She never told me about him. I asked her if she was seeing someone, and she said she wasn’t.
The loneliness is a slap in my face, waking me up. While Alexis is my only friend, I am one of many. There are moments in her life she hasn’t shared with me, because I wasn’t there. I’m her friend out of nostalgia. I wonder if I’d met her for the first time today if she would have taken my hand like she did in kindergarten.
I know the answer, but I don’t want to think about it.
I can’t even be upset.
Alexis stopped coming over as much when her family moved to their new house. She visited three times over the years. Eventually, I stopped inviting her.
I don’t know when I started realizing how different our lives were. Her home was brand-new and straight out of an interior designmagazine. Mine was filled with old furniture Mama brought over from Syria when she first got married.
I wanted to be someone she liked. Someone she kept. Someone her mother wouldn’t mind her being friends with, even if my name is Jihad. To do that, I kept things hidden. I don’t pray in front of her and don’t speak in Arabic when she’s around. I don’t tell her when it’s Ramadan unless she asks. There are parts of me I hide.
And even knowing this, knowing my best friend and I exist in fractions in this friendship, it’s the only thing I’ve got. Because it doesn’t matter if I don’t know about the floppy-haired boy and she doesn’t know how deep my depression goes. She’s the only friend who stayed. The one who believes in the blessing.
Peachy Rose
Everyone, get intogroups of two,” Dr. Preston says loudly as she types on her laptop. “This is your partner for the rest of the semester.”
Seatmates and friends find each other, and I sit there, my fingers numb.
I wish I were at my old school. I wish I were anywhere but here. I wish I could breathe. I wish I was driving on I-80. I wish. I just wish.
I look around, but no one’s paying me any attention. There were no empty seats beside anyone, so I sat alone. I try to speak, but nothing comes out. Alexis is already sitting next to Hayley, Nicole, and Jenny. Nicole slinks her arm through Alexis’s, saying something to her.
“Everyone got their partner?” Dr. Preston asks, and a murmur of confirmation sweeps through the class.
I take a deep breath and raise my hand. “I’m sorry, Dr. Preston. I don’t have a partner.”
She squints at me. “Yes, the new girl, isn’t it? Remind your name?”
Here it goes. “Ji—Jihad Dabbagh.”
I can feel wide eyes staring at me. I see Jenny whisperingsomething in Hayley’s ear, who presses a hand over her mouth to stop her giggling.
“Right,” Dr. Preston says, looking unfazed. Her hair is pulled back into a tight bun, and her no-nonsense air puts an end to the murmurs. She glances at the attendance sheet in front of her. “Hmm, but we have an even number of students in this class.” She sweeps her gaze over everyone. “Who here doesn’t have a partner?”
I close my eyes. The humiliation can’t get any worse than this. Baba will have to get a refund on the tuition because I can’t stay at this school.
“Ah, sorry, it’s me,” Jamie says, and my eyes fly open. He stands, rubbing the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “I wasn’t really focused on what you asked us to do.”
Dr. Preston narrows her eyes. “Make sure it doesn’t happen again, Mr. Murphy.”
Jamie apologizes and shoulders his bag before making his way to sit beside me. The student who was beside him looks disgruntled but smooths their expression when another student sits beside them.
Jamie opens his laptop and starts taking notes as Dr. Preston goes on with the lesson. I stare at him, confused. But I don’t say anything. There’s no time between all the molar mass explanations.
When the bell rings, I turn toward him, but before I can say anything, he says, “Yes, I had a partner. Yes, I left them to be yours. Yes, they’re fine. No, I didn’t do this because I pity you. It’s called lending a helping hand. May I have your number?”
I blink, and a surprised laugh falls from my lips.
He stares at me, a softness creasing in his eyes. The shades of gray on him blur for a second.
“You can laugh,” he says, teasing.
“On very rare occasions,” I reply, but just like that, the fuzziness in my chest vanishes. The void consumes it.
He extends his phone toward me. “Phone number, please.”
