“That’s rude.” I frowned. “Why are they doing that?”
“It started ever since we went to Iran.”
“Oh.”
After our trip to Iran, I had to deal with my fair share of ostracism and rumor mongering. (Trent Bolger even tried to start a rumor that I had joined ISIS.) But I hated that it was happening to my sister.
No matter how old you are, it’s never good to remind your classmates that you’re different.
Otherwise you run the risk of becoming a Target.
I got Laleh cleaned up as best I could, gave her a kiss on her head, and helped her into Mom’s car.
Mom came out, her hair in a messy bun—she’d been wearing it in a bun a lot lately, instead of down and styled like she used to—and gave me a quick hug.
“Thank you for calming your sister down,” she said. “I think she’s tired. She’s always up too late, reading her books.”
“It’s not that,” I said. “Her classmates are being racist.”
Mom shook her head. “They’re third graders.”
“Still.”
Mom kissed me on the cheek. “I know you’re just looking out for her. Don’t worry, we’ll talk tonight. Love you.”
I watched Mom and Laleh drive away. Once the car disappeared around the corner, I pulled my bike off the rack and headed to school.
It was drizzling, the sort of fall drizzle that smells like the inside of a freezer, and I pulled my hood over my helmet. About a mile from Chapel Hill High School, I saw Chip pedaling ahead of me, and sped up to catch him. Beneath his helmet, his hair was pasted to his forehead, but he still tossed a grin my way.
I never knew anyone that grinned as much as Cyprian Cusumano.
“Hey, Darius.”
“Hey.”
“Good weekend?”
“Okay. You?”
Chip shrugged.
“Not bad.”
“Cool.”
Chip grinned at me again and then faced forward as we hit The Big Hill.
I downshifted and fell behind him so we could stay closer to the sidewalk, because there were few things in life more terrifying than being on a bike on the road to Chapel Hill High School when a senior was running late for first block.
Chip’s shirt rode up his back as he pedaled. He had these little dimples in his lower back.
I swallowed and kept my eyes on the road.
“See you at practice?” he asked as we locked our bikes up.
“Yeah. See you.”
Coach Winfield must’ve liked torturing Chapel Hill High School’s Student Athletes. That’s the only explanation I could come up with for why he had us doing an hour of wind sprints.
