Age:
Reading Level: 3.3
Chapter 1: Osama Bin Very Likely Laden
The curly-haired boy wears a white thobe like the terrorists on TV. His grey plaid uniform isn't ready.
The traditional ankle-length robe draws all eyes to him. His name is as pronounced as his nose. It shoots out of his face. Like a bullet.
Osama.
How can I relax when a freshman named Osama stands in front of the class? Heaven knows what is in his black backpack.
Can he be any more suspicious?
"You can sit beside Karen. The blonde girl with green eyes to your left. She's the class president," Mr. Singh, our English teacher, says.
I mentally laser Mr. Singh's red turban off his head. As the brown-skinned boy comes closer, I scoot to the edge of my seat.
"Karen, please show Osama around our school later." Mr. Singh forms praying hands with glued palms.
He's got to be joking.
Oh well. This gives me a chance to dig into the newcomer.
"Hello, Karen." Osama smiles widely.
He wants me to think he's a sweet, little, innocent boy.
Not on my watch.
I, Karen Ryce, will protect Breakwater High from this guy.
Chapter 2: Marking His Territory
By lunchtime, Osama has managed to charm people. Mostly teachers. They all gushed about how great he is at Algebra, History, and English.
English is my turf. Yet he tried to mark it as his territory.
"Yes, Mr. Singh. I like Hamlet. More so The Tempest."
Ugh!
I also saw him praying in our PE teacher's office. He had a mat with a mosque sewn on it. He kept bending up and down, saying Arabic words.
Ms. Martha just sat at her desk, writing notes. She never swung her black bob in his direction. As if nothing was happening!
I ask Mr. Singh why the Palestinian boy is doing Islamic things during school hours.
"He's Palestinian-Nigerian, Karen," he says. "I know how tolerant you are. You two will surely get along in no time."
Mr. Singh means I must play nice. As if I asked for the boy to be booted out.
Osama Bin very likely Laden. I'm on to you.
Chapter 3: Knock, Knock
At home, Mom stands under a frame of dad in his decorated military uniform.
A golden oak leaf twinkles on his jacket. His gentle green eyes spread warmth through the glass. It's as if he's trying to comfort Mom while she digests the news about Osama.
"I would never forgive myself if I let one of them hurt you too. Why would Breakwater High allow something so reckless?"
Mom wipes her face with her aqua apron. It stains her blonde hair with flour. She rushed upstairs from her shop below, The Blissful Bakery, when she got my text about him.
The doorbell dings.
You wouldn't believe it.
Osama's here. So is a taller version of him.
The man's face is almost buried under a beard. He's wearing a white thobe. A black and white scarf held by a black band sits on his head.
Beside them is a dark-skinned woman. She's in a flowing, ocean-blue boubou dress. Her face is wrapped in a matching pashmina scarf.
They're all smiling widely.