A Cut Too Far Read online

  After lunch, the drawing was taped to my locker but with an addition. There was a shorter guy with a huge jaw, also naked, with his arms around the guy in the turban.

  I tore it down and crumpled it. A couple girls with lockers nearby were laughing.

  “What’s that all about?” asked Ollie, whose locker was next to mine. Our families had been close when we were younger. Since both sets of parents had divorced, the families never saw each other anymore, and Ollie and I had little in common besides basketball. In spite of all that, we’d remained good friends.

  Ollie was handsome, for that matter, while I was the freak with the big jaw. Girls liked him, and not just “as a friend.” He actually knew some things about sex, whereas I knew little more than what I’d seen in the e-mails I’d gotten.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Don’t let those guys bug you,” he said.

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “I know but still.”

  I threw the balled-up paper into my backpack and loaded my books on top of it. Ollie was still watching me, and something crossed my mind. “Did you see them put it up here?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Why didn’t you stop them?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I thought it was kind of funny.”

  “Well, it wasn’t.”

  He laughed, then he stopped.

  “You’re supposed to be my friend,” I said.

  “I know,” he said. “Sorry.”

  •••

  That afternoon when I got home, Tahir and Mom were getting ready to go to a movie. Tahir had put his jacket on, but Mom was running around looking for her earrings and barking at Ella about when to take the lasagna out of the oven. Even though Mom was flustered, she looked excited. Happy. I realized that I hadn’t seen Mom and Dad have fun together in years. It was nice to see Mom doing something enjoyable now, even if seeing her with another man still made me uncomfortable.

  “Hey, Tahir,” I said, tossing my backpack on the couch, but then I picked it up again, as if Tahir might grab it and rifle through it. The offensive drawing was inside.

  “Hey, Chace!” he said. He took his hat off and gave me a big smile.

  “Are you an Arab?” I asked. I’d been thinking about it all day. I had corrected Ivan when he called Tahir an Arab, but I didn’t actually know if Tahir was an Arab or not. I was pretty sure a person could be Iranian and Arab at the same time.

  “I’m not,” he said.

  I thought about that a second. “What is an Arab?” I asked. Ella lifted her eyes from the book she was reading to follow the conversation.

  Tahir explained that it’s an ethnicity. Originally Arabs were people from the Arabian Peninsula, but now Arab applies to anyone who speaks Arabic and comes from the Middle East or northern Africa. I asked him if Arabs are Muslims.

  “Most Arabs are Muslim,” he said, “but Arab doesn’t mean ‘Muslim.’ Some Arabs are Christian.”

  Tahir told me that his family was Persian. They fled Iran in 1978, when he was eight, to escape before a revolution. They packed as many of their things as they could in a few suitcases. “We just left the rest behind,” he said. “Our books. Our furniture. Most of my toys. Not to mention our friends.”

  It sounded horrible. But I guess the family made a smart move, because when Ayatollah Khomeini came to power in 1979, Iran became more restrictive. Tahir’s family was one of the lucky ones that had enough wealth to get out of the country and start a new life in the US.

  “We now consider ourselves Americans,” he said.

  As he finished up, Mom came into the room, pushing in her earrings. She picked up her jacket and hat and looked to see if we were done. I could tell that she didn’t want to interrupt me and Tahir now that we were actually talking, but she also really wanted to be on time to the movie. Tahir finally gave her a love-struck smile.

  “We’re going to be late,” Mom whispered.

  “Right, we better go,” Tahir said. “Thanks for the talk,” he said to me, putting his stocking cap back on. It had a little pom-pom on top that made him look a little bit like a kid, even though he had that big mustache.

  “Sure,” I said, though I wasn’t sure what he was thanking me for.

  •••

  “How’s Daddy Terrorist?” Ivan called. We were in gym class. Ivan was playing second base in indoor kickball. I was standing on first base after kicking a single.

  I ignored him and watched the pitcher roll the ball toward home plate. The kicker let it pass and then threw it back. I had to stand by Ivan for at least one more pitch.

