Page 23 of Down and Dirty

Zach headed off then for home and the madness that had become his life.

Children are a gift? Says who?…

Samir lay in his bed, eyes scrunched shut, arms arranged at his sides, like a corpse, pretending to take a nap. It was a trick his cousin Taj had taught him one time, ’cept they had been pretending to be dead in case the Evil Americans attacked.

He still could not get used to the idea that he was part American. Did that mean he was evil, too?

Maybe, praise Allah, my father will forget some of the things I did today if I “sleep” long enough.

Despite his protests, he knew Zach was his father. Even before he’d been shown photographs by Grandmother Floyd — or Nana as she’d told him to call her — he’d known the truth. His Grandfather Arsallah had slapped him every time Samir reminded him that he was half-American, whether it be the color of his eyes, or a slip into the English language, or mention of his mother, whose name was not allowed to be spoken. Because of the way his grandfather treated him, his uncles and cousins felt free to treat him just as badly, or worse.

A bastard, that’s what I am. Don’t matter what my father says ’bout me bein’ his son. I’m just a dirty little bastard. I don’t care if no one likes me. I don’t care if my father likes me.

Sometimes he wondered why his grandfather wanted him back so bad. He’d never acted like he cared when Samir had been there.

And his father would be giving him up soon. Samir knew better than to get too close. He knew he was on his own. He had been for a long time, even when his mother had been alive. She’d said she loved him, but most times she paid more attention to her fighting pals than she did to him. She died on his birthday.

“Sammy.”

It was his father opening the bedroom door. Samir shut his eyes tighter and braced himself for the slap or punch that was sure to come. Or even worse, a whip. Oh, he hoped it wouldn’t be a whip.

The mattress shifted as his father sat down on the bed. “You’ve had quite a day today, haven’t you, kiddo?”

Samir was confused. Why wasn’t his father yelling? Why was his voice so soft? A trick… it was probably a trick. I am not going to talk. If he thinks I am asleep, he will go away. I hope.

“Why do you do all these snotty things?”

Because I like to?

“Do you want me to think you’re bad?”

I am bad, bonehead. Didja forget I’m half-American?

“I’m thinking about taking you to a psychiatrist. That’s a… uh, head doctor.”

Oh, no, you don’t. No one’s cuttin’ up my head.

“There’s got to be some reason why you’re acting out like this. I can’t believe you would want to go back to your grandfather.”

Where else would I go?

“As far as I can tell, you weren’t treated very well in his camps.”

What do you know, Mr. Pretty Boy? Where were you when my mother died? Where were you when my grandfather’s men killed my nanny and dragged me into the desert?

“You do know that your mother wanted you to come live with me, don’t you?”

Why is he talking? Why isn’t he hitting me? That’s what everyone does when I do something bad. Even when I don’t do anything bad.

“Are you testing me? Trying to see how far you can push me before I explode? Ah, I can see by the flickering of your eyelashes that I’m getting close. Do you want me to explode? Then you can blame it all on me?”

Explode? My father exploding? Yeech, I don’t want any guts on me. What’s that name for what happens when a body explodes? Oh, yeah. Pink mist. That’s just what it looks like, too.

“I’m running out of people to take care of you when I’m at work. I don’t want to send you away, but I’ll have to if you don’t shape up.”

See. Only two weeks and he’s ready to send me away.

He heard his father sigh heavily before saying, “I’m hungry. I’m thinking pizza, Pepsi, and a video game before bed. But you’re probably too tired to get up. Maybe I’ll save you a cold piece for breakfast. Unless you would prefer more spinach salad.”