Threat Warning by John Gilstrap

stop saying those terrible things.
    Aafia remembered the day when he won the case in court. Money was paid—she didn’t know how much, but apparently it was a lot—and the company was told to mind its manners and make sure that the other workers did the same. On a day when she expected her parents to be happy because they’d won, they turned out to be sad instead. Her father had said then that nothing had really been fixed, and that he feared he might have just made it all worse.
    How could that be? Once the courts told people to behave, isn’t that what they had to do? Isn’t that why we have courts in the first place?
    About a year after that, everybody lost their jobs, and nothing had been right at home ever since. To keep busy, and to keep money coming in, her father had accepted a job as a taxicab driver, but that made him sad, even angry sometimes.
    “I am a mechanical engineer,” he’d said one night at the dinner table last week. “I am very talented at what I do, and now no one will let me do it. Now the only work I can find is to be a servant for strangers.” Then he’d started to cry.
    Aafia and her brother were sent away from the table at that point, but she believed that her father cried for a long time that night. He and her mother talked and talked and talked. They were still talking when Aafia had fallen asleep.
    Her father broke the uncomfortable silence in the car. “You disappoint me with your foolishness. What is happening to you, Aafia? You used to be responsible.”
    “I try, Father,” she said. “I really do. And I am, most of the time. I get all A’s.”
    He started to say something in an angry tone, but then he stopped himself. His features softened. “Yes, you do, don’t you? Yes, you do.” He looked at her, offered a smile and then returned his eyes to the road.
    Aafia didn’t know what to do. When you’re geared up for a stern lecture, kind words are sort of unnerving. Not wanting to risk undoing whatever good thing had just happened, she chose to remain silent.
    “So, this boy,” her father said. “This Steve. Do you like him too?”
    Her head zipped around, her jaw agape.
    “Your brother told me,” he clarified. With a gentle smile, he added, “You would be wise not to trust him with many secrets.”
    “I don’t believe he did that.”
    “Oh, don’t be hard on him. He’s young, and he loves you. He watches you closely. What’s important to you is also important to him. You should feel complimented.”
    Maybe he’ll feel complimented when I kick his butt later, she didn’t say.
    “So, this Steve,” her father pressed. “Tell me about him.”
    Heat rose in Aafia’s cheeks. Was this a new form of punishment? Embarrassing questions for five whole miles? “I don’t know what to say.”
    “Have I met him?”
    If she just said no, then maybe the conversation would end. But that would be a lie, and Aafia was not good with lies. “You’ve seen him in my orchestra,” she said. “He plays the bass.”
    Her father scowled as he searched his memory. “The tall black boy or the shorter white boy?”
    Her jaw dropped again. She had no idea that he paid attention to such things. “He’s the white boy.”
    “With the long brown hair. The dreamy, thick long brown hair.” He laid on that last part with exaggerated passion.
    “Father!”
    “Handsome boy.”
    “Father!”
    He laughed. Truly, this was a far more effective punishment than any lecture on bad behavior. “And what about his new kissing partner. Merilee, is it? Do I know her?”
    “No.” She could say that definitively. “She’s a cheerleader.” She hoped her tone conveyed her level of disapproval.
    “And what is wrong with being a cheerleader? Do you not like to cheer?”
    Oh, please let this ride end .
    “Who would not like to cheer?” he goaded. “Rah, rah, sis-boom-bah.”
    She laughed in spite of herself. “What was that?”
    “Isn’t that how one cheers?” He took his hands off the