Here to Stay Page 5

  I hadn’t shown my mother the email. I didn’t have to. By the time she got home from book club, Sean’s mom Jane had called her. I wouldn’t have said anything. When she asked me if I had any problems at school, I said no. It wouldn’t be a good move as a new member of the varsity team to start accusing my teammates. I didn’t tell her about my parking-lot skirmish with Drew either.

  My mom and I weren’t the only ones in Headmaster Clarkson’s office that morning. Ms. Jacobs, the school guidance counselor, was there. Also in attendance: Ms. McCrea and the head of the board of trustees, Mr. Thompson. Yes, Will’s grandfather and traditional mascot advocate Mr. Thompson. It probably goes without saying, but they’re all white.

  “As you know, Dr. Majidi, we at the Granger School have no tolerance for bullying of any kind,” Headmaster Clarkson said. “That is a pact the families who send their children here make with the school upon admission, and we are investigating who is behind this with great urgency.”

  “I should hope so,” my mom said, inching forward in her chair. “The whole point of sending my son here was for him to feel safe. That’s why parents here pay tuition, isn’t it? So our children can excel in a safe and nurturing environment? But you let this happen, Mr. Clarkson?”

  “Unfortunately, we cannot control what students do off campus,” Mr. Clarkson said.

  “No, but you can certainly create a culture where students know this shouldn’t happen,” Mom argued. The room was silent until Mr. Clarkson spoke again.

  “At this time, we have been unable to figure out who emailed the student body the, uh . . . the image,” he continued. The image. Of me smiling like a goof while holding an AK-47. Great. Just great.

  “Whoever sent the photo, according to our IT department, must be using a VPN,” said Ms. Jacobs.

  “What’s that?” my mom asked, but in a gentler tone. Ms. Jacobs seemed to be sincerely upset by what had happened.

  “VPN stands for Virtual Private Network. It’s used to encrypt Internet traffic. Whoever sent that awful picture used a VPN router that hides their IP address. We can’t tell where the email was sent from. The culprit’s email address is not a Granger account and is linked to a Tor site that allows them to remain anonymous.”

  “You’re saying there’s no way of finding who did this?” My mom leaned forward.

  “We aren’t even sure it’s a Granger student or anyone associated with Granger, are we, Jim?” Mr. Thompson asked, directing the question to Headmaster Clarkson. Mr. Thompson’s willful ignorance was impressive.

  “Who else, Mr. Thompson, would want to send that, and why would they send it to the Granger student body?” my mom asked. He opened his mouth to speak. I almost thought he was going to rattle off some conspiracy theory, but Ms. Jacobs bailed him out.

  “Bijan,” Ms. Jacobs began. I liked that she pronounced my name properly. The “Bi” like in honeybee and “jan” like in January. “Is there anyone who has been giving you a hard time lately?” It was the first time that morning anyone in the room had asked me anything.

  Yes, somebody had been giving me a hard time, but it felt like regular team stuff. Once Drew got off me, I had thought more about my ride home in a luxury car and my delicious burrito than I had about what happened in the parking lot. But something had shifted when that image appeared on my screen. Since that moment, I had felt the weight of somebody else’s living, throbbing, unimaginative hatred on my body. It sat like lead in my gut. Acid churned inside me, eating at my stomach. I felt sick, and I kept thinking:

  Somebody hates me.

  “No,” I said, without making eye contact. I wasn’t going to repeat what Will had said the day before—not with his all-powerful grandpa in the room now. I did want to know who sent the photo, though I had an idea it was Drew, but more than that, I wanted the whole thing to be over.

  “We believe the email is linked to the campaign for changing the school’s mascot that your son was participating in,” Ms. McCrea said.

  “Are you suggesting this is his fault?” my mom asked.

  “No, no, not at all,” Ms. McCrea said. I’d never understood how she was the dean of students when she really did not handle conflict well. “It is a theory that that may be why he was targeted.”

