An incoming call lights up my screen.
Amal.
I pick up.
“How was it?” she asks.
“Not as bad as I thought it was going to be.”
“Good.” She sounds relieved. “That’s very good.”
I pick at the frayed lace on my pajama shirt. We don’t mention the tension from this morning. “I don’t want to go there.”
A beat of silence, then, “What?”
I take a deep breath. “I don’t want to go to that school. There was nothing wrong with my public school. At least there everyone knows me. No one bothered me.”
“Who bothered you at Braxton?” she asks, her voice sharp.
“No one,” I groan. “Look, I was reasonable. I did what you and Baba wanted. It’s not a good fit. I’m saving him thirty-five thousand dollars.”
“It was just the first day, Jihad. That’s not enough to base your entire opinion on.”
Annoyance pricks at me. “Why isn’t anyone listening to whatIwant? This isn’tfair.”
“You sound like a child.”
I sit up, anger burning through me. “A child. Because I’m telling you what the hell I want?”
“Don’t swear,” she snaps.
“I don’t need this shit,” I say just to spite her, and hang up before throwing my phone across the room.
I rub my hands over my face and into the roots of my hair, pulling on them until I feel the pain.
Baba comes back home to find me still on my bed. He knocks on my door twice before opening it slowly.
“Salam aalaykum,” he says.
I don’t say anything and continue lying on my side, staring at the wall in front of me.
“Did you like it?”
I still don’t reply, and I hear him shifting from one foot to the other.
“Just give it a few more days.”
Silence stretches thin between us for another minute.
Then he says, “If you don’t want to do it for me or yourself, then do it for your mother. She would have wanted the best for you.”
My throat feels tight, and I can’t swallow.
Ihatethe past tense. I’ve always hated it. We don’t know what she wants, because she’s not here.
He leaves, closing the door softly behind him, but it’s deafening against my ears. I stay in bed until I lose track of time. My phone later pings with a message, and I scrabble at it. It’s from Amal, and the hope fizzles out in my chest.
Amal:I don’t want us to fight. I get you’re under stress with senior year. It’s going to be okay.
