Free The Terrorist by Caroline B. Cooney

the lovely, classy, television theater accent that Americans adored. Real-life Londoners rarely sounded that way. The Americans listened happily to Jehran’s pretty sounds.
    Con laughed. “Rule one—you don’t sleep. Rule two—you giggle all night long. Rule three—after midnight, you tell scary stories.”
    “No, no,” said Kyrene, “the important thing is food. You cannot have a slumber party on a diet.”
    “That’s for sure,” said Tiffany. “I can eat Middle Eastern food if I have to, Jehran, but not all night long. Tell you what, I’ll bring the real food.”
    Jehran lowered her lashes and looked through them, a reprimand everybody except Tiff found painful. When you were abroad, and an American was rude, you were responsible. Con said quickly, “We’ll love whatever you serve, Jehran.”
    “Or pretend to,” agreed Jehran, smiling.
    It was a Euro-smile. Not broad and easy like American smiles, but thin with superiority. Euro-smiles made Laura crazy. She always wanted to say: Listen, if you were really so good, you’d be number one in the world. And you’re not. So there.
    She missed America.
    The Williamses had had Thanksgiving dinner at the home of American friends, but there was nothing for which to be thankful. The day was fake, with the bag of Pepperidge Farm stuffing and the can for pumpkin pie flown in.
    And who, Laura asked herself, who at L.I.A. is also fake?
    Laura yearned to spot some tall, dark, evil stranger on whom to blame Billy’s death. But she did not run into anybody she didn’t already know. Nobody seemed to be eyeing her from cars or following her on sidewalks.
    “Laura, you must come to my party,” said Jehran, resting her hand on Laura’s. “You need to laugh and smile.”
    Laura shook her head. “My parents need me.”
    This was a statement with which no Muslim would ever argue; parents were first. So when Jehran argued, the girls were amazed all over again. “Now, Laura,” said Jehran. “At least ask your parents if you might come. We will be chaperoned. They need have no fear for your safety.”
    Samira sniffed. “American parents don’t know what supervision is,” she said. “They won’t even think of asking whether there will chaperones, Jehran.”
    Jehran gave Samira a dirty look, remarkably like Billy when he didn’t get his way, and turned her back on Samira. “You have sunk so low in your heart, Laura. We are your friends, and will spend our hours not in the telling of scary stories, but in the lifting of your heart.”
    Laura was touched by this little speech. Jehran was not particularly friendly, and yet she was the first to reach out and say, Come. Laura wanted to be polite, but she could not imagine going to a slumber party to giggle the night away. She shook her head.
    “Can I help you, Mrs. Williams?” said Jimmy Hopkins. The woman stood on the outside of the high, chainlink fence that enclosed the school playground. She had wrapped her fingers around the metal like a little kid who doesn’t get to play, and was staring through the openings as if she thought Billy might be ready to come home.
    He felt tender toward her, and very sad. “I’m Jimmy Hopkins,” he reminded her. He didn’t want to circle the fence to reach her; it would take him a few minutes, and she was too lost. He must stay by her side with the fence between them.
    The television monitors that continually scanned the grounds had a use. The headmaster came swiftly out of the building and walked down the outside of the fence. “Hello, Mrs. Williams,” said Mr. Frankel. “Laura is fine. Shall we go into my office and I’ll call Laura down from class?”
    It was not Laura Mrs. Williams was looking for. But she let Mr. Frankel lead her away. Her fingers bumped hopelessly along the chain links.
    Jimmy forgave Laura everything.
    “Can you believe it?” said Kyrene. “My parents might be transferred back to America. Washington, D.C. Isn’t that pathetic? There’s nothing to