  “You think that’s the only reason?” Mom turned her head to address Ms. McCrea. Ms. McCrea’s face instantly went pink. “I understand this may be a new situation for you. But you invited my son here. He applied, he worked very hard, and you invited him to be a part of this institution. How do you plan to make him feel welcome?”

  “Son, can you look at me a moment?” Mr. Clarkson said. Son? My father, in the few photographs we have of him, has warm eyes that look like he knew how to love me and see me. Headmaster Clarkson looked at me like he might be trying to remember a speech he had made long before to some other student whose name he had now forgotten.

  “We are going to find whoever did this. I can promise you that,” Mr. Clarkson said. “This nonsense, this bullying will not stand on our campus. We’re going to do whatever we can to make sure nothing like this ever happens again, to you or to anyone else.

  “I will be addressing the student body at the all-school assembly today,” he continued, turning to Mom. “There will also be a formal letter sent to all the Granger families to convey our dismay at the situation and to remind them of our zero-tolerance policy when it comes to bullying—while keeping Bijan as anonymous as possible, of course.”

  This made my mom laugh. I stared at my lap.

  “Headmaster Clarkson, how on earth could his anonymity stay intact when every student in the school has seen this photograph?” Mom asked.

  At that moment, the bell rang, which meant all the students and faculty would be on their way to the auditorium for the morning assembly. This meeting was finally over.

  “I will be following up,” my mom said to Headmaster Clarkson. “I’m not letting this go.”

  The teachers stood only after my mom did. She and I exited the office together. Students were filing into the auditorium. Their collective chatter sounded louder to me today than it ever had before. Some of them noticed me and whispered to each other as they walked by. Didn’t they realize that I could see them? That I knew they were talking about me?

  My mom turned my cheek with her hand so that I would look down at her.

  “You keep your head up today,” she said in Farsi. I nodded. I understand Farsi but don’t really speak it, even at home. My mom and I mostly communicate in English, but when she’s upset or excited, or wants a little privacy, the Farsi comes through. “Remember what I’ve told you: if you let people walk over you once, expect to be trampled the next time. Okay?”

  “I’ll be okay,” I muttered. I knew she was holding back on her impulse to hug me in front of everyone. She had been an American teenager once too.

  “You text me if you need anything,” she said in English. “We’ll figure this all out when you get home.” She turned around and walked down the hallway toward the exit. Students parted for her and then looked back at me. Yeah, that was my mom, and yeah, we’d been in the headmaster’s office because of that photo. I stared at them until they kept walking.

  Mr. Thompson was still talking to Headmaster Clarkson as they exited. They stopped when they saw me. Mr. Thompson gave me a quick nod like I was a problem for them to solve and be done with.

  I joined the rest of the students shuffling into the auditorium and found my alphabetically assigned seat in the junior section. Sean was already in the seat next to mine. He’d kicked out my usual neighbor, James Lowell.

  “Oh, hey! Weird bumping into you here,” Sean said.

  “Yep. Crazy coincidence.”

  “Anything happen last night?” Sean asked.

  I played along. “Pretty uneventful.”

  “Do you want to ditch school today? I bet they’ll let us.�
� Sean flipped the bird to some sophomores gawking from their seats.

  “Are you saying that as a supportive friend or because you’re not ready for a test?”

  “Can’t it be both?” The auditorium was loud with conversations that I’m sure had everything to do with the email, but the people around me were quiet. Stephanie stood up in the front row and looked at me like I was some almost-extinct breed of tiger in a save-the-wildlife commercial. I could practically hear sad music playing in the background. I hated that. I didn’t want to be pitied. I pretended I didn’t see her.

  “I got into it with Drew yesterday,” I murmured to Sean.

  “Did he come at you? I hope you got a punch in. He’s first on my list.”

  “Huh?”

