“Lovingthe way the Miss Liberty is looking. Personally, I feel she’s always meant to wear the hijab. I did read somewhere that the original Statue of Liberty was meant to be a Muslim woman. Oh my God,imagine if it actually happened? Not one racist would have a leg to stand on when a Muslim hijabi is guarding America.”
“Look, I love art. Love murals. I even like some of those weird contemporary artworks that look like a toddler just went all ham on them. Or like you threw a bucket of paint onto a canvas. But this? This isn’t art. And if it is, it’s in poor taste. Some things you don’t, for the lack of a better term, deface. Some things are sacred. I wouldn’t go to Rome and paint a mural of the pope in fishnets.”
I close the feed, swallow hard, and think of anything other than what I watched. I don’t want them to get into my head. My goal was clear from the beginning: draw Mama’s story. But after what happened, I just couldn’t. I couldn’t just go back to drawing her happiest, most treasured moments. Because the pain exists as well.
Only a few people have wondered about Braxton and why the mural was there. Everyone else was asking about the mural itself. The result. Because that’s what people see. They forget the why.
There are still reporters and social media influencers outside the school gates. The reporters are trying to interview anyone walking in, but all the students are waving them off and hurrying inside. I’m sure each of my classmates has a whole PR agency backing their family, advising them on everything.
Before I’m close enough for the reporters to notice me, a hand grabs my arm, and I immediately jerk back.
Alexis clasps my hands. “Stop, it’s me.”
We stare at each other. I’m breathing hard while her lips are pursed. She looks spotless, like someone ironed and styled her.
“What?” I ask more harshly than I intended.
She doesn’t flinch, but there’s a clench in her jaw. “I know it’s you.”
“What?”
She bites her lower lip. “I know you’re the one who did the mural.”
The noise gets fuzzy in my ears, but I manage to laugh. “Really?”
Her face flushes pink. “The magical stories your mom alwaystalked about? The colors you stopped seeing? I should have known it was you.That’syour art style.”
I’m rooted to the ground. “You’re going to tell the principal it wasmagicthat did this? You’re going to say I’m the one who has been going all over New York with magic, painting murals?”
She flushes. “I don’t know about the rest of the murals, butthisis definitely you.”
“Right,” I say slowly, the panic settling in tiny waves all over me. “If you’re going to accuse me, shouldn’t you have proof?”
She purses her lips. “I heard you, Ji.”
I’m frozen. “Heard me.”
“Yesterday, you were right here talking to Jamie. I heard everything. So magic or not, I know it’s you.”
My skin itches, but I resist showing how rattled I am with every fiber and molecule in me. “Okay.”
She blows out a puff of air. “Okay?”
I shrug, and it catches her off guard. “Still no proof. It’s my word against yours.”
She comes closer. “I don’t need proof,” she says quietly, her blue eyes shining. “I know you did that after… after what happened that day. And I can just walk into Dr. Mérieux’s office and tell him I think it’s you. Once you’re gone, all of this will end, right?”
I stare at her, my jaw dropping. “Who the hell hurt you? Why would you do this?”
A gleam of satisfaction flashes in her eyes that she finally got to me, but it disappears when guilt twists her expression. She lets go of my arm and steps back.
“I don’t want to tell him anything.” She takes in a deep breath. “But you know you did this. I know you, Ji. I know when you’re lying. There are police in the school right now, and they will find out. And if it comes outIknew and didn’t tell anyone, I’ll get expelled.”
“But you don’t know anything,” I argue. My fingers have become ice-cold under Jamie’s gloves. “You’reliterallyspeculating.”
She takes a deep breath. “I talked about this with Mom, and I’m sorry, but I overheard you. I don’t know if those magic stories are real or not. But I’ll have to tell Dr. Mérieux what you said if you don’t come clean.”
She gives me one last look before walking toward the school, jogging to get in quickly when she reaches the reporters.
