No hail. So what’s on my roof?
A dozen taps slam overhead.
I reach for the handle of a side door that leads to the roof and hesitate. I haven’t gone up to the roof in years.
The metal side door in the corner of my room opens to a set of four steps in a claustrophobic passageway. The previous owners constructed it after a series of terrible storms brought down the power lines. According to the real estate agent who sold Baba the house, the owners would go to my room whenever it thundered and keep watch over the door. In case the power went out, they wanted quick access to the roof, where they would be easily visible to a passing Medivac.
I jump as the door rattles, tearing me from the memory. Every instinct cautions me against opening it.
The taps keep coming. The twinkle lights around my ceiling vibrate, and one corner comes loose from its thumbtack.
And then—nothing.
I swallow, massaging my chest with the heel of my hand. “Hail,” I say aloud. My voice rings in the newfound silence. “It must have been hail.”
Someone knocks on the other side of the metal door.
I go perfectly still. Water drips from the rusted lip of the door, soaking the towel I’d shoved under it this morning.
Hail doesn’t knock.
“Who’s there?” Without taking my eyes off the door, I grope around for the heaviest item on my dresser. My fingers close around the long, gold aluminum perfume bottle Baba bought at the swap meet for my birthday.
Armed with my signature scent, I approach the door.
“Don’t be mad,” comes the voice on the other side of the door, and I nearly drop the perfume.
“Jesse?”
“Ding ding ding, she’s done it again, folks,” Jesse drawls. “Do you mind letting me in? These steps aren’t exactly comfortable.”
I hope the rain soaked him through. “Were you throwing rocks at my roof?”
A pause. “Maybe.”
I make an aggravated noise. At least his confirmation eases my lurking paranoia that the thing has found a way to possess the weather.
To climb down here, Jesse would have had to scale our roof, push aside the thin copper sheet covering the steps, and maneuver himself into the opening. Extraordinarily dangerous in the best of weather, let alone in the rain.
I press my shaking fingers to my forehead. “This is a mean prank, even for you.”
“Even for me?” Jesse’s chuckle is sardonic. “Whatever could you mean?”
I flounder for a response that isn’tEveryone in town thinks you hate usand come up blank.
The door hinges creak. “Let me in, Mansour. If I’m going to have my character assassinated, I’d rather be face-to-face.”
Against my better judgment, I press my cheek to the door. This is the longest conversation I’ve had with anyone in nearly a month, and I hang on to every word. “I can’t.”
“Listen …” His tone shifts, almost gentling. It sets me on guard instantly. “I know. Okay? I know why you’re afraid to open the door. I know what happened to Miss Diaz.” A long pause, where I am viscerally aware of each beat of my heart. “I saw her eyes.”
I gasp.
Tears blur my vision. I haven’t told anyone about my visit to Masr since the aborted attempt with Alex, too afraid of finding myself yanked out of school and thrust somewhere I don’t want to go. Of seeing Baba remove his glasses and wipe them on his shirt to hide his obvious apprehension, his flash of bone-deep sorrow.
How could Jesse know?
“If you know what I’m afraid of, then you should know why I can’t open this door,” I whisper.
