My mother muttered something likeWhat am I supposed to do with you kids?in Farsi, and then turned on the radio.
My mom loved pop radio.
Currently, she was a loyal fan of Enrique Iglesias, because she grew up listening to his dad—Julio Iglesias—and when Enrique was first introduced on the radio she clasped her heart and sighed. These days she championed Enrique Iglesias as if it were her civic duty, as if Julio were watching and she hoped to make him proud. Right now,Escapewas blasting through the speakers at a ridiculous volume, in what was no doubt an effort to drown out our voices.
“Hey,” I shouted, “you’re not getting off that easily.”
“Chi?” she shouted back.What?
I tried for a higher decibel. “I said,you’re not getting off that easily.”
“What?” She cupped a hand to her ear, pretended to be deaf.
I fought back another laugh and shook my head at her. She smiled, put on her sunglasses, adjusted her scarf, and gently bobbed her head to the music.
“Hey.” Zahra tapped my knee. “Shadi?”
I turned, raised my eyebrows. “Yeah?”
“We’re, like, five minutes away from my house,” she said, glancing out the window. “And I just—before I go, I wanted to say sorry. Again. About today.”
“Oh,” I said, surprised. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. I shouldn’t have just attacked you like that.” She sat back in her seat, stared into her hands. “Ali just— He always gets everything, you know? Things are so easy for him. Relationships. Friendships. He doesn’t know what it’s like for me, what it’s like to wear hijab or how horrible people can be or how hard it is to make friends.”
“I know,” I said softly. “I know.”
“I know you do.” She smiled then, her eyes shining with feeling. “You’re like the only one who gets it. And everything is just”—she shook her head, looked out the window—“school is so fucking brutal right now. Do you remember that guy who pulled off my scarf?”
I stiffened. “Of course.”
“He keeps following me around,” she said, swallowing. “And it’s really freaking me out.”
I felt my chest constrict with panic and I fought it back, kept my face placid for her sake. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know. I thought maybe I was imagining things.”
“We’ll report him,” I said sharply. “We’ll tell someone.”
Zahra laughed. “As if that’ll make any difference.”
“Hey”—I took her hands, squeezed—“look, I’ll stay with you. I’ll walk you to class. I’ll make sure you’re not alone.”
She took a deep breath, her chest shuddering as she exhaled. “This is stupid, Shadi. This whole situation is so stupid. Why do we even have to have these conversations? Why do I have to be scared all the time? Why? Because of a bunch of ignorant assholes?”
“I know. I know, I hate it, too.”
She shook her head, shook off the emotion. “I’m just—I’m sorry I’m taking things out on you. I don’t mean to.”
“I know.”
“Everyone is different now. All my old friends. Even some of the teachers.” She looked away. “I think I’m worried I’m going to lose you, too.”
“You’re not going to lose me.”
“I know.” She laughed, wiped her eyes. “I know. I’m sorry. I know.” But when she looked up again, she looked uncertain. She whispered: “So you’re really not hooking up with my brother?”
“Zahra.” I sighed. Shook my head. “Come on.”
