When I’m sure my voice won’t break, I say, “It was.”
Triumph is in every inch of his expression, and he fist-bumps the air. “I knew it!” He claps his hands together. “All right! Let’s do that one next!” He points at another twister roller coaster that looks straight out of a nightmare labeled Soarin’ Eagle, where the people riding it are strapped to the seats standing up.
“Nope!” I yelp. “No way.”
“Fine. We’ll build up to it.”
“The hell we will.”
In the end, he suggests we get something to eat, and right on cue, my stomach growls. Luckily, the noise of the people and rides around us drowns it out. We get crispy fries, fried shrimp drizzled with a honey barbecue sauce, one large vegetarian pizza, and two lemonades.
“You’ve unlocked the level-three skill at finding halal-friendly food,” I say, and he looks particularly pleased with himself. “New York has a lot of halal places, but Coney Island still hasn’t caught up.”
With food in my stomach, the cool air on my face, and the rare sun warming me, I relax and find myself sinking into conversation with Jamie. I forget about school, Baba, Amal, and everything that’s an open wound. We go through so many topics, I’m not sure how one ends and the other begins.
He tells me how he chipped his tooth falling from the apple treeon the farm and how Bà Ngo?i practically dragged the town’s dentist from his home on a Sunday afternoon. I tell him how I tried talking to the fish like Mama had told me she did by grabbing a goldfish at PetSmart, and the manager all but kicking Amal and me out. He laughs so hard, lemonade almost bursts from his nose. We talk about the things we love and the good memories we wish we could go back to. It’s nothing like our deep conversations from before, and it means everything. It’s light, and it makes me think of how normal this is, and how I longed for it.
Afterward, we play a couple of arcade games, winning nothing. Not even with the hack Jamie found online. I slip away and get us two cotton candies. He thanks me before taking a big bite from his sugary pink cloud. It makes me laugh, seeing bits of cotton candy stuck to the sides of his lips, and he looks delighted.
We go on a few more rides, and I agree to try one of the other roller coasters. I pick the least intimidating-looking one, but looks can be deceiving, and I spend the entire ride cry-laughing at my decision.
When we’ve had our fill of Luna Park, we make our way to the boardwalk.
“Look.” I point at the long line waiting for the Cyclone.
“We’re so smart for being here early.”
“You are,” I say, and he ducks his head, blushing. I get a secret thrill out of being able to fluster him like this. “How are you holding up?”
He glances at me, eyebrows raised.
“Being Muslim. Your first Ramadan and Eid.”
His lips quirk in a small smile, looking ahead. “Honestly? It hasn’t sunk in yet. But I realize it the most when I’m home. Like if my parents get takeout that has pork or non-halal meat, and I have to tell them I already ate. Locking the door when I pray so they don’t accidentally walk in on me. I don’t think they’ll be that upset, but I’m not ready to have that conversation. It’s…” His expression is calm. “It’slonely. When I’m not with you in school, I’m lonely. You’re the only one here who knows all of me.”
His smile is gentle now, and the orange in his soul becomes deeper.
“I’m ecstatic I did this; don’t get me wrong,” he continues. “But it’s difficult.”
“I never thought of how it would be for you,” I say quietly. “I can’t imagine it.”
His smile turns sad. “It’ll get easier, right?”
I nod.
The sun sparkles on the ocean beside us, droplets of light dancing from wave to wave. Parents push their children’s strollers, holding their toddler’s hands. We pass a few Muslim families who say salam alaykum to us, and Jamie jumps at the chance to say it back, his voice eager and wavering a bit at the end. I love seeing him like this; it makes my heart soften.
“Do you want to say hello to the ocean?” Jamie asks after we’ve been walking in silence for a while.
I look at him to see if he’s teasing me, but there’s only sincerity in his expression.
I don’t feel silly when I say, “Yeah.”
He scans the beach and nods toward the other side. “There. Not a lot of people.”
The last time I came here was when Mama was still alive. It was a cold February, but Mama got it in her head after one gnarly cancerous episode she needed to come here. Baba piled us into the car, and we drove for more than an hour. Without saying a word, she got out, wrapped in the same navy-blue coat she’d worn when she arrived in this country, and trudged to the shoreline. I don’t remember which part of the beach it was, and I’m glad of it. I don’t make any effort to remember.
I tell Jamie this, and I don’t think he notices how pliable his body becomes, bending to each word I’m saying.
