Thatis what I’m up against.
I bang my fist against my forehead. I was applying on a hope and a dream. A hysterical laugh gurgles in my chest. In what world did I thinka sketchbookthat has me drawing strawberries in a bowl when I was ten was going to get me into Opus?
I press a palm over my mouth, trying not to laugh out loud. The girl beside me gives me a look.
But it’s the involvement of the police that unnerves me. Even though there have been so many versions of my previous murals painted by artists online, I won’t be able to use that as a defense if they somehow get Mama’s sketchbook. Even if it doesn’t prove the murals are based on my paintings, it will show at the very least that I found the murals inspiring. That will be more than enough evidence for them. Will I be arrested? Will I go to jail? Baba won’t be able to hire an attorney.
My palms become slick with sweat, and I spend the rest of the lesson with my heart in my throat.
After class, I pass by the administration office to see if there are any cops hanging around, but it’s eerily quiet. Like a trap waiting forme to step right in. There’s nothing for me to do but wait for whatever the outcome will be.
The rest of the day goes by with unease wrapped around my neck like a coiled snake. No one bothers me. No one bumps into me. No one does anything but stare at me.
But I know this is just a facade. Something more is going to happen.
Dusky Gold
I?’m an exposednerve. Every brush of wind feels like a thousand knives, and I don’t know how my heart can keep up with all the electrical jolts frying it.
I keep telling myself that no one can trace anything back to me. Amal tries calling one more time when I’m home, but I ignore her. Jamie walked with me to the school gates before leaving, and I couldn’t find the courage to apologize. Not when we were surrounded by the whole school and local reporters.
I keep typing a message before deleting it. When he upset me, he apologized in person. That’s what I should do.
I try focusing on my schoolwork and reading, but my mind keeps drifting to the mural. I haven’t opened a single video regarding it. But more than the mural, the loss of Opus is a visceral pain. I’m out of the race before I even started. I guess next year I’ll be home, helping Baba with the gas station and applying to community college. I doubt I’ll be able to think of an artwork that’s Opus-worthy. I’ve been building this application ever since I was nine.
I don’t know how I sleep, but I do.
What feels like hours later, something vibrates aggressivelysomewhere beside me. Groggily, I raise my head, and it takes me a whole minute to remember I’m in bed.
The vibrating stops before starting again.
“Wha—” I mumble. My room is wrapped in night, and I blindly grab in the direction of where my phone is vibrating its heart out.
Squinting from the harsh light from my screen, I make out Jamie’s name.
“Hello?” I answer, my voice scratchy. “Jamie?”
“Jihad?” His voice is loud and full of life. Like he’s been running around. “Oh, thank God.”
I push myself to sit. “What the hell? It’s two a.m.”
“I know. I know. But this can’t wait until tomorrow.” His voice is near frantic, and sleep vanishes from my eyes.
“What?” I snap. “Did something bad happen?”
“What? No, listen. Listen.” His breath comes out choppy. “Your mom’s sketchbook.”
I fling myself from the bed, tripping to the drawer in my desk where I kept it, and relief sings through me when I see it there. “What? What about it?”
“Submit it to Opus.”
Silence suspends between us.
“Jihad?” he asks, concerned.
“What are you talking about?”
His voice goes back to being animated. “I’ve been thinking about this the whole day. I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. And it hit me. It’s so obvious. Jihad, your sketchbook. Submit that. That’s your way in. You think they wouldn’t take you then?” He’s choosing his words carefully like he’s worried someone is listening in. And maybe they are.
