I’m okay. I’m okay, I keep chanting in my head.There’s no blood.
I think of everything I’ve read about panic attacks.
I close my eyes.
I force myself to breathe slowly. It doesn’t work at first, until it does.
My fingers dig into the metallic post, and I focus on that. On what I can touch and smell and feel.
My lungs expand. Oxygen finds its way.
I open my eyes and press my hands to my chest.
I don’t realize I’ve been shaking and crying until I’m back in my room with the door shut. The deep-boned trauma in my marrow is alive and painful.
I collapse onto my bed, wishing for the numbness to take over my brain. For the void to grab me by my ankles and wrists and drag me away down, down, down to where there is no fear, no pain, nothing. Just nothing.
Sunrise Yellow
I don’t tell anyonewhat happened on the bus.
Amal would be angry and demand I go to the police and report it. Baba would be worried out of his mind, but he wouldn’t do anything. He can’t.
I know I should be in therapy to process the aftermath of losing Mama. Because of the sudden way she was taken from us. The panic attacks, the anxiety, the void. But our health insurance doesn’t cover therapy, and I never felt comfortable with my old school’s therapist.
So I did my own research.
I looked up panic attacks because they were starting to make me worry I might die from the lack of oxygen. There was nothing on Google about how to deal with exactly what happened to Mama. And I just couldn’t—can’t—dissect each coping mechanism until finding the one that clicks with me.
So I let the void take over.
For the next couple of weeks before school begins, I stay home and order my uniform online. The girls’ uniform is a knee-length skirt, which doesn’t work for me, being a hijabi and all, so I order the boys’ uniform and pray it fits. There is nothing in the school’s rule booksaying that female students aren’t allowed to wear pants. All it said was the uniform should be worn.
And I plan on doing just that.
Finally, the first day of school arrives.
I smooth down my shirt, making sure there are no creases, tucking it into my slacks before putting on the blazer.
I sigh, looking at myself from each side.
Even though these are my measurements, the uniform was clearly made for boys.
The sleeves are a tad too long. I fold them over the blazer’s cuff, trying to go for a chic look. The slacks, thankfully, don’t drag on the floor, but I’ll have to be careful not to run or else I might trip. I look up a video on YouTube about how to put on a tie, manage to make a knot resembling what it should be, and wrap a hijab that I hope my memory remembers correctly is gray.
Baba has already gone to work at the gas station. He left without saying goodbye or good luck. But I’m not surprised, and it doesn’t hurt me anymore. I think. My father isn’t my father anymore.
I’m not hungry, my stomach woozy with nerves, so I put on my shoes and leave.
I find Amal parked right in front of our building in her old Toyota Camry.
“What are you doing here? Don’t you have work?”
She lowers her sunglasses and smiles. “Took the morning off. And look at that uniform. God, why does it fit you like that?”
“They let you?” I ask, ignoring her comment and opening the door.
She hands me a to-go coffee cup and an everything bagel she bought from the deli down the street.
