The Insurrectionist (12 page)

 

            Friday night’s game against Lancaster arrived. Reading High was winning and Deni was having a stellar game so far. He had one touchdown and he had yet to drop one pass; his confidence on the field was soaring.

            It was the start of the third quarter when their quarterback hiked the ball. Deni ran out into the center of the field to get into the position for the catch. Offensive lineman, Brad Dietrich, stepped up to block the oncoming opposing team’s safety. He leaned in, whispered in the safety’s ear and then allowed the safety a direct line at Deni.

            With the ball high in the air, Deni jumped up to catch it just as the safety nailed him in the air. Deni fell flat onto his back with the safety on top of him. When the safety rose from Deni, he kicked Deni and muttered, “Take that Omar.”

            Deni’s eyes widened as he stared at the smirking safety and his dirty shot. He started choking dramatically not being able to breathe. Panic struck as he struggled to catch his breath. Surely he was going to die if he didn’t get air soon.

            T-Bone, Devon, Hector, and some of the other teammates ran up to Deni as he writhed on the ground. The team’s trainer ran to Deni’s side immediately, took off his helmet and removed his mouth piece. He placed his hand on Deni’s sternum. “Calm down. Easy, easy. Slow down. Slow breaths. Just take slow breaths. It’ll come back.”

            Deni tried to calm down but no air was able to get into his lungs. He gasped loudly until finally, air slowly returned to his lungs. He tried to sit up, but he winced with pain. When two student medics appeared with the stretcher, Deni shook his head. There was no fucking way he was being carried off the field; he was walking off.

            “I have to for legal reasons,” said the trainer.

            “I am walking off this field,” Deni wheezed.

            “Don’t be a hero,” replied the trainer.

            Deni glared at the trainer. “No. There is no fucking way I am getting on that thing.”

            T-Bone put his arm around Deni’s shoulder to help him off the field. “Oooh, Muhammad floated like a butterfly, got stung like a bee,” T-Bone joked, trying to make light of the hit and ease Deni’s tension.

            “Fuck off!” spat Deni. “Don’t ever say that to me again.”

            “Hey man, I’m your friend, just trying to help,” said T-Bone.

            “Just leave me alone!” yelled Deni.

            “Hey, fuck you man. You always got my back, what’s with it, I can’t have yours?” argued T-Bone.

            “You wouldn’t understand,” Deni spat quickly, but he knew T-Bone would be the first to understand. In fact if T-Bone knew what happened, there would be a full on brawl in the middle of the football field. He knew T-Bone of all people would have his back.

            “Do you think I’m fucking stupid just because I don’t have those fancy advanced classes like you?” argued T-Bone.

            Deni grasped his ribs. “Just leave it, okay?”

            “Fine,” T-Bone said and then trotted off to the sideline.     

            As Deni limped to the sideline, he heard the applause of the crowd and rolled his eyes
. Ah, everyone’s applauding the limping raghead. Probably get more applause if I died out there
. He didn’t make eye contact with anyone; he was so humiliated.

            The team’s coach, Coach Schwartz, stormed over to him. “Okay, I get it. You’re a big man, now get yourself inside the locker room and get yourself checked out!”

            Deni jogged toward the locker room despite the pain to his ribs, it was excruciating, but he had to get away from the spectators as fast possible.

            The trainer caught up with him and walked alongside him into the florescent light of the locker room. Deni carefully lifted himself on the examining table. The trainer helped him with his shoulder pads. “You’re a football player—a wide receiver. You’ve taken hits before and you’ll take hits again,” said the trainer. He looked at Deni. “Just remember when you’re down, let people help you up. You are not alone out there. You guys are a team.”

            “Team? Yeah, tell that to Brad Dietrich. Did you see his fucking missed block?” spat Deni.

            “Bad play Deni. It was just a blown play. Don’t take it personally,” said the trainer.

           
Personally
, Deni thought.
This guy has no fucking clue. He didn’t need to take anything personally; he was a white male Christian American. There is nothing to take personally when the world revolves around you.

