The Day of the Pelican (15 page)

"See?" Brittany yelled so loud her voice reverberated around the tiles. "See? I told you!" She whirled around toward her locker. Opening the door, she grabbed her book bag and threw it over her shoulder before she turned again toward Meli. "Why don't you and your brother just go back to where you came from? We don't want any Muslim terrorists around here." With that she slammed her locker shut and marched out of the locker room.

For a few moments they all stared at the door as it swung behind Brittany, and then, careful not to look Meli's way, everyone finished dressing quickly and left, leaving Meli standing there alone, shivering in her towel.

Pull yourself together. Get dressed. Go home.
She was thinking in Albanian. How long had it been since she'd done that? She thought in Albanian only when speaking to Mama and Baba. Never in school. She smiled grimly, then—carefully, methodically—dried herself and put on her street clothes. Next she gathered up her practice uniform, her freshly laundered game uniform, her shin guards, and her mouth guard and took them all through the swinging door to the coach's office. She carefully folded her practice uniform into a square and laid everything down on the desk in a neat stack. With a sheet of pa-per torn from her notebook she scribbled a short note for Mrs. Rogers and laid it on top of the pile.

Then she walked out the school door into the crisp autumn air. Mehmet was waiting for her, as he used to back in Kosovo. She could see that someone had bloodied his nose. He had tried to wash it away, but there were still traces of blood around his nostrils. She did not have the strength to ask him why. They walked home in silence.

Mama and Baba were both home. There was no work for them that day. "What happened?" Mama asked, looking back and forth from Meli's face to Mehmet's.

"I'm going home," Mehmet said.

Baba turned off the TV and got up. "What is going on?"

"I am going home," Mehmet said again. "I hate America."

Baba put his arm around Mehmet's shoulder. "You must tell me what happened, Mehmet."

Mehmet looked at the floor. "They were all swearing against the terrorists. Then they said all Muslims are terrorists, and Americans must kill them all before they destroy America. And then..." Meli could see how close to tears he was in his anger. "And then I said, 'I am Muslim. Will you kill me?' So"—he blew out his breath—"so they tried." He wiped his nose on the back of his hand, making it bleed again. "I am never going back to that school. They think I am like those terrorists. They hate me." He looked up defiantly into Baba's face. "Well, I hate them. We are even."

"And you, Meli?" Mama asked quietly.

She didn't want to cry. Somehow, if she did, Brittany would win. "I quit the team," she said.

"What?" Baba had turned from Mehmet and was now looking at her. "What did you say, Meli?"

"I quit."

"Oh, no," Baba said. "No quitting. You must go back. Both of you must go back to school. Go back to the team." He took his handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped the blood from Mehmet's face. "Don't you see, son? If you don't go back, the terrorists will win. You can't let them win. You have to go back."

"Never," said Mehmet. He tossed his head and broke free from Baba's grip, as though he were a wild animal intent on escaping a trap. "Never. I am going home."

"This is your home," Baba said.

Mehmet glared at him, his eyes flashing.

"Your home is here with your family." Baba's voice was quiet but strong like steel.

Meli held her breath. It was as though she were watching a duel. If Baba lost...

It was Mehmet who dropped his gaze, turned on his heel, and went to the boys' bedroom. The door didn't quite slam behind him. Meli let out a long breath. Baba and Mama looked at each other; then without a word, Baba went back and sank into his chair.

"Come, Meli," Mama said. "Let's make your baba some coffee."

M
EHMET DIDN'T COME OUT OF HIS ROOM FOR DINNER.
The rest of them ate in silence, glancing every now in the direction of his closed door. "Shall I?" Mama said once.

Baba shook his head.

Meli wanted to go to her brother. Didn't she herself know what he had gone through that day at school? The stares. The whispers. No one had beaten her physically, but they had done enough. Hadn't that scene in the locker room hurt as much as punches to her body? She thought of Rachel, shamefaced but doing what Brittany ordered her to. Zana would never have betrayed her. Friends didn't do that. The bite Meli was trying to swallow lodged in her throat.

"I'm not hungry," she said finally. "I think I'll go—"

"No, Meli," Baba said quietly. "Don't leave us. We have to hold on to each other."

