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

does.
    When was the last time he said it?
    He doesn’t have to say it.
    Then when was the last time you felt it? This father–sontrip was your Mom’s idea—not his—and you know it. You embarrass him. You break his rules. You laugh at him. Spy on him. What kind of son are you? No wonder he hates you.
    Â 
    After supper, we leave for the movie.
    The multiplex is packed. Our show has three crappy seats together up front, but there’s two decent seats by the aisle. I tell Andy and Marty to take them. “Stiltz needs the legroom,” I wink at Marty, and sit a few rows back.
    No sooner am I by myself than I get major second thoughts about calling the third number. Who knows what I’m getting into? I should forget it, forget it, forget it. But the more I try to forget it, the more it’s an itch I can’t scratch.
    The phones are near the concession stand. I tell the guys I’m going for popcorn, and take their orders so they’ll stay in their seats. I don’t want them to see me calling. They’d wonder what I was doing, why I wasn’t using my cell.
    As I leave the theater, I raise my hoodie. How weird is that? I mean, who’s going to know or care that I’m making a phone call? But it’s like I’ve got this neon sign flashing over my head: TRAITOR SON!
    The phones are spaced around a column near the washrooms. I make a wide arc and pick one on the far side, away from the surveillance cameras over the concession’s cash registers. Is this what happens to spies—they go paranoid?
    I know this number by heart, but I take it out of my pocket and stare at it anyway.
    I dial. The phone asks for money. Good thing I thought ahead and packed my coin jar in my knapsack. I drop in a ridiculous amount of quarters.
    The phone rings. My temples burn. My hands shake. Any second, I may be hearing the voice of my Dad’s girlfriend. What’ll I say if she answers?
    I panic. Hang up. The change fills the return cup. I scoop it out. A couple of coins fall to the floor. I pick them up and calm myself.
    If the woman answers, I’ll ask to speak to Dr. Sabiri. If there’s a problem, like a jealous husband, I’ll say, “Sorry, wrong number.” If she calls Dad to the phone, I’ll hang up.
    I redial. Drop the change. Hear a ring. Someone lifts the receiver. I hang up.
    What kind of baby am I?
    I better wait a few minutes before calling again. If anyone answers now, they’ll be pissed at the false rings.I arc back into the corner shadows and join the crowd at the popcorn lines.
    I bring Andy and Marty their drinks and munchies as the trailers start.
    â€œI’m going to the can,” I whisper—as if they care—and run back to the lobby. There’s a man at the phones. He doesn’t leave. I’ll try later.
    I slip out twice more, but there’s always somebody hanging around. When our movie ends, the halls and lobby are too packed to do anything but flood out with the flow.
    Â 
    Next morning, Sunday, Mom drives us to Rochester for a charity thing at the mosque. While Mom’s having refreshments in the basement with the rest of the congregation, I slip upstairs to the greeting area. It’s empty. I go to the phones to the right of the men’s entrance. I dial. Drop in the change. Grip the phone panel so I won’t chicken out.
    After two rings, a woman’s voice, perky, twenty-something: “There’s nobody here. You know what to do.” Beep.
    I hang up. Go to the washroom. Douse my face in ice-cold water.
    The voice in my head won’t stop. You know what to do. It gets louder and louder, a loop in my brain: You know what to do. You know what to do.
    The thing is, I don’t.

Thirteen
    I bike to school Monday morning. Friday seems like years ago, but not to Eddy Duh Turd. He and five of his football buddies are waiting outside the Academy gates; two in his BMW, the others in his pal Mark