My stomach squeezes.
“Alexis told us you think it was a hate crime. So you think if you can’t catch the murderer, we’ll do, right? Is this why you painted the Statue of Liberty as a Muslim woman? Like a threat? I mean, how stupid can you be? As if we wouldn’tknowit was you?”
I don’t hear half the things she’s saying. Blood thunders in my ears, and I’m shaking.
“Hello?” she says when I’ve been quiet for a while. “Can you hear me?”
She says it slowly like I’m someone who doesn’t understand English.
I don’t think I’ve hated many people in my life. Hate is all-consuming, and grief has drained the life out of me. But I do hate Nicole.
Suddenly she shoves me back so hard, I nearly trip trying to steady myself. I guess my staying silent infuriates her more than anything. The door opens, and I see Jenny slipping out. But then Nicole grabs my bag, yanking it out of my hand, and throws it to the other side of the classroom.
“You won’t need to study after this school expels you,” she spits out. “Not even community colleges will take you.”
“Are you okay?” I say, breathing heavily and tapping my forehead. “Like in here?”
This makes her face turn red, and she lunges at me, but I jam my elbow into her shoulder, and she hisses out in pain.
“Youbitch,” she snarls, and I’m astounded at what I’ve done. This might get me kicked out of Braxton, but at this moment, I don’t care.
The door opens again, and, for a brief moment, I think a professor is here to save me. But it’s not a professor. My heart drops when I see Mason and Adrian.
I move backward to grab my bag, but Adrian beats me to it and holds it far away from me.
“We passed Jenny looking a bit upset. What happened?” Mason asks.
“She hit me,” Nicole snaps, rubbing her shoulder like I’ve sliced it open with a knife.
“Of course she did,” Mason says, and then he settles his gaze on me. “Don’t you have an eye for an eye in your Quran? I mean, there should be justice here, right?”
Ice-cold water washes over my nerves.
“Is it bruised, Nicole?” Mason asks, and she rolls down the collar of her shirt.
“It’s beginning to,” she says, even though there’s nothing on her skin. “It’s red.”
“Eye for an eye,” Mason says, advancing on me, and I back away, my mouth stuck, my voice gone. Of course this would happen. The fact that there were no consequences before has made them even bolder.
I’m terrified, and I feel my bones shaking, but I can’t move. There’s nowhere to run. I can’t even scream. The fear is so potent, it becomes painful. And all I can think of is Mama. They sense my fear even if my expression is blank. They smell it in the air, and it excites them. This feels like a scene out of a movie, but I know how common this violence can be. How easily people can fall into it. There are countless stories with much darker endings.
I think I might have tried to run because now someone is holding my hands behind my back. I think it’s Adrian. My stomach lurches at him touching me again, but I don’t have time to fully process it when Mason jabs his elbow into my shoulder. It’s a concentrated stabof pain, jolting all over my arm. I feel it like shock waves radiating over and over. I bite my tongue, not letting myself scream out.
“Your turn, Nicole.” He steps back. “Until it bruises. That’s only fair. Right, Jihad?”
Her smile is vicious, elated at humiliating me. At the support she has from her friends. And just like what happened to Mama, no one steps forward. No one says this is wrong. No one stands up for me.
Nicole digs her elbow into my arm over and over again until I cry out. Sweat beads on my forehead, dripping down my cheeks. Adrian has tightened his hold, and I think my arms are about to snap off. I don’t look at Alexis, not wanting to see her expression. Hatred is all I feel.
“All good?” Mason asks Nicole. “Do you feel like justice was delivered?”
Nicole hums, eyeing me up and down. “I don’t think she got the message, though.”
“I agree,” he says, and holds my chin, jerking my head up. “Maybe a reminder?”
When they’re done and gone, I’m on the floor, my hands shaking and my nose dripping blood into a small puddle in front of me. Pinching my nose with one hand, I reach for my bag with the other, hiccuping and trying to breathe in, trying not to cry.
My blood smears along the front of the bag, but it’s barely visible against the black color. I fumble with the zippers, trying to remember where I placed my pack of tissues. I find them on the third try, squeezed between my books, and this time, the blood does stain the notebooks.
