Then she leaves, and I glance back at Jamie, who just says, “Huh?”
Jamie and I don’t talk about how summer for us together is barely a month. He told his parents he’s going back to his grandmother and the farm and that he’s been accepted to the University of Wisconsin–Madison. They were upset because he also has acceptances to Yale and Stanford, but that isn’t where his heart is.
He’s going to Wisconsin, and if I don’t get an acceptance to Opus, I’m staying longer in Qatar seeing as Baba is moving there permanently in September. He already handed over the gas station to someone else. There, if necessary, I can apply to other colleges and see what happens.
It’s five days before my flight to Qatar that I get the Envelope. It’s wedged into our mailbox and slips from my hands several times as I run up the stairs.
“Baba!” I scream when I rush into the apartment.“Baba!”
He emerges from his bedroom in fear, clearly expecting me to be hurt. But he just sees me holding up the Envelope in my trembling hands.
“Open it!” he says. “InshAllah khair, just open it!”
I try, but my hands don’t seem to work, so he takes it from me and rips it open. Several papers fall, and I kneel, trying to read, but the letters are swimming in front of my face.
“Look!” Baba exclaims, thrusting the paper he’s holding in front of me. “Accepted. I read accepted.”
Congratulations! We are thrilled to inform you that you have been admitted to the Opus School of Art for the upcoming academic year. Enclosed you’ll find—
I stare at the words. I understand them. My brain understands them. I’m trying to make them fit into my life. Trying to grasp how the beaches of San Francisco and the redwoods will be a reality.
I grab another paper to see I got a full scholarship, including housing, to the entire program. Another is a personalized letter from the dean, gushing about my sketchbook.
I personally cannot wait to meet the Artist herself.
Baba is chantingAlhumdulilahs and dialing Amal’s number while I sit on the floor, surrounded by the papers I always wanted to get.
This all happened because of Mama.
The pain she went through. Her leaving her Syria and the Mediterranean, the homesickness, the cancer, the murder. I get to have this life at her expense. I begin to sob, my ribs heaving from the force of it.
“Amal, she got in!” Baba shouts into the receiver. “Jihad, do you—what happened?”
He drops the phone and wraps his arms around me, pulling me to his chest.
“It’s okay, Baba.” He pats my head. “It’s okay.”
His shoulder becomes soaked with my tears, and I don’t know how to explain it to him. He’ll tell me it’s not my fault. That this isn’t how the world works, and I’ll know that. But I know how much she lost. How much she sacrificed. And she’s not even here to see it.
I lean away, hiccuping and gathering the papers to find my great-aunt’s sketchbook, sent back with them.
Jamie and I are back in Coney Island. It’s the last day of the summer for us. I’m leaving for Qatar tomorrow, and he’s going back to Wisconsin in two weeks with his parents. He’ll tell his parents he’s Muslim there.It’s his safe place, his happy place, where he’ll get strength from his surroundings and Bà Ngo?i will be right there with him.
I’m leaving for San Francisco two weeks before August ends. I’ve already been assigned a roommate. Serwa, a girl from Ghana whose art style is reminiscent of Monet’s. She and I have already been in contact, messaging back and forth. She’s the eldest of three siblings and has been painting ever since she was six. I’m excited to meet her, and it feels like the beginning of a friendship.
Jamie and I are where we sat during Eid. He throws a pebble into the ocean, and it sinks instead of skipping along the surface.
This might be the last time we see each other. We didn’t make any plans for the future. New York will no longer be home for me. I’ll come back to visit Mama, but I wouldn’t stay. His parents don’t seem like they’re going to be moving, so he’ll be visiting them. I have no business in Wisconsin, and he has no business in San Francisco.
“I’m going to miss you,” he says suddenly, balancing his arms on his bent knees, staring at the horizon. He looks at me, his eyes translucent. “Jihad, I’m going to miss you.”
The heart is a strange thing. Mine is pulled into two directions. To him. To San Francisco.
“Me too,” I whisper, swallowing past the lump in my throat.
“You’ll text me, right? When you get to Doha?”
“Every single day. You’re going to get sick of me.”
