Devon smirked at him.

“No, and I don’t plan to,” she said.

“Okay,” he said. “Then instead of ‘ewww’ ”—Jimmy raised his voice a few octaves in a dead-on imitation of Devon—“maybe you should say, ‘I’m too closed-minded to try new foods, like goat, so I’m going to spend the rest of my life making fun of other people who love this delicious meat.’ ”

“Okay,
that’s
not it, either!” I said. Not fake calmly.

Jimmy put his hands up in surrender.

“You’re right, you’re right. Sorry.” He looked at Devon. “And I apologize to you. That was out of line.” He said this politely. A little too politely, but what was I gonna do? Devon stared back at him, silent.

“Maybe you could apologize to Fatuma?” I said to her. She aimed her glare at me and remained silent.