  Sean pulled out a chart with caricatures he had drawn of every member of the varsity and JV basketball teams. He had also drawn Marcy, a cafeteria lady who usually looked at all of us like we were spoiled brats. Everyone had a thought bubble with a reason they might hate my guts. Some of the JV players were jealous that I’d made varsity before them. Kevin Donaldson, who was MIA from school because of his knee surgery, was on the chart with his leg in a cast. Drew’s brow was furrowed in anger, and his cheeks were red. His thought bubble read, “I’m a douche. Reason enough.”

  “These are the suspects so far,” Sean explained. “I didn’t get to teachers, but they’re next.” The second bell rang. It was time to shut up and listen to morning announcements.

  Headmaster Clarkson got onstage and stared down the student body until the auditorium grew disconcertingly silent. I suddenly felt like a suspect myself; Mr. Clarkson was looking at us like we were criminals. “I’ve been privileged to be an educator here for over two decades,” he began in a booming voice. He never needed a microphone in this space. “In those twenty-plus years,” he went on, “I’ve tried to express the values of our fair school to students and visitors. Values like integrity, community, honor, and service. I wonder if in all that time, in all the speeches, despite providing a space for students to achieve exemplary feats . . . I wonder if this year all of that has fallen on deaf ears.”

  “Looks like class is about to be in session, Kevin.”

  “Bring on the pain! Mad Dog Clarkson is ready to bite!”

  “The email that was sent out last night was cruel and cheap, and could be considered criminal if reported to the authorities,” Headmaster Clarkson continued. “It was an act of hate. Whoever participated in creating it wanted to touch everyone on this campus, and whoever created that piece of filth wanted to make sure that all of us felt it. Because hate doesn’t just touch the intended target, it spreads to every person who witnesses it.”

  In front of me, I could see Stephanie nodding along as he spoke. The kid next to me, Charlie Martin, had the best seat in the house. He was so rigid, if I nudged him he’d shriek. He and I had history class together and exchanged pleasantries sometimes, but he couldn’t even look at me this morning.

  I got what Mr. Clarkson was saying, but it was kind of absurd at the same time. There was only one person in that photograph, and everyone in that auditorium knew it.

  “We don’t do this here!” Headmaster Clarkson shouted. “This is not who we are. This has never been who we are. This is not the Granger way.” The guy sure had a lot of bulging veins in his neck. “I am not sure if we at Granger have taught you anything about respect for yourselves or for one another, but I can tell you this: whoever has decided they wanted to make this sick joke a part of the Granger legacy is going to be deeply disappointed and does not understand the severity of the punishment to come. I can assure you that the school will investigate this until the perpetrator or perpetrators are caught.”

  I looked over at the senior section. Will was chewing gum with his mouth open. Marcus was sitting forward in his seat with his hand covering his mouth. Todd was wide-eyed, bouncing his right leg up and down.

  I could feel someone staring at me from behind. I turned a little, and sure enough, lots of students were paying attention to me instead of Mr. Clarkson. Noah averted his gaze when I stared at him.

  Drew wasn’t looking at me. He was staring at the back of the seat in front of him, not daring to look at the stage. His face was drained of color, except for the dark circles under his eyes.

  He looked terrified.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After the assembly, I tried my best to join the crowds unnoticed, but that was impossible. The wide hallway was jammed with students. I could hear people talking about me everywhere, though they would stop speaking altogether when I walked by.

  Sean stuck by my side like a five-foot-eight Secret Service agent. “Mom told me I’m driving you home after your practice today,” he said as I tried to avoid eye contact with people.

  “Huh? How come?”

  “My moms are going to be at your place after work.” Both of Sean’s moms were friendly with my mom, but they weren’t exactly close. “Come by the library after you’re done at practice. Are you sure you don’t want to ditch? I have Mom’s car today; we could go to Newbury Comics.”

  It wasn’t a bad idea. I didn’t know how I was going to concentrate on much of anything with everyone looking at me like I was Dennis Rodman on my way to North Korea.

