Towelhead (19 page)

“
Mais, tu es seule à Noël?
”

“They'll be back soon,” I said, feeling too nervous to think in French.

“
Eh?
” my grandmother said.

I thought for a second, then said, “
Vous pouvez téléphoner Daddy à
—” and I read her Thena's number off the list beside the telephone. She wrote it down, then said she didn't understand why Daddy wasn't home on Christmas. I lied and acted like I couldn't understand her. She repeated herself a couple of times, but I kept saying, “
Je ne comprends pas
.” Finally she gave up and said she would call Daddy. She said she loved me and I said it back to her. I wasn't sure if I really meant it, but I was happy to have someone to talk to.

After we hung up, I got nervous. Grandma calling wasn't an emergency. I should never have given her Thena's number. I barely slept that night, worrying about what Daddy was going to do to me. When he came home the next afternoon, though, he didn't seem mad. Especially when he saw that my mother had left. “Good riddance,” he said.

“She tried to make me go with her one more time, but I said no.”

He nodded, then bent down to untie his shoes.

“Did Grandma call you?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“I'm sorry I gave her Thena's number.”

“Don't worry about it,” he said, straightening up. “I know she's a pain in the ass.”

“I just didn't know what to do.”

“Don't worry about it,” he told me again.

I went to hug him then. I couldn't help it. Not just from that moment, but from the day before, when it had seemed like he'd been defending me a little to my mother. As soon as I reached my arms toward him, though, he hit me in the face. I fell backward onto the breakfast nook floor. “We don't hug people we hate,” he said, then he went in his room and shut the door.

When I woke up the next day, I had a black eye. I couldn't stop looking at myself in the mirror. I felt very, very excited. I had seen boys in school with black eyes, boys who had been in fights. Everyone knew from the way they looked that this was what had happened to them. Now, I thought, people would know about something that had happened to me.

When I went out for breakfast, Daddy looked at me but didn't say anything. Then, in the middle of eating his cereal, he said, “Just so you know, if anyone sees you like that, you won't be able to live with me anymore.”

I looked at him.

“You'll have to go and live with your mother,” he said.

I didn't say anything.

“So show it to whomever you want,” he said. “As long as you're ready to go and live with your mother.”

I stayed inside for the rest of that week. When school started up the following week, Daddy told them I was sick and picked up my assignments on his way home from work. Thomas called to see why I wasn't in school, and I said I had the flu. “I'll come and visit you,” he said.

“No,” I said. “You can't. You'll get sick.”

“No, I won't. I never get sick.”

“You can't come over,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Because,” I said. “You're black.”

“Ha-ha.”

“I'm serious,” I said. “My parents don't want me to be friends with a black boy.”

He was quiet for a second. “I really hope you're kidding.”

“I'm not,” I said. “I already told you.”

“Why would you listen to them if they said something like that?”

“Because. They're my parents.”

He hung up after a moment, without saying good-bye.

I felt terrible about having to tell him the truth, but I couldn't help it. I was too afraid of making Daddy mad. I didn't want him to send me back to my mother.

There wasn't much to do, being stuck in the house. Mostly I just watched CNN while they prepared for the war to start. Sometimes I checked my bruise in the mirror and felt sad that it was healing. It was the best proof I'd ever had of what Daddy was really like.

At the beginning of the third week, he bought me some concealer makeup to cover the little bit of bruise that was left. I went back to school and tried to sit with Thomas in the cafeteria, but when I set my tray down at his table, he picked his tray up and left.

After school, I went to Melina's to see if I could read my book. “Where've you been?” she said. “I must've rung your bell a million times.”

It was true, she had, but I'd ignored her. “I was sick,” I said.

“With what?”

“The flu.”

“Huh.”

“Can I read my book?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said, and she stepped aside to let me in.