  “Hey, I’m talking to you!” Ivan said. I still ignored him, but he repeated himself, and the pitcher laughed. So did Toua, who was playing shortstop.

  “What’s your problem?” I finally said. The gym teachers, Mr. Cole and Mr. Stoddard, were busy talking in the bleachers.

  “What’s my problem? I have lots. One is your face. I’ve been looking at that massive block of ugly for too many years. Another one is Muslim terrorists. And now every time I see your face, I think about how you have one in your house.”

  Just then the kicker blasted a line drive that sailed over Ivan’s head. Ivan turned to face the outfield, waiting for the ball to come back in.

  “You’re ignorant,” I said as I ran toward second. When Ivan got the ball from the outfielder, he turned with it and pegged me in the face with all he had, even though I was standing safely on second base. I hit the floor.

  A couple people ran over to see if I was okay. I lay flat for a few seconds. My jaw stung. My head pounded with pain and humiliation.

  “That’s the third out,” I heard Toua say. He and Ivan started jogging toward the bench area.

  “He was safe!” someone argued. “Besides, that was a head shot. That’s against the rules.”

  “It was an accident!” Ivan protested. A crowd gathered, and Mr. Stoddard came over. He wore sweatpants and a whistle around his thick neck, just like he did every day of his life.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked.

  “I accidentally hit Chace the Face,” Ivan said, smirking. “I mean, I accidentally hit Chace in the face. He was ducking to dodge the throw.”

  “No, I wasn’t!” I said, rubbing my jaw. “I was standing on the base!”

  “Well, I’m sorry I hit you in the face,” Ivan said. “Hard to avoid that. But still, you were definitely out.”

  Toua nodded to Mr. Stoddard. “He was.”

  Mr. Stoddard hooked his thumb in the air, the signal for “you’re out.” And that was that. As Toua and Ivan and the rest of their team started running toward home to kick, I got so mad that I kicked Ivan’s leg as he passed, and he fell to the floor. He popped up with his fist balled up and lunged at me, but Mr. Stoddard jumped in front of him.

  “Cool it, Rusnak,” he said, his hand on Ivan’s chest.

  “He tripped me!” Ivan said.

  “It was an accident,” I said. Mr. Stoddard looked me over as if he could judge my sincerity just by the look on my face. When he turned away, I winked at Ivan.

  “Play ball,” Mr. Stoddard said.

  As Ivan backed across the infield toward the home plate area, he pointed a finger at me. “You’re going to regret that, Face.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When Mom got home from work that night, she knocked on my bedroom door before she even changed out of her work clothes. She did usability testing on websites for nonprofits, and she spent a lot of time working at home in her office. But sometimes she dressed up and went somewhere for a meeting. She didn’t like that part, though, and she usually changed back into casual clothes as soon as she could. When she poked her head in the doorway, still wearing a collared blouse and a blazer, I knew she had something on her mind.

  I was lying on the bed reading a book about Operation Torch, a World War II battle in which British and American forces invaded French North Africa to clear out Axis forces there. It was the first time in the war that the US used an airborne attack as a major part of an operation, and Supermarine Spitfires were a big part of the invasion. I had the MC5 coming out of my speakers. About the only thing I loved as much as engineering and fighter planes was early punk rock.

  “We need to talk,” Mom said.

  I put down the book. “What’s up?”

  “I was looking something up on your computer yesterday, and I saw some things in your search history.”

  “And?”

  She reached over to my iPod dock and turned the volume all the way down. I hated it when people did that—turn it down instead of turning it off. Then you lose your place in the song.

  “I know you’ve been looking at porn,” she said.

  “No, Mom, I haven’t. That was . . .” But I didn’t know how to explain it.

  Mom looked like she was in pain. Like someone had hit her in the head with a kickball. And I remembered that the site was super racist.

  “Mom, Ivan joined me up for this website. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Ivan,” Mom said.

  “Yeah, he’s been a real jerk lately.”

  “Ivan,” she said again. Like she couldn’t believe I was trying to pass off my dirty habits on someone else.

