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Pull yourself together. Get dressed. Go home. She was thinking in Albanian. How long had it been since she'd done that? She thought in Albanian only when speaking to Mama and Baba. Never in school. She smiled grimly, then—carefully, methodically—dried herself and put on her street clothes. Next she gathered up her practice uniform, her freshly laundered game uniform, her shin guards, and her mouth guard and took them all through the swinging door to the coach's office. She carefully folded her practice uniform into a square and laid everything down on the desk in a neat stack. With a sheet of pa-per torn from her notebook she scribbled a short note for Mrs. Rogers and laid it on top of the pile.
Then she walked out the school door into the crisp autumn air. Mehmet was waiting for her, as he used to back in Kosovo. She could see that someone had bloodied his nose. He had tried to wash it away, but there were still traces of blood around his nostrils. She did not have the strength to ask him why. They walked home in silence.
Mama and Baba were both home. There was no work for them that day. "What happened?" Mama asked, looking back and forth from Meli's face to Mehmet's.
"I'm going home," Mehmet said.
Baba turned off the TV and got up. "What is going on?"
"I am going home," Mehmet said again. "I hate America."
Baba put his arm around Mehmet's shoulder. "You must tell me what happened, Mehmet."
Mehmet looked at the floor. "They were all swearing against the terrorists. Then they said all Muslims are terrorists, and Americans must kill them all before they destroy America. And then..." Meli could see how close to tears he was in his anger. "And then I said, 'I am Muslim. Will you kill me?' So"—he blew out his breath—"so they tried." He wiped his nose on the back of his hand, making it bleed again. "I am never going back to that school. They think I am like those terrorists. They hate me." He looked up defiantly
into Baba's face. "Well, I hate them. We are even."
"And you, Meli?" Mama asked quietly.
She didn't want to cry. Somehow, if she did, Brittany would win. "I quit the team," she said.
"What?" Baba had turned from Mehmet and was now looking at her. "What did you say, Meli?"
"I quit."
"Oh, no," Baba said. "No quitting. You must go back. Both of you must go back to school. Go back to the team." He took his handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped the blood from Mehmet's face. "Don't you see, son? If you don't go back, the terrorists will win. You can't let them win. You have to go back."
"Never," said Mehmet. He tossed his head and broke free from Baba's grip, as though he were a wild animal intent on escaping a trap. "Never. I am going home."
"This is your home," Baba said.
Mehmet glared at him, his eyes flashing.
"Your home is here with your family." Baba's voice was quiet but strong like steel.
Meli held her breath. It was as though she were watching a duel. If Baba lost...
It was Mehmet who dropped his gaze, turned on his heel, and went to the boys' bedroom. The door didn't quite slam behind him. Meli let out a long breath. Baba and Mama looked at each other; then without a word, Baba went back and sank into his chair.
"Come, Meli," Mama said. "Let's make your baba some coffee."
SIXTEEN Country of the Heart
MEHMET DIDN'T COME OUT OF HIS ROOM FOR DINNER. The rest of them ate in silence, glancing every now in the direction of his closed door. "Shall I?" Mama said once.
Baba shook his head.
Meli wanted to go to her brother. Didn't she herself know what he had gone through that day at school? The stares. The whispers. No one had beaten her physically, but they had done enough. Hadn't that scene in the locker room hurt as much as punches to her body? She thought of Rachel, shamefaced but doing what Brittany ordered her to. Zana would never have betrayed her. Friends didn't do that. The bite Meli was trying to swallow lodged in her throat.
"I'm not hungry," she said finally. "I think I'll go—"
"No, Meli," Baba said quietly. "Don't leave us. We have to hold on to each other."
Suddenly, she was back in Kosovo during those terrible times. Yes, they must hold on to each other. War, like a tiger prowling in the shadows, had followed their scent, and now it had them in its sight and was ready to pounce. Their only protection was to stay together. Mehmet had to understand that. How could she make him understand?
She knew he couldn't carry out his threat to return to Kosovo. Even at sixteen he was still a boy. He didn't have money for airfare, or any idea of how to get the proper papers. But his fury frightened her all the same. He had been so much better lately; sometimes he was nearly the old Mehmet, the one she had known before the day he'd disappeared, the day of the pelican. Now it felt as though she had lost her brother all over again. Don't you see, Mehmet? It's like Baba always said. We have to hold on to each other!
Did those bullies know the damage they had done to someone who was just beginning to heal? Did they care? It was bad enough to feel alone, as Meli did, deserted by the only person she had dared to think of as a friend, but to have such hatred? And yet, and yet, she herself had tasted that corrosive poison. That very afternoon, looking into Brittany's face, she had seen the hated Serbs. Baba was right. Hate made no sense. They must not let it eat away at their souls. They would become like the very ones they hated. She wanted to bang on Mehmet's door and scream at him, Don't let them do this to you! Don't do it to yourself! But she just sat there, staring at her plate.