            Deni glanced through the frosted glass of the training room door, he saw a man standing outside. “Are you expecting anyone?” he said to the trainer.

            The trainer opened the door to find a tall, perfectly groomed white-haired man standing outside. “Can I help you?” asked the trainer.

            “I’m Dr. Atkins. I’m a doctor at St. Joseph’s Hospital. I wanted to come down and see how he is doing,” he replied.

            “Pissed off,” said the trainer.

            “Well he should be. It was a dirty hit,” said Dr. Atkins.

            Deni was peeved that Heather would send down daddy, but any ill-feeling he had faded immediately when he saw Bashir at the door. The sight of his father brought instant relief. “Pop!” he called.

            Bashir passed both the trainer and Dr. Atkins to see his son. “Are you okay? Are you hurt badly?” he asked in Russian.

            He hurt all over, but mostly his pride was damaged. “I’ll be alright,” he replied.

            “He has some tenderness in the ribs and could have some bruising,” said the trainer.

            Dr. Atkins extended his hand to Bashir. “I’m Heather’s father. I work at St. Joseph’s. She told me you were a doctor.”

            Bashir nodded not knowing who Heather was and how this man knew about his past. Obviously his son had a life he was not sharing with his parents. He shook Dr. Atkins’ hand. “Well thanks for looking in on him.”

            “If you need my help getting home I can offer my services,” said Dr. Atkins.

            “Thank you,” said Bashir.

            As Dr. Atkins and the trainer helped Deni change into his sweats, Bashir pulled his car to the back doors of the locker room so Deni would only have to walk a short distance. The severe pain to his ribs hurt as he slid into the car seat; he couldn’t help the tears that naturally fell.

            Dr. Atkins patted Deni on the shoulder. “Hang in there.”

            Deni nodded, hating the spectacle everyone was parading around him. All the coddling made him feel weak and helpless and what was worse was that nameless, spineless asshole who hit him, had won.

            Bashir pulled away from the school with the game still going on. In a few minutes, Bashir arrived home with Deni and within a moment, Dr. Atkins’ black Mercedes pulled up behind Bashir’s used blue Toyota. Both men helped Deni from the car and into the house.

            Kamiila took one look at Deni and screamed in Russian, “What happened?”

            “It’s nothing,” said Bashir in a calm voice. “He just got hit hard; he’ll be fine in a couple days.”

            “I told you that sport is dangerous!” she scolded Deni in Russian.

            “It wasn’t dangerous when Mik played,” Deni argued back in Russian.

            “He’s bigger and stronger than you,” Kamiila replied in Russian. “You shouldn’t be putting yourself out there like that. What’s the matter with you, allowing people to hit you all the time?”

            “It’s a game, ma! A game!” Deni yelled in Russian as he grabbed his ribs and nearly doubled over in pain.

            Kamiila turned her attention to Dr. Atkins. “Who’s he?”

            “Dr. Atkins. He works at St. Josephs. He’s here to help Deni. Would you like the doctor to help our son?” questioned Bashir.

            “You’re a doctor,” replied Kamiila.

            “He kindly offered his help with our son,” said Bashir in a strong tone suggesting she calm down.

            Dr. Atkins spotted a recliner seat in the living room. “Why don’t we put him there instead of making him walk up the stairs?”

            Bashir agreed to Dr. Atkins’ suggestion. After Deni rested in the chair, Bashir made an ice pack and placed it over Deni’s ribs.

            Dr. Atkins stood above Deni’s chair and looked down at him. “Do you have any anti-inflammatory?”

            “We should have something,” said Bashir.

            “Try to relax and get some rest,” Dr. Atkins said as he opened the door to leave.

            Bashir straightened a blanket over Deni, handed him a glass of water and two pills. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

            Deni wanted to believe his father, but he knew he was betrayed by that asshole, Brad Dietrich. If he couldn’t trust his own teammates to protect him, who could he trust?
Am I supposed to forever hide what I am? Am I constantly going to have to defend my family and my parents for their faith? Will I ever be truly accepted here? Who can I trust?