Suddenly, she was back in Kosovo during those terrible times. Yes, they must hold on to each other. War, like a tiger prowling in the shadows, had followed their scent, and now it had them in its sight and was ready to pounce. Their only protection was to stay together. Mehmet had to understand that. How could she make him understand?

She knew he couldn't carry out his threat to return to Kosovo. Even at sixteen he was still a boy. He didn't have money for airfare, or any idea of how to get the proper papers. But his fury frightened her all the same. He had been so much better lately; sometimes he was nearly the old Mehmet, the one she had known before the day he'd disappeared, the day of the pelican. Now it felt as though she had lost her brother all over again.
Don't you see, Mehmet? It's like Baba always said. We have to hold on to each other!

Did those bullies know the damage they had done to someone who was just beginning to heal? Did they care? It was bad enough to feel alone, as Meli did, deserted by the only person she had dared to think of as a friend, but to have such hatred? And yet, and yet, she herself had tasted that corrosive poison. That very afternoon, looking into Brittany's face, she had seen the hated Serbs. Baba was right. Hate made no sense. They must not let it eat away at their souls. They would become like the very ones they hated. She wanted to bang on Mehmet's door and scream at him,
Don't let them do this to you! Don't do it to yourself!
But she just sat there, staring at her plate.

After she and Mama had washed the dishes, she went to her room and tried to do her homework. Baba had said they must go back to school. But how could she unless Mehmet went as well? Even though she rarely saw him at school, she had to know that he was there—that they were holding together against those who despised them.

She dimly heard the telephone ring in the kitchen and didn't think to wonder who might be calling. But before long Baba knocked on her half-open door. "Meli, are you dressed?"

"Yes, Baba." She whispered so as not to wake Vlora, who was sleeping peacefully in the other bed.

"Wash your face and comb your hair. We have visitors coming."

Visitors? At nine o'clock at night?

Then she heard Baba at Mehmet's door. She didn't want to listen to them argue. She couldn't bear it. She went quickly to the bathroom and washed her face. She patted down her hair and then went into the kitchen, where Mama was busy making coffee. She had changed into her nicest dress.

"Mama?"

"Take some chairs from the kitchen into the parlor, Meli. We need more chairs in there."

As she was bringing in a second chair, Baba and Mehmet emerged from the boys' room. "Help your sister, Mehmet," Baba said.

Mehmet brought in a chair and sat down on it, his body as stiff as a pole. Meli and Mama sat on the others. She waited for some explanation from Baba, but none came. At length they could hear footsteps on the stairs. It sounded like a number of people.
Police! They are going to arrest us for being Muslim.
No, that was crazy. Police didn't call ahead to say they were coming. And Mama wouldn't be dressed up and making coffee if she thought they were all going to be hauled off to jail. It was a ridiculous fear. Still, it was a few seconds before her heart stopped racing. Just some of the welcomers, surely. But why would they come so late at night?

At the knock, Baba nodded at Meli, so she got up and opened the door. The first person she saw in the dark hallway was Mrs. Rogers; just behind her was Mr. Marcello, and with him Adona. Why was Adona here? They hadn't needed a translator for months. Mehmet or she or one of the other children had done all the translating for their parents. The three visitors were in the process of taking off their shoes. Adona must have told the others to. Americans didn't seem to know how important it was.

"Let the guests in, Meli," Baba said. He and Mama stood up.

When Mehmet saw his coach, he started for his bedroom, but Baba grabbed his arm.

"How are you, Meli?" Mrs. Rogers asked.

Meli tried to smile back, but her face felt frozen.

Adona stepped forward and said to Baba in Albanian, "These are the children's coaches for playing soccer." She introduced Mrs. Rogers and Mr. Marcello to Mama and Baba. The adults shook hands formally. Then Baba indicated that everyone, including Mehmet, was to take a seat. The three guests sat down on the couch.

"I have made coffee," Mama said shyly to Adona. "Shall I bring it out? We don't have any cola or mineral water, but..."

Adona shook her head. "I don't think so," she said. "It's late. They won't stay long."

