We sit at a near empty café not far from the school, which will give us privacy for our conversation. It also faces one of my biggest murals. Mama turns her head to me, winking, butterflies fluttering from the ends of her eyes.
Audrey takes out her notebook, flipping it to an empty page. “I won’t record this. I’ll just take notes.”
“Thank you.”
“All right. Let’s begin.”
I smile, nodding at the mural. “I did that.”
She stares at me.
I pull out the sketchbook I’ve been gripping tightly under thetable. “The murals are all mine. I don’t want to talk about how they came to be all over New York. Banksy doesn’t, so why should I?”
Audrey is still frozen. I wave my hand in front of her, and she comes to life. “Are youkiddingme?”
“You said you didn’t care if I was the one behind the murals,” I say, astounded.
“That’s because I didn’t think itwasyou,” she retorts, pressing her hands to her face. “I thought if you did a mural, it was going to be the one at the school.” She slams the table with her palms. “Oh my God, thatwasyou too. Holy crap! Holy cow! How are younoton the cover ofVogueright now?”
I laugh. “I don’t want that. Audrey, I won’t tell you how I do it. And I don’t want this article to have my name on it. When you describe me, make it vague. You talk about the school and the things they let happen. But don’t name Mason and Adrian. Don’t incriminate yourself.”
She nods frantically. “You could go toThe New Yorkerwith this. OrThe New York Times. Pulitzer too? No, they don’t have a newspaper. Oh God, I’m freaking out. Why did you choose me?”
“Because you told me why you want to be a journalist. You were honest and real, and I think you’ll do it justice.”
Her cheeks become a rose pink. “I’ll give it my absolute best.”
“You sure? This might cause trouble.”
She shakes her head. “My aunt is a journalist, and she can tell me exactly how to write a piece without any legal action being taken against us. I’ll run it by her. Plus, the school only told me not to write smut or gore. This is neither.”
I laugh and turn to the latest page in my sketchbook, where I drew and roughly painted the latest drawing this morning on my way to school. Mama holding two pomegranates, cradling them in her arms, her tears falling onto their surface with aMona Lisasmile.
Audrey doesn’t take the sketchbook but traces the edges in wonder.
“This will be up tomorrow. That’s how you know it’s me. I don’t want my name to be out there. I know there will be people who might make the connection, but I want the anonymity. For now.”
Audrey closes her eyes, takes in several deep breaths. She shakes her head, cracks her knuckles, and whispers to herself, “You trained your whole life for this.”
Then she taps her pen on her notebook. “There’s been a pattern to these murals. Kind of like a story. But the one at Braxton felt like a deviation. Is that right? Or are they all part of the same concept?”
I take in a deep breath and tell her everything. She lets me finish before asking questions that open up to more answers I never thought of. She writes it all down, doesn’t record anything, which puts me at ease. She listens to the recording I did in Dr. Mérieux’s office and breathes forcefully through her nostrils at what he says.
By the end of it, she glances down at her notebook and says, “We can’t really use the recording. But this… this is a story.”
“I’m not the exception,” I tell her, needing her to understand. “There are Jihads everywhere with their own similar stories, made to feel exactly like me. Or worse. This story isnotabout being a victim. This is not a story people should read and feel pity. I told you because people need to bear witness. Because I need to fight back.”
She gives me a strange look. “Pity? There is just awe.” She taps her notebook, filled with everything she wrote. “I’m going to need some time to gather my thoughts. But it should be up on the website on Friday.”
I nod, inklings of anxiety flaring up.
“This is going to be amazing,” Audrey reassures me. “This is… a once-in-a-lifetime event. Your art is beautiful, Jihad. People love it. You’ll find so much support from everyone. There’s nothing to be scared about. I’msohappy for you and for all the doors this will open for you.” She lets out a small laugh. “Man, and I thought you’d get in trouble for me writing this article. There’s so much evil in thisworld that goes by unaccounted for, and when we have something like this”—she nods at my mural—“that’s where we draw the line? Nah, I don’t think so. Besides, I don’t know how you did it. No one does.” She winks. “Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s not. Who’s to say?”
Amal checks on me later in the afternoon and is relieved when I tell her it went well.
“He hung up on me,” Amal says, telling me how she spammed Dr. Mérieux’s lines until he answered. “I called him many colorful words, and he didn’t like that.”
“He did act like a colorful word.”
