Fake Me To Church

Chapter 6.1 - The Pen is Blightier Than the Sword

- AHMED -

Tuesday morning, fifteen minutes before the start of homeroom, a man in a blue-and-black polo shirt stood outside EdgeWay speaking to two of the policemen still patrolling the area. The man held up a thin white ID card, and one of the cops examined it for a few moments before letting him inside.

As the man carried a massive cart inside the building, I heard Irina walk up behind me next to my locker.

"Hey. How's it going?"

She did her best to smile as I turned to her, shrugging.

"I brought you coffee," she said lowly, raising a tall paper cup. "I figured if you've gotten as much sleep as I have these past few days, you could use it."

I half-smiled. "Sounds about right." I took the coffee and sipped, warming the base of my tongue. "Thanks. It's really good."

She nodded.

I turned back to the EdgeWay's entrance, where the man from earlier had left his first cart and stacked more on top of it.

"Hey, Irina?" I asked. "Who's that guy?"

"Oh, that's Mr. Chester," she said. "He drops off the paper every Tuesday and Thursday." She paused. "Well, he drops off the 'paper.'" She scrunched her fingers into air quotes and gave a sly look.

I paused. "Why do you say it like that?"

"Oh, come on," Irina giggled. "It's the The EdgeWay Press, not USA Today. That paper's mostly just garbage anyway."

My eyes widened. "Wait, The EdgeWay Press? Isn't that the one Madam Caroline writes for?"

"Well, yeah, but—"

I turned my back to her instantly and burst into a sprint, speeding down the hallway to meet Mr. Chester and ask for a copy of the paper.

"How much are they?" My words came out more like an order than a question.

"They're complimentary," Mr. Chester replied. "All students get a free copy." He reached inside the top cart and pulled out a paper to give to me. "Here you go, kid."

I nodded my thanks, then hurried back up the hall to where Irina was. Opening it in front of her, I frantically flipped open the pages, eyes darting across xeroxed photos and the black print that framed them. I skimmed the sea of words, the multitude of names, in search of my own.

As I folded over the third crinkling sheet, Irina gasped from beside me. "Oh, my gosh!" she shrieked, pointing to the article at the bottom of the fourth page, one titled 'Terror in Paradise.'

A picture of me sinking a layup at the first basketball game was cropped collage-style and placed side-by-side with a photo taken of me months earlier at the adoption agency.

"No!" I raged, my voice rising. "No, no, no! This isn't...she can't do this!" I didn't even bother reading the words. I hurled the paper to the floor and stomped it underfoot, crunching it angrily with my tennis shoes.

"Ahmed," Irina tried, "Hey, calm down." She placed her hand on my arm.

"Well, well, well. Would you look at that?"

Irina and I whirled simultaneously to face Steven, who stood sneeringly behind us with his very own copy of The EdgeWay Press tucked crookedly under his arm.

"If it isn't the Jihad and the Ji-whore." He unruffled the paper and spread it wide, chuckling as he did. "You know, I'm gonna have to thank Madam Caroline myself. I must say, this is one fine piece of work."