We sat in her living room together, Melina on the couch, me on the floor. She read a book about babies, while I read about my body. When I came to the part about how I had a hymen and how it might hurt when someone broke it, I couldn't help it, I started to cry. Especially the part that said if I wanted it to hurt less, my partner could put a finger inside me and try to gently stretch it out a little first. “What's the matter?” Melina asked, looking up.

“Nothing,” I said. I shut the book so she couldn't see what page I was on.

“Something's the matter.”

“I was just thinking about my mother,” I said. “I miss her.”

“Uh-huh,” Melina said, like she didn't believe me. She reached for a tissue on the table beside her and handed it to me. I dried my eyes a little and blew my nose.

“What's that?” she asked.

“What?”

She squinted at the right side of my face. “It looks like a bruise.”

“Where?” I said, like I didn't know.

“That's a black eye,” she said.

“No, it's not.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“It's not a black eye,” I told her. “I was trying on makeup at school. It got smudged.”

She didn't say anything then. She just kept staring at me.

“Thank you for getting me this book,” I said finally. “I really like it a lot.”

“You're welcome,” she said.

“Sorry I didn't get you anything.”

“It's okay.”

I didn't know what else to do, so I went back to my reading. I knew Melina hadn't gone back to hers because I couldn't hear the pages turning. I just heard her strange short breaths, which she had once explained to me were because of Dorrie, who was beginning to squash her lungs.

T
he day the war started, Daddy was in a good mood. “Finally!” he said at breakfast that morning. He had NPR on in the kitchen, and CNN on in the living room, and he kept getting up from his seat in the breakfast nook when he thought there might be something interesting on TV. “This won't take long at all,” he said. “Saddam will be dead in a couple of days.”

At school, all the kids were kind of excited. They said we were going to blast the ragheads out of Kuwait. I tried to sit next to Thomas again at lunch, and this time he let me. “Did you hear about the war?” I asked him.

“Duh,” he said.

I picked up my fork and cut one of my raviolis in half. “Daddy says it'll be over in a couple of days.”

“I really don't give a shit what your dad says.”

“Sorry,” I said.

We didn't talk for the rest of lunch, but I was glad that we were at least sitting together.

A couple of days later, when Saddam started shooting Scud missiles at Israel, Daddy got depressed. On CNN they showed all these Palestinian people acting really happy about it, and Daddy said it was bullshit. “Those are a bunch of idiots!” he yelled. “All they want to show is a bunch of idiots!” He got even angrier when they showed a video of Yasser Arafat hugging Saddam. “What a traitor,” Daddy said. “He makes me want to change your name.”

“Why?” I said.

“Why?” he said. “Because you're named after him.”

“Oh,” I said. I hadn't known this.

“It was your mother's stupid idea. I wanted to name you Estelle.”

“That's a nice name,” I said.

Daddy nodded. “It's French.”

“Can we change my name now?” I asked.

Daddy shook his head. He was talking to me and watching TV at the same time. “Too late.”

“Why?” I said.

He shrugged. “It just is. No one would remember to say it.”

I went in my room and took out a piece of paper. I wrote the name Estelle over and over, and felt cheated. It was fun to write. It was French. French was more normal than Arab.

Daddy wouldn't stop watching TV and listening to the radio at the same time. On the Saturday after the war started, we drove to Kmart so he could buy TV tables for the living room. You could see the TV from the dining room table, but Daddy wanted to get closer to make sure he didn't miss any of the writing on the screen.

I ate my dinner in the living room with Daddy and watched the news, too. It got kind of boring sometimes, especially when they talked about different models of airplanes or different types of ammunition. I liked when Christiane Amanpour came on, though, because Daddy said she was sexy. Whenever he said that, it made me want to jump up from the couch and do a dance. I just felt so happy to hear him talk about adult things in front of me.

I started to think that I might want to be a reporter. There was a meeting for the school newspaper that week, and I told Daddy I was going to go. “Good idea,” he said. “The Arab voice is underrepresented in the press.”