            The next day there was a knock at the Daudov’s door. “Ma!” Deni yelled from the recliner. “There’s someone at the door.”

            Kamiila came to the living room and opened the front door. She was shocked to find
that
pretty blonde-haired girl carrying two large brown paper bags. “Can I help you?”

             “I’m Heather. I’m a friend of Deni’s,” she said, nodding toward her brown paper bags. “I brought Chinese food and some ice cream for dessert.”

            Kamiila paused and wondered whether to let Heather inside.

            “Heather?” questioned Bashir as he peaked around the door, “So you’re Heather.” He opened the door for her to enter. “You must thank your father for helping us out last night.”

            “Oh, he was glad to do it. He’s kinda do-gooder type,” replied Heather. “I bought some food.”

            “I don’t trust her,” Kamiila said in Russian.

            “She bought us food, what’s not to trust?” questioned Bashir in Russian.

            “She just waltzes to our door like some princess with bags of food. I can feed my son; I don’t need handouts,” argued Kamiila in Russian.

            “Ma, it’s okay; she’s my friend!” yelled Deni in Russian.

            Kamiila released an ironic chuckle. “Girls don’t bring boys food unless they want something from them.”

            Deni muttered a quiet obscenity at his mother; one she would surely not hear or understand.

            “So what did you bring us?” Bashir asked Heather in English, hoping to ease the tension that was all over her face.

            “Some cold sesame noodles, chow mein, fried rice, egg rolls and scallion pancakes. Deni likes scallion pancakes,” she said.

            “And how do you know what my son likes?” questioned Kamiila.

            Heather grinned awkwardly. “I’m sorry if I interrupted anything. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

            Bashir shook off her apology and said nothing. He opened the foil tray and peeked inside. “I never had scallion pancakes.” He glanced at Kamiila. “Why don’t you get some plates?” And then he turned his attention back to Heather. “This is very kind of you.”

            Deni propped himself upright on the couch. “Don’t I get any?”

            “Oh look the sultan of the recliner wants Chinese food,” joked Bashir. “Should we take some to him?”

            Heather opened the carton of noodles and dangled them into her mouth using her fingers. “I dunno. He’s been quite the prima donna lately.”

            Bashir whispered in Heather’s ear for only her to hear, “He gets that from his mother.”

            Kamiila arrived with a handful of plates and promptly presented them to Bashir.

            “Why don’t you and I eat in the kitchen and allow the kids to have some privacy,” Bashir said to Kamiila.

            Heather smiled warmly, knowing she had secured an ally in the Daudov household.

She carried the bags to the coffee table in the living room and filled a plate with food. “Feeling better today?” she asked before handing him a plate.

            “Do I get food if I give you the right answer?” he retaliated.

            She held the plate above him. “Yes.”

            “Then I am doing great,” he said matter of fact.

            Heather handed him the plate and sat on the couch. She looked around at all the Russian and Islamic décor and the many, many family pictures. It was evident Kamiila was very proud of her family and children. She noticed a football game on television. “Who’s playing?”

            “Ohio and Iowa,” Deni said.

            “Huh,” she grunted and then started filling a plate of Chinese food for herself. “I wanted to let you know that after you left, Coach Schwartz had the guy who hit you ejected from the game. Brad Dietrich is benched indefinitely. And you better as hell call T-Bone. He’s really upset.”

            “Yeah, I’ll talk to him,” Deni muttered.

            Heather reached in her purse and handed Deni her cellphone. “Now.”

            “Who made you the boss of me?” questioned Deni.

            “The day you started acting like a total jerk to your good friend,” she said and forced her phone on him.

            Deni took the phone from her with a wily smirk and texted T-Bone an apology. Within a minute all was cool with his good buddy. He tossed Heather her phone. “Thanks,” he grunted.

            “No problem.” Heather admired an old picture of when Deni was just a boy. “Where was this taken?”