Mr. Marcello was sitting on the edge of the couch cushion. He had taken off his baseball cap and was playing with it. The light from the ceiling fixture seemed to bounce off his bald scalp. Finally, without looking at Baba, he spoke to Adona.

"Tell Mr. Lleshi," the coach said, "that I've come to apologize for what happened to his son today."

Adona translated. Mehmet sat like a stone on the kitchen chair, his lips tight, a bruise on his face dark against his red cheek. Meli could still see the dried blood in his nostrils.

"Tell him," the coach continued, "that it will never happen again. I will not tolerate this kind of behavior. Tomorrow those boys are off the team. For good." As Adona translated, Meli saw that Mr. Marcello had a hole in one of his socks. She could see his big toe sticking out like a tiny bald head.
Poor man,
she thought.
How hard this must be for him.
She glanced at Mehmet to see if he felt any pity for his coach. If he did, there was no sign of it.

"And you should tell Mr. and Mrs. Lleshi that I totally agree with Coach Marcello," Mrs. Rogers said. "I am cutting every girl who took part in that scene in the locker room today."

But that would be the whole team!
Meli thought, and then wondered how her coach had found out what had happened. Someone must have been ashamed and told her. Meli hoped it had been Rachel.

"I should have been there. I'm usually just next door in my office, but I had been called to the main office, so I wasn't there when it happened. Otherwise ... I cannot tell you how sorry I am."

Baba listened, his head bent toward the translator to make sure he understood every word. When Adona finished, he looked up at the coaches. "Sank you," he said. Then he turned back to Adona. "Tell the kind teachers that it would not be a good thing to remove those boys and girls from their teams. They will only become bitter and hate my children all the more. Tell the teachers that my children are strong. They have endured many hard things in their short lives. They can also endure this." He waited for Adona to say the words in English; when she paused, he continued. "Tell them my children wish to be respected as fellow teammates and not despised because of their heritage. That is the way of the old country. This is America, tell them. In America, everyone has a new beginning."

When Adona finished translating, Mrs. Rogers smiled, first at Baba and then at Meli. "And what about you, Meli?" she asked softly. "Do you agree? Should I let everyone stay on the team?"

"Yes, like Baba said."

"Even Brittany?"

"You can't have a team without a goalkeeper."

Coach Marcello turned and spoke directly to Mehmet. "What about you, Mehmet? How do you feel about this?"

Mehmet didn't answer. He sat very still, his eyes on the floor.

"Tell the teacher," Baba said, speaking to Adona but looking all the while at Mehmet, "tell the teacher that my son has endured much more painful hardship than this. As a child, he was once in a Serbian jail, where he was beaten and left in a field to die." As Adona translated, Meli saw Mr. Marcello's eyes widen. Mrs. Rogers gasped. "He is very brave, my son," Baba continued, "and I am very proud of him. He will do the right thing. You will see."

Now Mehmet looked up at Baba, and for a moment Meli imagined she saw tears in her brother's eyes. He did not wait for Adona to finish her translation before he said quietly, "Baba is right. One man does not make a team. We must play together, or there is no game."

Coach Marcello's hands stopped fiddling with his cap. He cleared his throat. "Thank you, Mehmet," he said. Then, very quietly, so that Meli did not hear it until it was repeated in her own language: "He says to tell you, Mr. Lleshi, that you are a good man, and he hopes that he will be as good a father to his children as you are to yours."

"Tell the kind teachers," Baba answered, "that Mehmet and Meli will be back for practice tomorrow."

***

The next morning Meli found Rachel waiting at her locker. "Don't hate me," she blurted out. "I was scared. That's no excuse, I know, but—"

"You told Mrs. Rogers, didn't you?"

"Yes, but..."

"That was brave, Rachel."

"I should never have let Brittany bully me. I hate myself, so I know you must hate me."

She looked so miserable that Meli reached out and touched her arm. "I could never hate you, Rachel. You're the one person who has always been kind to me."

"Until yesterday. Yesterday..."

"My baba says hate makes no sense. He's right. I want to forget about yesterday, okay?"

"Really?"

"Really."

It would be a long time before she and Rachel would eat a sack of salt together, but this was a beginning, wasn't it?