STORY SO FAR: Having left the refugee camp in Macedonia, Meli and her family are settling into their new life in Vermontwhen terrorists crash two planes into the World Trade Center in New York City and into the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. It is September 11, 2001.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A New Kind of War

Soon the whole world knew that the terrorists who crashed the planes were Muslim fundamentalists who had killed themselves and thousands of innocent people. “This is not the way of Allah,” Papa said. “This is sickness, madness.”

I was aware all the next day that people were looking at me strangely. They gathered in little groups and whispered as I walked by. During soccer practice I realized that my teammates were not passing the ball to me as they usually did. I tried to pretend that I did not noticethat the strange looks they gave me were in my imagination. But later, in the shower, I heard them talking. Their voices were loud, as though they wanted to be sure that I could hear them.

“That’s what her family is,” one girl said. “One of them.”

“No,” someone protested. “She’s okay.”

“Just ask her,” the first girl said. “You’ll see.”

I wondered if I should just stay in the shower, but I knew that was cowardly, so, wrapping my towel around me, I walked out to where the other girls were dressing.

“Go ahead, ask her.” It was Brittany, a large girl who played goalie. She pushed Rachel toward me.

Rachel turned red, glanced back at Brittany, and cleared her throat. “Someone said you were one of them, Meli,” she said. “Is that true?”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “I am a Kosovar.”

“But what’s that? It’s not Christian, is it?” said Brittany.

“No,” I answered. “Serbs are Christian. I am not Serb. I’m Albanian.”

“I thought you just said you were Kosovar. What are you, really?” another girl asked.

“Aren’t you one of them?” Brittany demanded.

“What do you mean, them?” Of course I knew what she meant, but somehow I wanted to make her say it out loud, in my face.

“Like the terrorists. You know, like their religion.”

“I’m not a religious person. But if I have to choose Christian or Muslim, then, okay, I am Muslim. But I am not a terrorist.”

Brittany shoved Rachel forward again. Rachel wouldn’t look me in the eye. She knew she was the one girl who I had felt was almost my friend. “Ask her about her brother,” Brittany ordered. “I’ll bet he’s a terrorist.”

“It is not terrorist to want to defend your homeland!” I said. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew I should not have spoken them.

“See!” said Brittany, shoving Rachel aside and putting her own face so close to mine that I could see the pimples on her cheeks about to explode. “See! I told you.” She slung her bookbag over her shoulder, nearly hitting me in the jaw. “Why don’t you go back to where you belong? We don’t want any Muslim terrorists here.” She grabbed Rachel by the arm and dragged her out of the locker room. All of the other girls followed, leaving me there, still wrapped only in my towel. I was shivering.

Carefully, methodically, I dried myself and put on my street clothes. Then I collected my practice uniform and my game uniform from the locker and took them to the coach’s desk. I scribbled a short note resigning from the team and walked over to the boys’ field to meet Mehmet. He was alone too. His nose was bloodied. I did not bother to ask him why.

“What happened?” Mama cried as soon as we walked into the apartment.

“I’m going home,” Mehmet said. “I hate America.”

Papa turned off the television and got up. “What is going on?” he asked.

“They were all swearing against the terrorists. Then they say all Muslims are terrorists, and Americans must kill them all before they kill all the Americans. And then . . .” Mehmet was close to tears, he was so angry. “And then I say, I am Muslim. Are you going to kill me?’ So they try.” He wiped his bloody nose with the back of his hand. “I am never going back. They think I am like those terrorists. They hate me. Well, I hate them. We are even.”

“And you, Meli?” Mama asked.

I didn’t want to cry. Somehow, if I cried, Brittany would win. “I’ve quit the team,” I said.

“Oh, no,” said Papa, “you must go back. You must both go back. If you don’t go back, the terrorists will win. This is America. It’s not Serbia. You have to go back.”

“Never,” Mehmet said, tossing his head defiantly. “I’m going back to Kosovo.”

(To be continued.)

Newspaper shall publish the following credit line in each installment of the work:

Text copyright 2005 by Katherine Paterson

Illustrations copyright 2005 by Emily Arnold McCully

Reprinted by permission of Breakfast Serials, Inc.

www.breakfastserials.com

As per your contract, please suppress content from electronic conversion of any kind.

Pronunciation of Albanian proper nouns:

Meli (Ml-lee)

Mehmet (Mm-m?t)

Macedonia (Mas-?-d?-n?-?)

Kosovo (KOH-so-vohSerbian pronunciation; Koh-SOH-vahAlbanian pronunciation)