  “He’s been . . . ,” I said again. But there was nothing to say. She already had it in her head that I was a racist sleazeball. Nothing I said was going to change what she saw on my computer.

  She chewed her lip, and then it was like she couldn’t look at me anymore. She just stared out the window, her eyes getting wet.

  “Mom,” I tried again. “Please don’t worry. It’s not what you think.”

  She nodded, but she still didn’t say anything. At dinner that night, she said, “You can have your computer after school for one hour to do homework, but other than that, I will keep it in my room for the next two weeks.”

  Ella was sitting right there at the table with us.

  “Why?” Ella asked.

  That was my question too. Why did Ivan choose to torment me? Why did Mom and Dad have to divorce? And why did Mom have to date some guy who made me more of a target? And, good lord, why did we have to talk about this in front of Ella? My sister would never let this go until she got to the bottom of it.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  Mom said, “I’m just sorry your dad isn’t around to help with this.”

  “You mean to punish me?” I asked.

  “Seriously, what happened?” Ella said.

  “Nothing,” I said again.

  “Mom didn’t take your computer away for nothing.”

  “Not to punish you,” Mom said. “To talk with you. To help you. It would be nice to have a father around for this situation, that’s all I mean.”

  “What about Tahir?” I said, standing up. “He’s practically living here anyway. The way you’ve been acting with him, I’m surprised you didn’t already tell him to give me a father-son chat.”

  As I left the room, I heard Ella asking Mom again why she took my computer away, but Mom told her to mind her own business.

  I went to my room, got my computer, set it on Mom’s bed, and went back to my room. I got undressed and climbed under the covers and shut my eyes. It was barely even dusk outside, but I was asleep in a few minutes.

  •••

  The next day, I had basketball practice. Mom told me at breakfast that Tahir was going to pick me up. I asked if she could pick me up instead.

  “I can’t, honey. I have a meeting. Tahir is excited to show up early and catch the end of practice. It will be nice for you two to have some time together. He told me he plans to treat you to Dairy Queen.”

  “Big deal,” I said, carrying my cereal bowl to the sink. Ella paused over her cereal to watch us like a hawk.

  “Excuse me?” Mom said.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “You better be nice to him, Chace. He has done nothing but treat you like a prince.”

  “Sorry. I just meant, I have plans after practice. With friends. I don’t need a ride. Can you tell him?”

  She looked at me a long couple seconds, and then she let out a big sigh. “I’ll tell him,” she said.

  “What plans?” Ella asked. “You don’t have plans.”

  “I get it,” Mom said and walked out of the room. A second later, the back door slammed shut.

  Ella took a big spoonful of cereal. “Nice job, dummy,” she said with her mouth full.

  •••

  That day at lunch, I got a notice on my phone that I’d been mentioned on Instagram. An anonymous user, whose account had only been opened yesterday, posted a photo of me in the school hallway that morning. The caption read, Coming soon: A list to make @SpitfireChace feel better. Get ready! And a bunch of people had already liked it. As I looked at the post on my phone, two more likes got added on. I scanned the cafeteria—lots of people were on phones, but nobody seemed to be looking at me.

  I showed the post to Ollie. “Check this out,” I said. “What the . . . hell?”

  He looked at my phone for a second and handed it back.

  “You’re right,” he said, taking a bite of his salami sandwich. “It’s not a very good picture of you.”

  “That’s not the point,” I said. “And you know it.”

  Ollie grinned with one side of his mouth, which was supposed to make him look charming and let me know that he was just joking around. I slapped my phone on the table.

  “I’m serious,” I said. A couple kids at the table looked at me with Dude, chill out expressions.

  “I know, I know,” Ollie said. “It is weird.”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m guessing we’ll find out.”

  It didn’t take long. About fifteen minutes later, as I walked toward STEM class, my phone buzzed again. I paused outside the classroom door and let other kids go in as I checked my phone. Sure enough, it was another Instragram notice from the anonymous user. This one was a photo of a car with the caption:

  We usually think about how big Chace’s face is. But it’s not bigger than everything in the world. We think it would be nice to point out a few things that Chace’s massive cinder block of a jaw is NOT bigger than. We’ll be counting down from ten to the NUMBER ONE THING that Chace’s face is not bigger than. Be sure to LIKE and tell your friends!

