I peel the foil off my burrito and try not to show my giddiness. Perhaps it’s silly to think that my eagerness could cause Baba to shut off again, but I have plenty of experiences that say otherwise.
“So my full name is Yasmina Hatem Galal Hani Omar Kareem Gad Gabar Afifi Mansour?”
Baba beams. “Exactly. Now, your Gedo Galal might not be my biggest fan anymore, but when I was growing up, he taught me everything I know about books. When I was twelve, he took me to the Ma’rad il Kitab in Cairo—they call it the Cairo International Book Fair nowadays, and I want to take you to it next January—and I bought the biggest book on beetles I could find.”
“Beetles? Seriously?”
He laughs. “Seriously.”
We eat our burritos in the sun’s fading glow, and for a few blissful hours, there are no shadows between Baba and me.
Ihave never had to pee so badly in my life.
The class goes quiet when I raise my hand, and I try not to fidget. I haven’t made a peep in class in almost a month. “Yes, Mina?” Mr. Frank asks, a hopeful note in his voice.
“May I use the restroom, please?”
“Oh. Yes, certainly. Take the key with you.”
I shoot out of the room, the key-shaped bathroom pass clutched in my sweaty palm. The huge copper key barely fits in my pocket. Mr. Frank made it unwieldy to discourage students from trying to steal and copy it. Mr. Hale, the hall monitor on duty this week, despises his job and despises anyone who makes it even a smidgen harder for him.
The school has four levels, with the administrative offices occupying the first floor. The third level has been under construction for over a year, mainly due to Canyon High’s abysmal lack of funding. It remains off-limits to students, but the warning sign hasn’t stopped anyone. Thanks to Rainie’s graphic description of what eating freezer-burned sushi did to her, I know for a fact the plumbing works up there.
The third level is also my best shot of not running into anyone in the bathroom.
I rush up the stairs. Traffic cones block the top step, and a sign tapedto the wall cautions me away. I crane my neck to check for any faculty members on my heels before I skirt the cones.
The area behind the cones unfolds into a colossal health hazard. Stacks of wooden planks line walls riddled with black scratch marks. Flakes of white powder drift from the rim of abandoned paint buckets. The rooms have been boarded shut. I grin at Rainie’s initials carved into the board on my right.
At the far end of the hall, a blue tarp hangs over the unused stairs to the fourth floor. Beneath the tarp, a pair of work boots tap against the unfinished tiles.
I roll my eyes. Of course he’d be here. He hasn’t picked up my calls since yesterday.
Though I’m about as silent as a drunk raccoon as I make my way around the obstacle course of nails, tools, and boxes littering the floor, Jesse’s boots don’t budge an inch. I could be a teacher coming to catch him in the act, for all he knows.
What is his central nervous system made of? Steel and sarcasm?
I pull the tarp aside and immediately start coughing as smoke envelops me.
“Fancy seeing you here.” Jesse exhales plumes of gray. I stare at the small pile of ash by his elbow.
The ghost of Khalto Safa rises in the smoke, her red nails tapping the ash from the end of her cigarette.
“You smoke?” The wisps of white curling from his nose trouble me. Baba might not be the most attentive father in the world, but he’d certainly know if I started smoking. He’d at leastsmellit. “Does your dad know?”
The look Jesse offers can only be described as insulting. “Sure, Mansour. He buys me a pack from the gas station every day.”
I purse my lips, wishing I had a better gauge on sarcasm. I never used to think my struggle to detect it was a problem, even though Rainie wouldalways tease me about being too earnest.You’re so painfully sincere, Eenie Meenie Mina. It makes you easy to trust, but also easy to prank.
I snatch the pack of cigarettes by his backpack and give it a shake. “Your dad doesnotbuy you cigarettes.”
A smile stretches around the cigarette dangling between his lips, and I loathe the shiver that runs through me at the sight. “You got me, Sour Patch.”
Jesse leans back against the stairs. He flicks the cigarette to the tile, twisting his boot over the lit end.
Mastering the art of minding my own business continues to prove impossible. “How long have you smoked?”
I am well aware that the last thing Jesse wants is to be interrogated on his life choices. In the best of circumstances, people think I’m too much—too competitive, too sensitive, too literal. With others, I’ve learned to amend myself to suit their taste. Cracked the code on how to be nice and palatable, no matter who stands across from me.
