Free The Terrorist by Caroline B. Cooney Page B

black as a tuxedo.
    “Jehran, s’il vous plaît, ” said the French teacher.
    Jehran went up while Samira sat back down. Laura remembered she hadn’t asked about Samira’s passport yet, so she did. “Laura, mind your manners,” said Samira.
    “I’m just asking if you’re really American.”
    “I have never once claimed to be American,” said Samira sharply, discarding her somewhat American accent and using the upper-class British accent Jehran had.
    “It’s the best passport,” said Laura, figuring Samira would be forced to defend her real country now.
    Sure enough, Samira snapped like a flag in the wind. “That’s so American of you to think U.S. passports are better. Not everybody wants to live in New York or Los Angeles, you know. Some of us think you Americans are completely uncivilized. We want to stay here in Europe.”
    “But you’re not European,” said Laura, aiming for mild puzzlement. “What country are you from, Samira?”
    Samira said with pride, almost with ferocity, “My grandfather was an advisor to the shah.”
    “The shah?” said Laura. The word meant nothing to her.
    Laura was often the class dunce, so this surprised nobody. Andrew stepped in as tutor. “The shah was a king who once ruled Iran,” he told Laura. “America supported the shah. He was overthrown way back in 1979, when the Shiite Muslims came to power. Shiites are very, very strict. The ruler they have now is called an ayatollah, a sort of Muslim priest. Iran hates America.”
    Laura was cross. She hadn’t even been born when Samira’s grandfather was advising this shah. How could such ancient history figure in Billy’s death?
    “The day will come,” said Samira, “when my family will be restored to power. Then I can go home.”
    Home, thought Laura. I bet she wasn’t even born there. She’s my age; I bet the whole family left in 1979 and she’s never even set foot in this place she calls home.
    In America, when governments changed, people just lost their jobs. They gave a TV interview, left Washington, and went back to being lawyers in Texas.
    But in Iran or Iraq—or Guatemala or Cambodia—the risk is higher. The next government may kill you. So the wealthy move to London.
    I’m getting warm, thought Laura. People who murder are the ones I want.
    But even as she traced the Arabic script Jehran had written, Laura reached another dead end. Terrorists would select those people to kill—Samira’s grandfather, who supported the wrong guy. They wouldn’t take Billy.
    But they had.
    Andrew felt responsible for Laura; attached to her in some deep, terrible way.
    Only moments before the bomb went off, Andrew had emerged safely from the Underground. He had felt the explosion through his feet and heard the sirens through his heart. Because of Chris and Georgie, who could identify clothes and book bag, it was quickly known that the victim was Billy Williams.
    L.I.A. teachers and London transport police had ordered the students to go into the school building. American kids (not known for their obedience) had stayed where they were.
    Andrew had stayed where Laura would get off the bus. Why? Had he hoped to be her knight in shining armor? He sure hadn’t saved Billy, who had needed armor.
    Or was terrorism exciting? And had Andrew wanted to be in on it?
    It made Andrew’s skin crawl to think that his mind could possibly be that crawly.
    Andrew was struck by Laura’s ignorance. How could Laura not know who the shah was? How could Laura not know what it meant that Samira’s grandfather had supported the shah? Samira and her family could never go home. They had lost land and buildings and fortune, and very likely, lives. They had lost, period. They had no country.
    Andrew’s stomach heaved at the thought of having no country.
    But Laura, making her little lists, understood nothing. She had no idea what terrible histories her classmates had. No idea that it was reasonable for such people to move about in bullet-proof