  10. A Honda hatchback.

  Like I did in the cafeteria, I scanned the faces in the hallway to see if anyone was looking at me. Seemingly everyone I saw was laughing into their phones. One of the likes on this photo was a girl who had a locker by me and Ollie, a girl named Christa, who I saw passing by. I grabbed her arm.

  “Christa,” I said.

  “Hey, Chace!”

  I showed her my phone. “What’s the deal with the list stuff?”

  “I don’t know! It’s totally bizarre!”

  She was the kind of girl who spoke with lots of exclamation points in her voice.

  “Well, why did you like it if you don’t know?”

  “I don’t know!” She looked up at the clock on the wall and slipped back into the crowd. “Gotta go!” she called back.

  When I entered the classroom, I sat by myself in a back corner and unloaded my notebook and folder from my backpack. I felt a buzz on my phone in my pocket, but I ignored it. A couple guys from the team reached for their phones at the same time, but Ms. Kaat walked into the room and told them to put them away.

  The rest of the day was just like that. My phone kept buzzing, and I kept resisting the urge to check it. And everyone around me seemed to have their noses glued to their phones—more than usual, I mean.

  •••

  When I got home after practice, I went to my room and checked my phone. I had a bunch of Instagram notices and a few texts too. I checked Instagram first. Nine of the ten promised list items had been posted. I was tagged on each one. Here’s the list (and the photos):

  10. A Honda hatchback (a Honda hatchback)

  9. Mr. Giovanni’s ego (a picture of Mr. Giovanni from the school website)

  8. The Stanley Cup (the Stanley Cup)

  7. 1,000 large marshmallows (a huge pile of marshmallows)

  6. Yoda (a screen shot from Empire Strikes Back)

  5. A goose (a goose floating on a lake)

  4. Those old fighter planes he likes (a Spitfire blueprint)

  3. Russia (a map)

  2. A box that contains all the delusions of all the Muslim terrorist fantasies about all the virgins that are waiting for them in the afterlife (one of those big storage pods that people park in front of their house when they’re moving)

  An acidy feeling began to bubble in my stomach. As I stared at the picture of the box with the stupid cartoon on the side, the feeling spread from my stomach to my whole body. It made me want to smash my fist through a wall or scream. It was like the world was this overgrown jungle of hate and cruelty, and you couldn’t get away from it. It crowded you in on all sides.

  There seemed to be nothing I could do.

  If I commented on the pictures, I’d only invite more ridicule. If I said anything to Ivan, he’d deny having anything to do with it.

  When I thought about it, I didn’t know what made me so angry. Ivan had given me a hard time for years. Why should this be any different? I guessed part of it had to do with the medium. With Instagram, his insults could reach a lot of people. About fifty people had liked each of the items on the list already.

  But there was another reason I was so mad. Even though I didn’t like the idea of my mom being with another man and even though I wasn’t exactly buddies with Tahir or anything, Ivan’s focus on the Muslim thing seemed really personal. Invasive. It’s like he was in my family’s house, in our private lives, cutting us up.

  I started to wonder what the number one picture on the list would be, but then I got a pretty good idea. Knowing Ivan, he wouldn’t be able to resist saying something about how great he is. Or else it would be something vulgar. And then it hit me.

  I checked my text messages. I had three. One of them was from this kid on the team named Darren asking if I’d seen the “hilarious” Instagram photos. Thanks a lot, Darren. One was from Mom, telling me that she’d be home late tonight—she was going to see Tahir after her meeting. The other was from Ollie: Ha ha ha. And he attached a photo he’d taken of Ivan in the locker room, just in his jockstrap. Basketball had ended, and baseball was in early practices. I laughed a little bit and felt a little better. Then I laughed harder. Pretty soon I was curled over on my bed, laughing so hard I was crying.