Since it was a junior-high newspaper, the
Lone Star Times
came out only every other month. My English teacher, Mr. Joffrey, was the faculty adviser. He didn't do much, just sat at his desk eating a sandwich and grading papers. The editor in chief was a kid named Charles; he had coarse brown hair and blue eyes. He stood in front of the chalkboard when the meeting began, asking different people if their articles or reviews were done. Then he asked the new people at the meeting to say their names and what kind of writing they were interested in doing. It was me and one other girl whom I knew from English class. Her name was Denise, and she was pretty and blonde and a little bit fat. She had a high voice and said weird things that I could tell made the other kids in class think she was stupid, but when I looked at all her tests and essays that got handed back, they always said A+.

I raised my hand and Charles pointed to me. “My name is Jasira,” I said. “I'm interested in war reporting.”

A couple of kids laughed, but Charles didn't. He said, “What kind of war reporting?”

“Well,” I said, trying to think, since I didn't really have an answer. “I guess I'm interested in reservists and what it's like to get called up.”

Charles was quiet for a second, then said, “Okay, good angle. Talk to me after the meeting.”

Denise raised her hand next and said she was interested in writing book reviews.

“We already have enough book reviewers,” Charles told her.

“Oh,” she said. “Well, what don't you have enough of?”

“We've been thinking of starting a horoscope section. Could you do that?”

“Sure,” she said.

Denise and I both hung around after the meeting to talk to Charles. “When do you think you can have that reservist piece done by?” he asked me.

“I don't know,” I said. “Two weeks?”

“If you make it a week and a half,” he said, “we can get it into the March issue.”

“Okay.”

“Same for your horoscopes,” he said, turning to Denise.

She nodded. “Should I just make them up?”

“Sure,” Charles said. “Just make sure you do a little research about the signs first. You know, like, Virgos are uptight, so write something about how they might feel tense, but around the fourteenth, something will happen to make them feel more relaxed. See what I mean?”

“I guess,” Denise said, and she giggled.

When we finished talking to Charles, Denise and I walked out of the school together. I had never really thought of being her friend because she had such a weird voice and people were always laughing at her. I figured I was unpopular enough. Now, though, I found her kind of easy to be with. “Why did you join the paper?” she asked me.

I shrugged. “I might want to be a journalist when I get older.”

“Oh,” she said. After a second, she said, “Know why I joined?”

“Why?” I said.

“You can't tell anyone,” she said.

“I won't.”

“It's because I'm in love with Mr. Joffrey. I want to have sex with him.”

“Really?” I said. Mr. Joffrey was short and had small eyes and small round glasses. He hadn't said one word during the meeting.

“I think he's sexy,” Denise said.

“I guess I hadn't really noticed,” I admitted.

“Good,” she said. “I don't want any competition.”

We walked outside to wait for the late buses. As we were about to cross a small drive, I didn't notice a car coming, and Denise grabbed my arm. “Wait!” she yelled.

“Oops,” I said, stopping.

“Okay, you can go now,” she said, once the car had passed. I noticed that she kept her hand on my arm for a couple of extra seconds, and it made me feel like I had known her for a long time already.

When I got home, Zack was outside with his kitten. He had her on a small harness and leash, and was walking her up and down the sidewalk. Except she wouldn't really walk. When he pulled the leash, she just stopped, or lay down.

“Can't you just let her walk around without a leash?” I asked him.

“I don't want her to run away,” he said.

“She won't,” I said. “She's too small.”

“You don't know anything,” he said.

“Let go of the leash and let her walk, then if she gets too far away, just grab it.”

He thought about this, then surprised me by taking my suggestion. Finally the kitten started moving around a little and sniffing things. I kind of wanted to say, “See?” but I forced myself not to. Instead I said, “Did your dad get called up yet?”

“No,” Zack said.

“Well,” I said, “I'm writing an article for the school paper about reservists. I need to interview him.”

