A Test of Loyalty

Part 3: Faraj

I couldn't believe those stupid girls. Standing around the porch stairs like they were the only ones who needed to use them. It was bad enough to see them smoking and drinking in public, like common whores, but then to force me to talk to them, by standing right in my way...

Wait a minute, who was the girl who'd been in my way? I didn't remember seeing her before. But it didn't matter, she was drinking beer. The Mullah had been very clear about such things.

Your body was sacred; you don't destroy it with alcohol or stimulants. And decent women were modest, and polite. They didn't curse and wear short tops, showing off their bellies, or pierce themselves to wear jewellery.

But it was a bit confusing, I couldn't stop myself from staring at them, it made me feel guilty, but the older boys said that was the girls' fault that I felt that way, not mine.

Opening my backpack, I pulled out the books I'd picked up at Fadi's. They were essays on true Islam, and the holy war on the West. My grandmother would be upset if she saw them, and my uncle would take me to the Mosque for another day-long lecture on compromise.

Why didn't they understand that I don't want to compromise? I don't want to be moderate and tolerant and make allowances for everything. I was angry and hurting and wanted someone to pay for it. I wanted to be strong like my mother. I don't even remember my father, so why did it matter what he'd believed.

But I remembered the day my mom died. I was only seven, but she'd explained everything, just as if I were already a man.

When I was just a baby, the Shi'tes in the south rebelled against Saddam Hussain. The U.S. had promised support and then bailed when the war started. Our people were rounded up, tortured and executed, thousands of them. Including my father. She never forgave the west for that.

She died fighting them.

I slid the books between my mattress and box spring. Fadi said he had a way to fix things. To make everything balance out. I just had to trust him. And read the books he'd lent me.

Samantha

Monday, just over a week before school. I had no idea where any of my school stuff was, and Mom had just thrown a fit and declared that half of the stuff in the house had to be thrown out or be given to charity. And, as usual when Mom got into these moods, she wanted it done today!! And since I had no idea what was in each box, that gave my Mom the excuse to randomly choose boxes and suggest that they either be thrown out or saved. I think she does it deliberately.

"You know you don't need fourteen boxes, Samantha. It's a small room, just throw out some of this..." She paused in the way mothers do when they are deciding what word would hurt best. "...crap." It worked.

""It's not crap, Mom! It's memories!" I tried not to yell but the tears were already starting to show. "Don't you get it? This is all I have now."

"And what about us?" she asked in that hurt way mothers use.

"What about you? You're the ones who got me into this." I thought for a second I'd gone too far as now Mom started to get mad. She didn't want to live like this either but unlike me; she reined herself in, and continued in a frighteningly calm and patient voice.

"I don't care how you do it, open them up and search through them, or just arbitrarily throw them out, but I want at least ten boxes piled by the front door by supper." Then she was gone.

"This is so unfair!" I yelled back as she disappeared. But I was getting used to unfair. I looked around and then made a quick calculation. There were fourteen boxes and only seven hours until supper. If I didn't stop for lunch, I'd have a half an hour per box. Not nearly enough time but at least it was something.

I slammed the door shut making sure the whole building heard me, but there wasn't any reaction from Mom. As far as she was concerned, she had laid down the law and I just had to obey.

I started pulling boxes onto my bed, one at a time, to go through them. The first held my old yearbooks, report cards and certificates from Montessori Academy. I'd received awards for my English and French marks three years running. I had to keep those; they were special. Okay, they proved I was special. And my yearbooks were my only link to my real friends, I ignored that small voice that said I'd given them my new phone number and none of them had called me back. After all, it had only been a few days, and school starts next week. They're probably busy.

"One box down and nothing thrown out," I thought. This was going to be harder than I thought.

The next box had my old stuffed toys from when I was baby. I smiled as I pulled out my favourite, an old blue Grumpy Bear, a frown permanently stitched to his face. I totally agreed with his mood, so he went onto my pillow. My Princess Barbie collection was probably worth money now; it had to stay. A popular baby doll that cried when laid on her back. She was definitely my favourite back then. Back then. I stopped and looked in the box realizing that at some point in my life, everything in this box was a favourite. Why would I have kept them if they weren't? Box number two found its way into my closet.

Box three: books. The smell of the paper was instantly thrilling. These books were what kept me alive. The Ghost of Colby Drive, definitely a keeper, it gave me the chills every time I read it. And its sequel, The Curse of the Moonless Knight. The Cecil Castellucci series alone kept me from going insane from mom's stupid rules. She had a way of making you see the humour in the most frustrating parts of being a teen. Especially in Boy Proof. But now, all read and mostly abused, they were no longer a part of me. Besides, unlike my yearbooks or dolls, these could be donated. Maybe some kid in a school or hospital might find a friend in them the same way I did.

I dumped the box on the floor just outside my room making sure Mom heard it. I added a loud, "One!" to make the point perfectly clear.

"I said ten!" was all I heard back. Bitch.

Winter clothes greeted me in box four. This was an easy keeper. Or so I thought as boxes five and six were also packed to the brim with down, fleece and wool clothes meant for the harsh winters of Canada. They had to be kept. But the math said otherwise. I was already at six boxes kept and I had only eight more to go. Then it hit me. Mom said she wanted ten boxes piled by the door by suppertime. She never said they had to be full. Maybe she just wanted the cardboard boxes gone. I could have easily found out by asking but figured that if I was wrong, then I'd be back where I started. Better to err on the side of clutter, I thought.

By lunch I was starting to worry. My room was fuller than I'd ever seen, and I still had more boxes to look through. There was just no way that I could do what she wanted, even if I threw out ten empty boxes. No matter how I looked at my room, nothing was going to change what I'd been dreading all along. We were here to stay and the life I had was gone.

I threw the half empty box at the wall, raining jewellery and souvenirs onto the ratty carpet. God, I hated this place! I hated my parents for doing this to me. I wanted everything back the way it was, and if I couldn't have that, I didn't want anything.

I knew I sounded like a spoilt brat, and hated myself for it, but not enough to behave differently.

Maybe this was the universe's way of telling me to wake up and smell the coffee.

I hated coffee.