  I stopped in front of my locker. “I think it’s better to stick around. Let the jerk who sent that crap know I’m not going anywhere.”

  Elle Powell, girl of my dreams, came up to us, her backpack hoisted over one shoulder. “Hi, Bijan,” she said.

  “I am he. Yes. Hi.”

  “He is really struggling here. We have never seen him choke this badly in all of our commentating from his head!”

  “I mean, hi. Hi, Elle.” I closed my locker and leaned my arm on it to look casual. Sean sucked in his lips so as not to break out in hysterics.

  A tiny smirk had formed on Elle’s gorgeous face. Her hair was up in a bun and she wore pale purple lipstick. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m not sure,” I answered her honestly.

  “That’s the best he can come up with, Kevin? Come on, man!”

  “This would probably be a good time to hear a word from our sponsors.”

  “My friend here is trying to say he’s really happy to see you,” Sean cut in. “Can I trust you with him while I get to class?”

  “I’m headed in his direction,” Elle said.

  “Excellent! Please excuse his monosyllabic responses. It only means he cares.” With that, Sean slapped me on the back and left me to fend for myself.

  “You sure you want to be around me today?” I asked her, doing my best to sound like a normal person as we walked side by side.

  “I’m used to attention,” she said kindly. “The way you played on Friday, I think crowds may be in your near future. Just be careful whom you decide to keep around you.”

  “You think I have what it takes to be a part of the in-crowd?” I said it like I was joking, but I really wanted to know what she thought of me.

  “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Particularly if you don’t exactly blend in the way they would like you to.”

  Some of the varsity ice hockey dudes walked by and scowled at me. I bit the inside of my cheek and held on to my backpack strap a little tighter. I could add them to Sean’s chart.

  “Anyway,” Elle continued, “I wanted to tell you it was really messed up. The email.” Right. She felt bad for me. Pity’s not sexy. “I know we don’t talk that often . . .”

  “Oh my goodness, is he blushing? I think he’s blushing!”

  “She seems to be okay with it, Reggie!”

  “What I’m trying to say is”—Elle leaned her shoulder in my direction—“if you want to talk about it, or not talk about it but have someone around to talk or not talk with you, that’d be okay with me.”

  I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to know everythi
ng about her and desperately wanted her to know everything about me. I wanted to know what her favorite song of all time was, and if she could travel anywhere in the world where would she want to go and could I go with her? I wanted her to know me better than anyone. I should have said that. Instead, all I got out was “Thanks.”

  We stopped outside our English classroom. The students filing in looked at us as they walked by. They were probably still thinking of the email. Yeah, take a long look, creeps.

  “I think I should have ditched school for the comics shop with Sean today,” I said.

  “But it’s not even new comic Wednesday,” Elle said. “You can close your mouth. Yes, women read comics. We even make them. Jeez.”

  I didn’t realize my jaw had dropped.

  “No, I know that. I didn’t think you read comics, though. I mean, your reading selections are always so literary,” I said.

  “Comics and graphic novels can be literary too. But now it’s time to discuss The Scarlet Letter,” Elle said, tilting her head to our class.

  “That Dimmesdale has a lot of nerve,” I replied.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah! I mean, he knows what he did. He knows.” I widened my eyes for comical effect. “Besides, I only pay attention when you read your stuff, anyway.”

  “That was smooth!”

  “They even exchanged multiple sentences, Reggie.”

  “Is she blushing this time, Kevin?”

  “Oh my goodness, she is!”

  “Cute. That’s cute,” she said with a shy grin before she walked into class.

  “Do you believe in miracles?”

  “Wrong sport, Kevin.”

  ***

  The bell rang, signaling the end of a long day of classes. I still had practice, but I was keener to run around and deal with stress that way than I’d been to have well-meaning teachers not know what to say in my presence. Most of my teachers had continued with their lesson plans, not addressing the day’s weirdness.