Zack didn't say anything. He was watching the kitten jerk her head around to the movements of a small bird.

“Do you think he'll let me?” I asked.

“Maybe. If he's not too busy.”

“Cool.”

The kitten tried to chase the bird then and Zack stepped on her leash, snapping her neck a little.

“Be careful,” I said. “You'll hurt her.”

“This is a dumb idea,” Zack said, and he picked the leash back up, and the kitten fell into the grass in protest, making him pull her wherever he wanted her to go.

Inside, I sat at the dining room table, watching the war on TV and making up a list of questions for Mr. Vuoso:

• 1. Are you scared to get killed?
  
• 2. Do you think you'll kill an Iraqi?
  
• 3. What kinds of things will you take with you from home?
  
• 4. Will your wife come and visit you?
  
• 5. Can you receive packages?
  
• 6. Do you think this is a war for oil?
  

Christiane Amanpour came on CNN while I was working, and I thought it would be nice to have a tan jacket like hers, with all those pockets.

When Daddy came home and I told him about the school paper meeting, he said it sounded good. Then I told him about my reservist article, and he got mad. “How is that representing the Arab view?” he asked me. “Here you are, living with an Arab, and you want to interview the scumbag next door? What kind of stupid idea is this?”

“But what if Mr. Vuoso gets called up?” I said. “Then I won't be able to interview him. That's why I want to do it now, while he's still here.”

“Do whatever you want,” Daddy muttered, and he went to the fridge and got a beer.

“I can interview you next,” I said.

“The Arab perspective,” he said, opening his Heineken. “That's what's missing in the news. You could've made a difference, but instead you chose the easy way out.”

While I was washing the dinner dishes that night, the phone rang. Daddy set down his drying towel and went to answer it. “It's for you,” he said, and I pulled off my rubber gloves and went to take the phone. I figured it was my mother from the angry look on Daddy's face, but it wasn't. “Jasira?” a man's voice said.

“Yes?”

“This is Mr. Vuoso.” When I didn't say anything, he added, “From next door.”

“Yes,” I said. “I know.” I was afraid to talk since Daddy was standing right there, staring at me.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Fine, thank you.”

“Good,” he said. “I was a little worried. I haven't seen you in a long time.”

“I was sick,” I said.

“With what?”

“The flu.”

“Oh.”

“I'm better now,” I told him.

“Well,” he said, “Zack mentioned something about you wanting to interview me for your school paper?”

“Yes,” I said. “I wanted to write an article about reservists.”

“Okay, sure. When did you want to do this?”

“I don't know,” I said.

“How about Saturday?” he said. “Zack and his mom are taking the kitten to the vet. You could come over then.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Say, around noon?”

“Sure.”

“Hopefully I won't get called up before then,” he said, and he laughed a little.

“I hope not, either.”

“What do you hope?” Daddy asked, once I had hung up the phone. He was still standing there with his dish towel, staring at me.

“That Mr. Vuoso won't get called up before the interview,” I said. I walked around him so I could get back to the sink and finish the dishes.

“You'd better watch what you say to him,” Daddy said.

“I'm just going to ask him questions about being a reservist. That's all.”

“This guy thinks he's a real vigilante,” Daddy said.

I didn't know what a vigilante was, but I didn't feel like asking.

The next day at school, Denise asked me if I wanted to come over to her house that weekend to work on our articles. “I can't,” I said, and I explained to her about how I was going to be interviewing Mr. Vuoso on Saturday afternoon.

“Well, then I'll come over to your house,” she said. “After the interview. We can have a sleepover. Want to?”

“Um,” I said. “Well, I need to ask.”

“Okay,” she said, then she wrote down her phone number and told me to call her that night.

I had lunch with Thomas again in the cafeteria. “What do you want?” he said, looking at me as I pulled my chair out.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Why are you sitting here if you're not supposed to?”