Dread curls in my belly.
“Whatever this thing is … it’s so angry. Beyond any menace I’ve ever felt.” Aida draws a ragged breath. I can hardly comprehend the fact that Aidaknows.Not everything, but enough. “Every second, it moves a little closer to you.” Faintly audible, she whispers, “I can barely tell where it ends and you begin anymore.”
“My mom.” I swallow hard. “Did you feel it around my mom?”
Aida flinches, as though struck. After a minute, she offers a reluctant nod.
Aida had only met my mom once before she died. On a random Tuesday in the fourth grade, Mama came to pick me up after school. She’d stepped out of the car to wave me over from my perch beneath the jacaranda tree. Aida, who had yet to befriend anyone other than the librarian, had taken one look at my mother and screamed her little head off. She’d thrashed and wailed until Mrs. Watts carted her off to the nurse’s office.
I’d forgotten about it until now. All Mama did at the time was shake her head in disapproval and mutter something about the chemicals in our school lunches.
The curse had claimed my mother. If Aida could sense it over me now, it could only mean one thing.
The curse claimed me when I opened the door. It added me to the row of Haikals bound to serve it.
I slide my speech over the front of Aida’s sketchpad. “You should get to class,” I say quietly. “I’ll see you at prom.”
“Will you?” she whispers.
My teeth click shut. Heartbreak swims in Aida’s eyes, and from her, it’s more than I can handle. I hurry into the admin building, heart racing sickeningly fast against my ribs.
The tryouts are being held in the counselors’ conference room, and I peek through the window to make sure I won’t be alone with anyone. Principal Bess lifts her head at my entrance. Her blond brows rise. “Miss Mansour.”
Miss Diaz beams. “Hi, Mina!”
The other two teachers haven’t had me in their class, but they’ve clearly kept up with the drama.Is that the captain of the dance team who quit without warning? The one with dropping grades and a ruined social circle?“Are you here for the graduation speech tryouts?”
I nod. Miss Diaz gestures at the seat near me, and I slide into it quickly.
“Go ahead, Mina,” she encourages.
I unfold my speech and smooth the edges of the paper. Damp spots form on the margins, softening beneath my sweaty palms. I can’t bring myself to look at Miss Diaz. Yet another person whose life I almost torpedoed.
I tuck my curls behind my ears and take a fortifying breath. “My name is Yasmina Mansour, and I’m auditioning to speak at graduation for this year’s class of seniors.”
As soon as I start to read, my nerves settle. I’ve rehearsed these lines a dozen times. Before spring break, I was mumbling them in my sleep.
My imagination drifts, and I picture myself standing behind a podium in May, facing the students I grew up with as we gather for the last time. Rainie would give me a standing ovation, partly out of pride and partly to spite the school event coordinator one final time. Lucia would wipe her tears on the dangling sleeves of her robe. Not because my speech is especially moving, but because Lucia tends to get stuck in sad moments. She needs someone like Rainie to pull her loose and remind her to keep moving.
Aida won’t clap. Instead, she’ll aim a secretive smile my way. The Aida version of shouting at the top of her lungs.
If we were still together, Alex would command the basketball team to stand on their chairs and sing my name in an embarrassing, wonderful display.
Jesse wouldn’t attend graduation as a student. He’d ask them to mail him his diploma and use the money he saves on graduation regalia to buy another slew of bizarre T-shirts. But I like to think he’d still come to hear me speak. He’d linger by the edge of the bleachers, twirling his car keys around his index finger.
And best of all, Baba would be there. He’d be in the front row, holding bags full of those cheesy grad gifts they sell in the parking lot. Despite his deep disdain for speaking to strangers, he would tell everyone within earshot, “That’s my daughter” as soon as I came onstage.
In the torn, rumpled page of my graduation speech, a bright future unfurls. One where everyone I love is happy and whole, and I’m around to see it.
When I finish, I find tears glistening in Miss Diaz’s eyes. Even Principal Bess’s reserved frown falters.
“It’s a little too personal,” one of the teachers says. “Graduation speeches should generally be relatable to the whole student body.”
“It’s not an ad for car insurance, Linda,” Miss Diaz returns.
“Thank you for coming in, Miss Mansour,” Principal Bess interjects. “We’ll get back to you with our decision shortly.”
I close the door behind me to the tune of Miss Diaz saying, “I know her grades have dropped, and she’s been acting a little strange, but—”
