“He broke up with me,” I whispered, and saying it out loud made it real. Made the tears I’d been holding back finally spill over, streaking down my cheeks and probably ruining the mascara Zahara had let me borrow. “Right there in the food court. In front of everybody.”
Zahara’s hands paused on my hijab. “He did what?”
“Said he was tired of waiting.” I laughed, but it came out soggy and pathetic. “Said if I wasn’t ready to take our relationship to the next level, then maybe we shouldn’t be together at all.”
“That nigga.” Zahara’s jaw tightened, and I saw that protective fire flare up in her eyes—the one that always appeared when someone hurt me. We were identical in almost every way, but that fire? That was all her. I was the soft one. The careful one. The one who thought too much and felt too deeply. Zahara was the fighter. “I should’ve let Meech beat his ass.”
“No, don’t.” I shook my head, fresh tears falling. “It’s my fault. Maybe I should’ve just… I don’t know. Maybe I should’vejust done it. Given him what he wanted. Then he wouldn’t have?—”
“Stop.” Zahara grabbed my face with both hands, forcing me to look at her. We had the same eyes—dark brown, almost black, with lashes that curled without mascara. Looking at her was like looking in a mirror, except the reflection was always braver than I was. “Listen to me, Zai. You made the right decision. You hear me? Don’t ever let some dusty-ass nigga make you feel bad for not being ready. That’s YOUR body. YOUR choice. And if he can’t respect that, then he can go fuck himself. Literally. Since that’s clearly all he cares about.”
I wanted to believe her. I really did. But the ache in my chest said otherwise. Stephon had been my first boyfriend. My first kiss. My first everything exceptthat. And now he was gone, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d made a mistake. If I’d been too uptight. Too scared. Too… me.
“You don’t understand,” I mumbled. “You and Meech?—”
“Me and Meech are different.” Zahara’s voice dropped, and something shifted in her expression. That fire dimmed, replaced by something I couldn’t quite read. “And trust me, Zai, I wish I’d made the choice you made.”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
She didn’t answer right away. Just finished adjusting my hijab, smoothing down the edges, making sure every strand of hair was tucked away. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
“My period is late.”
The words hit me like a punch to the stomach.
“What?” I grabbed her arm, suddenly wide awake, my own heartbreak forgotten. “How late?”
“Three weeks.” She wasn’t looking at me anymore. Was staring out the window at the Baltimore streets passing by, her reflection ghostly against the glass. “Almost four.”
“Zahara—”
“I know.” Her voice cracked, and I watched my strong, fearless sister crumble right in front of me. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she pressed her hand over her mouth to muffle the sob that escaped. “I know, okay? I know. I’m so stupid. We used protection most of the time, but there was this one time… and I thought it would be fine… and now…”
She couldn’t finish. Didn’t have to.
I pulled her into my arms and held her while she cried. Right there on the number 22 bus, surrounded by strangers who didn’t know or care that two sixteen-year-old girls were falling apart in the middle seat.
“It’s gonna be okay,” I whispered into her hijab, even though I had no idea if that was true. “We’ll figure it out. Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out together.”
“Baba will kill me.” Her voice was muffled against my shoulder. “If he finds out, he’ll actually kill me, Zai.”
“He won’t find out.” I pulled back, holding her face the way she’d held mine just moments ago. “You hear me? He won’t find out. We’ll get a test tomorrow, and if it’s positive, we’ll… we’ll figure out what to do. But he won’t find out. I won’t let him.”
She nodded, wiping her face, trying to pull herself together. “Okay. Okay.”
We spent the rest of the bus ride in silence, holding hands like we used to when we were little. Before boys. Before secrets. Before everything got so complicated.
I had no idea that in less than an hour, keeping secrets from our father would be the least of our problems.
The house was dark when we got home.
Not unusual—Baba liked to keep the lights low in the evening, said it was better for prayer and meditation. But something about the darkness felt different tonight. Heavier. More ominous.
Or maybe that was just my paranoia talking. I’d been on edge since the bus, my mind racing between Stephon’s rejection and Zahara’s possible pregnancy and the million ways our lives could implode if anyone found out the truth about who we really were behind closed doors.
Zahara squeezed my hand as we walked up the front steps. “It’s fine,” she whispered. “We’re fine. Just act normal.”
I nodded, taking a deep breath. Normal. I could do normal.
