Gray
I see a speedingcar from the corner of my eye. I shiver as if feeling the rumble of the pavement from behind the register.
When I blink, a colorless world unfurls in front of me. For more than a year now, I have been able to see only in gray; all the color has disappeared from my universe.
The gas station Baba works at sits on the precipice of I-80, which connects New Jersey to the beaches of San Francisco. One straight line that leads to the Opus School of Art—the college of my dreams.
It was founded by a winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature who used her earnings to open and fund the school. Those who have graduated from it have gone on to make their mark on the world through photography, painting, and museums. Sometimes during the quiet, boring moments here, I take out my phone, open Google Maps, and follow the line with my finger, trying to imagine the way there. But I can’t fully visualize it. Everything has become dulled, vague, like a pencil smudge.
The only thing that’s been consistent is the burning need inside me to be in San Francisco. Even if I can’t see the blue of the ocean when I reach it, it won’t matter.
Every dashing car is a promise. A wish made on a birthday cake with a flickering candle. I focus on the wishes. The big ones first, then the small ones.
I wish Opus would admit me.
I wish Amal and her husband would find jobs in San Francisco and move with me.
I wish Baba would look at me. Like, actually look at me.
I wish I could finish senior year quickly.
I wish I could see color again.
Once, my life was a burst of color in shades of sunlight yellows, burning reds, forest greens, galaxy purples. My sketchbooks reflected that, painting what my eyes could see and others’ couldn’t. The colors danced. They swirled around me—hues reflected on my skin. They rippled like waves and splashed like waterfalls.
They were my entire life. And now they’re gone, leaving behind an eternal gray.
The swishing sound of the sliding door breaks the train of wishes, and I straighten up. Sam, one of the regular truckers who comes into this gas station, heads straight to the fridge to get his usual four-pack of Red Bulls before coming to the register.
“Evening.”
I ring up the Red Bulls. “Long night?”
He nods, thick eyebrows knitting together. He’s in different shades of gray, but his beard and mustache are a lighter shade than his hair. I can’t seem to remember if his hair is brown or auburn. If his eyes are brown or blue.
I pinch my thigh to focus.
“Have a delivery to Pennsylvania,” he says gruffly before squinting at me. “Don’t you have school tomorrow?”
“School isn’t for another two weeks.” The register clangs. “That’ll be ten dollars and ninety-eight cents.”
He nods absently, taking out his wallet and handing me a coupleof wrinkled bills. I watch him walk out, climb into his truck, and drive out the lot, joining the other blurs speeding by.
One day, I think,that will be me.
I rub my eyes. I’ve been here all day, helping Baba with the gas station. Although the real reason is to stare at I-80. It calms my thoughts, quiets the loud emptiness inside me. It’s the only hope I allow myself.
Besides, if I’d stayed home, I’d have been in bed all day. Exactly how I spent the first few weeks of summer break, until my best friend, Alexis, pulled me out of my blanket fort.
Baba walks out from the storage room, ruffling his jacket.
“Yalla?” he asks in the same monotone voice he’s adopted for the past year. One that says he hasn’t been healing, doesn’t want to heal. One that says he’s been operating in survival mode for months. His hair is pale gray, and I wonder how that happened.
Helping around the gas station used to be fun. Baba helped build our fantasies until they became an intricate world that stretched as far as the eye could see. He came from the same town as Mama. His family was of the more practical type. But Mama came from something much more magical. It’s one of the reasons he fell for her. The way she expanded his life to be more than a monotony of going through the motions. She took his hand and showed him her world. His imagination was tentative but strong, and Amal and I spent many days fighting sea serpents and rescuing bags of chips from high ladders here.
We’re the last stop before travelers go on their journey, he used to say.It’s our duty to help them make it to where they need to go, and in a way, it’s like we’re going with them.
In moments like these, words splashed my world in color. They became animated, not frozen. They danced like waves on the sea, shimmered like diamonds, and became alive. The chipped red paint of the gas station became lava, bubbling and moving with the wind. The dull yellow of the walls became as bright as stars, actually spilling to the floor. I could taste the colors.
