Hassan, late to work

Leaping over the short stone wall, I quickly duck behind the tall hedgerow that borders the old woman’s garden, through which I just took the shortcut. Without the short-cut, I either have to go up, or down, a short set of stairs, and I’d much rather hop a wall under danger of being lambasted by some ancient old biddy than have to do that.
I am fourteen, perhaps too short for my age, but that runs in the family. My parents came here from Iraq, leaving just after Saddam took power, in ‘79, to come to this country. I have never even been there, never set foot on Persian soil, and am as American as they come. Sure, some kids give me shit about being from Iraq, because it’s been in the news more, call me Saddam at school, but I have enough other kids to hang out with, as well as a minor reputation, that no one really does much about it.
One time I got into it with Jimmy Nelson after school, when he and two other kids jumped me just as I about to leave the park (another shortcut), calling me diaper-head and camel jockey. They each got in a few punches, before I got really scared and started swinging. One of them crawled the four blocks to his house, told his Mom he fell off of a friend’s bike. Since then, I really haven’t had too much trouble, even with most high school kids.
But back to the current situation. I am late. I know my Dad’s going to be pissed. He bought the franchise to a Kinko’s, back when they first got here, with money his mother gave to him and my mom. I help out the tech guys, who really aren’t that good with the machines. Mostly it’s me showing them how to set up new networks, debugging the copiers. I reload paper, work the registers if its really busy, stuff like that, most days after I finish my schoolwork.
My grandmother refused to move when my mom and dad did, said she couldn’t leave the village she had known all her life, but gave them as much money as she could. It turned out to be enough for the franchise, and to cover expenses while they were getting set up. I came around a good time after that, the third of four kids, my younger sister now walking with me to school in the mornings.
Officially two minutes late. The calendar reminds me it’s a Wednesday, and Wednesdays are always busy. And my birthday is coming up. I don’t mind birthdays, except for my Aunt Lila, who smells like her cats and qata'if, a type of fritter. But I just wish people would just give me money, so I can buy a cellphone, keep in touch with my friends, take Samantha Higgins out to the movies, for some heavy petting. Dark brown hair, slightly upturned nose, swim team, mostly a complete bitch. Perfect.

“Hassan! You are late. Why can you not be anywhere on time? I thought your mother and I raised you better than this.” He can be very quiet when he needs to. I am clumsy to have let him sneak up on me in my daydreaming. I know he’s angry, not just being a dick because he can, because he’s talking in Arabic, normally only for home use. He’s probably stressed out because of the large number of customers I see, looking up for the first time around the room.