Read Online Borderline by Allan Stratton - Free Book Online Page A

behind me. I tiptoe to his desk. There’s carpets on the floor, but every step’s an earthquake. My heart beats so loud, I swear I’ll go deaf.
    I memorize how Dad’s chair is placed, so I can put it back just right. I sit. To the left of his computer there’s a small photo of him and me. It’s under glass in a metal frame. I’m maybe six, seated on his lap. My head is tilted against his cheek. I’m tickling myself with his beard. We’re laughing. That picture might as well be from another world.
    I touch Dad’s keypad. The screen lights up.
    I click Documents, and open the folder marked Fall/Winter Conferences. Inside there’s three PDFs: Toronto, September 19–22. Dallas, December 10–14. Washington, February 2 –6.
    I open the Toronto PDF, check the table of contents, scroll to the Hotels page. Near the top: “Hyatt Regency,370 King Street West. Phone: 416-343-1234.” Great. One of the three numbers. I’ll bet he called to make sure his room was No Smoking.
    I go to the Organizers page and spot the second number. It belongs to the Chair of the Events Committee.
    There’s only one number unaccounted for. Maybe it belongs to a workshop leader? I get their names from the Agenda pages and look them up on the Contact list. Nope.
    No big deal. Maybe Dad planned a private get-together with a colleague? I check his e-calendar. Sure enough, he’s logged a few meetings with male professors and research types. Each lists a cell. None matches my third number.
    So what? I think. It means nothing. And that’s when I notice something funny about the Sunday agenda. I double-check Dad’s e-calendar against the official program. Same problem in both places: At 6:00 P.M. Sunday, there’s cocktails and dinner at The Restaurant at the CN Tower. The special guest speaker is Dr. Augustus Brandt.
    Augustus Brandt. Auggie. The speaker Dad supposedly had to replace on Saturday —tonight—the night we were supposed to be seeing the Jays. But Brandt’s speech isn’t tonight. It’s on Sunday. Tomorrow!
    I look at Dad’s itinerary for tonight: “Blue Jays” on his calendar; “Evening Free” on the official program. I can’t breathe.
    Dad totally lied.
    Why?

Twelve
    A fter the swim, Andy and Marty come over for supper. Mom likes my friends, but she has a special soft spot for Marty. She was a chubby kid too, and knows all about the teasing.
    What with Andy being a motormouth, Mom doesn’t even think to ask for our Events of the Day. In no time, she’s laughing so hard at his stories, she’s practically gasping. Me, I don’t hear any of it. It’s like my mind is underwater. I struggle to break the surface, but that third phone number drags me down like a bag of cement.
    It’s nothing, I tell myself, nothing. When Dad fled from Iran, his grandma found a way to smuggle him to Canada. He was a teenager in Montreal, where he met Mom. Theyonly emigrated here when he got his scholarship to NYU. So, hey, maybe Dad called an old friend who’s in Toronto now. Maybe they could only get together Saturday night.
    The snake stirs. A friend is more important than a man’s son?
    No, but Dad doesn’t get to see his Canadian friends much. Me, he can take on a trip anytime.
    So why didn’t he say that? Besides, why wouldn’t he want his friends to meet his son?
    Maybe he would. But friends talk about the past. He might’ve thought I’d be bored.
    He could have asked you. He didn’t. Why? And why wouldn’t he let your mom come either? She’d know his friends from the old days too. And by the way, why is the Jays game still in his calendar?
    Who knows? Maybe he asked his friend to come to the game with us, then found he couldn’t get an extra ticket. He had to save face.
    By shafting you? Come on, Sami. Either your dad’s having an affair, or he doesn’t love you.
    He