Nowhere Boy: Chapters 7–17

On his fourth day in the wine cellar, Ahmed's chills and fever finally subsided, and he realized he was ravenous.

On his fourth day in the wine cellar, Ahmed's chills and fever finally subsided, and he realized he was ravenous.

The fluffy white cat, who was cleaning himself on a marble windowsill, stopped to give Ahmed an insolent look, but the house was silent, the family seemingly asleep.

In fact, he felt worse, and the shameful, angry taste stayed with him as he veered around dog poop on the way to school.

She had convinced his parents to sign him up for the Scouts—or “Scoots” as she insisted on calling them. Max already hated the word. It took every ounce of self-control for him not to correct her.

The sky was a dazzling blue, and florescent-green parakeets improbably flitted over the garden.

He could almost hear the soft lilt of her voice as she sang the lullaby Rima tnam—Rima, Sleep—to Nouri.

The other boys tittered, and Max felt his face turn red.

“Something called resilience plans. According to the NATO charter, every country needs to have a plan for how to help itself in case it’s attacked until allies can step in. It’s important for every country to be resilient in the face of adversity—to fight on, not just give in.”

“Something called resilience plans. According to the NATO charter, every country needs to have a plan for how to help itself in case it’s attacked until allies can step in. It’s important for every country to be resilient in the face of adversity—to fight on, not just give in.”

“Something called resilience plans. According to the NATO charter, every country needs to have a plan for how to help itself in case it’s attacked until allies can step in. It’s important for every country to be resilient in the face of adversity—to fight on, not just give in.”

Max bristled. “So I'm supposed to be resilient.”

Not only did the German Army have ten times the number of troops, they also had machine guns and mustard gas and zeppelins—weapons that the Belgian Army had never encountered before.

Max knew it had—his father wouldn’t make up something like that—but he also knew acting doubtful would rile up Madame Pauline even more, distracting her from dictée.

“Of course!” Madame Pauline stared at him indignantly.

During his search for an extra key, he’d found a couple two-euro coins in the bottom of a cup of pens and pencils, but he felt a prick of conscience at the thought of taking not just food, but money.

On the way back, he passed a newspaper kiosk, and, before he could stop himself, spent his remaining money on a football magazine.

Then he scurried back to the house, his shoes squelching over piles of wet October leaves.

There was a strange beauty to the twisted silhouette of the leafless pear tree. A cat slinked along the wall.

He took one step down, then another, until he was standing on the terra-cotta floor of the laundry room.

The picture was of a man—or at least he thought it was a man—but the center of his body was a birdcage. One dove perched inside it while another rested, as if in solidarity, on a platform outside.

“Max, tell Madame Pauline to pick up some milk for us on the way home,” his mom said as she stuffed papers into her briefcase. “I don’t have any cash. Michael, where do we keep all those coins? I swear it’s like play money! Tell her I’ll reimburse her when I pay her at the end of the week.”

But what stuck with Max most was what his father said about the refugees—how millions of Syrians had fled the violence and were crowded into makeshift camps across the Middle East and Europe, afraid to go back.

“Oh, Madame Pauline,” his father said, shaking his head woefully.

His father seemed sympathetic about the refugees’ plight.

He had never cared about being messy, but now he felt a little ashamed when he thought about how all that stuff, carelessly strewn about, must look to Ahmed.

The pain stunned Max only for an instant, then it blinded him with fury. He leapt onto Oscar and began walloping him.

Max struggled to find the French words. “I wish to know...why he detest me.”

But Max couldn’t be sure—not the rest of the afternoon as Madame Pauline relentlessly drilled him on French verbs.

How the moment the front door had slammed shut, he had showered, dressed and repacked his provisions, adding more bread and an orange from upstairs.