Trying To Heal

Chapter Fifty-Three

Derek

I leave the school building, and my security is parked on the sidewalk.

Kozlov stagnates at the sight of Tareq. "The fuck happened?" he gritted in Russian.

"Bullies," I reply on the tongue.

Men opened the doors for the children to get in. I sit opposite them.

"Req," I say soothingly.

He peers up at me. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry?"

His eyes were moistened, big, and hazel. "I got everyone in trouble."

"That does not matter. It is just a suspension."

"B — but they are pressing charges."

"We can afford it."

"We can?"

"Have you forgotten your name?" I lean forward to whisper, "Tareq Matthews."

"Matthews," repeats Acosta, for better emphasis.

"Those boys are wrong for not accepting the fault of their actions. So are the parents. It does not matter if they press charges. Elijah, Harlow, who taught you to do that?"

Harlow blinks. "What?"

Elijah understood. "Uncle Luke told me to hurt bullies."

"Oh," says Harlow. "Great-Nana told me to kick a boy in the nuts, for this kind of situation."

I raise a high five. "Brilliant. However —" I muster a strict expression " — do not ever pull that card again, Harlow."

"What card?"

"The Derek-Matthews-is-my-father card."

Harlow frowns. "But you are my father."

"It does not make you superior to anyone. It does not make you better than anyone. You should never be condescending about that."

"She wasn't condescending," defends Elijah. "She was just telling the truth, something that those parents should properly understand. If you mess with us, you mess with our dad."

***

Simko picked up Parker. Harlow and Elijah are upstairs, changing into home wear. Tareq is in the kitchen. I lug out a First Aid kit, replacing the cotton buds.

I dab a pad in a disinfectant serum. "This will hurt."

Tareq bravely sits upright, broadening his small shoulders. I carefully pressed his cut lip. He hisses, jolting away. "Ow."

I applied a gel to his forehead to mend the inflammation. "How long were they bullying you?"

He hesitates. "A couple of months."

He must have felt ashamed, worried, or conflicted. "Has it always been physical?"

"No," he says hoarsely. "It was noted at first. They threw them at me, then told everyone not to be friends with me because I ... I could blow them dead. Why did they say that?"

I close the gel tube. "Tareq, this world we live in can be good, and equally horrible. For a long time, the media has stereotyped Muslims as terrorists."

"Am I one?"

"Absolutely not."

I told him why the media, and the viewers brainwashed by this, can behave this way. I told him about 9/11, and how the event predominantly triggered this uncalled, cruel, racist and prejudiced hysteria.