“But… you know,how?”
Excitement seeps into his voice. “I’ve thought of this. You don’t have to explain it. There’s no reason for you to do that. They havethe technology to really determine it’s yours, and honestly is there any harm being done? Those paintings disappear. There’s no lasting damage.”
I sit heavily on my bed.
“You’ve either been home or with me every time the murals have appeared, and there are cameras all over New York’s subways. If you were there, they’d have seen you,” he continues.
I clear my throat. “I just…”
“What?”
“I just never thought of my blessings like that. It was… always so personal. They happened to the person who had it. And now…”
“I know,” he says gently. “Are you worried you’re betraying your ancestors?”
I blink. “No. It’s not that. It was an intimate secret, and now it won’t be.” I stare at the shadows eating up the floor. “Jamie, I’m sorry.”
“Why?” he says, surprised.
“For what I said. It was unfair and cruel. And I shouldn’t have belittled what you’re going through. I think I just realized you need me like I need you.”
It’s easier saying these words at night when no sun’s rays can expose the magnitude of truths.
He’s quiet, his breathing slow. “I do. But not in the way you think.”
I still, clutching the phone tightly to my ear.
“I don’t need you because you’re the only one who knows. Or because you’re the only Muslim friend I have. I need you because you’re you.”
His voice is low, sending shivers all over me, and that feeling I ignored for so long flares.
“You still there?” he asks.
“Hmm,” I say, and he chuckles.
“Think about it. For Opus.”
“I will. Though I know what I’m going to do.”
I can hear the smile in his voice. “They have no idea who’s coming to their college. I envy them.”
I press a hand over my heart, trying to calm it.
“Good night, Jihad,” he says softly.
“Good night, Jamie.”
I wake up the next morning with a newfound sense of hope from the lingering effect from Jamie’s phone call. He thought of me the whole day and night. He stayed awake, trying to find a way for me to apply to Opus.
My heart patters again. I decide to wear the gloves he gave me.
On my way to school, I take a deep breath and open a browser search on my phone. The first recommendations are articles written about the murals. I swipe past them. I go online to see what is being said about the mural on the school. All the videos on my feed are about the mural.
“Why would the artist choose Braxton as the only place to put up the mural? Is it a message of some sort? Is there anything shady going on inside?”
“Look at the colors they used on the Statue of Liberty. It’s not the same shade of green as the real statue but the same shade that jihadists use!”
“The artist could be an Islamist, or this might be the start of a new genre where they tackle different social issues. I’m more interested in knowing how they’re doing it? This is absolutely not the work of one person. It’s definitely a team.”
