“Actually, no,” I say hollowly. “I live in Queens.”
The boys share a look. “Where Peter Parker is from?” one of them says.
It feels like I’m shutting down. I hear a laugh, but I don’t know if it’s at my expense.
“Yeah. I guess.”
Mason leans back in his seat casually. “So, Jihad, pretty interesting name you got there.” His tone is light, friendly, and mildly curious. But I know where this is going.
I nod, tightly gripping the edges of my seat.
“I’m just wondering about the thought process behind it,” he continues. “Like, weren’t your parents worried how that would sound living here?”
I shrug. “Well, there are school shooters called Jason and Stephen, but people still name their kids those names.”
Mason’s eyes narrow a fraction. “Yeah, but we’re talking about an ideology here, right? Isn’t that what jihad is?”
“No,” I reply, forcing my voice not to waver. This is exactly what Dylan did in class. It’s happened many times before when within ten minutes of meeting someone, I get asked questions likeDo you really think all people who don’t believe in Allah will go to hell? You think burqas are okay? Do you support sharia law? Isn’t that an excuse extremists use to stone women?and so many others. I get quiet, excited eyes dissecting me from head to toe, waiting for me to stumble my way through an answer they feel has shoved me into a corner.
“Of course,you’dsay that.” His tone becomes a tad colder. “I just think if you live in this country, you have to respect it. Especially with New York’s history. Just the other day I saw this video on these immigrants from Tunisia or Iraq, not sure, but they were harassing people on the subway. And one of them punched an old man in the face. I mean, that’s not really respecting the country you’re in, is it?”
My tongue is heavy.
“Again, I’m not trying to be an asshole here,” he says with an expression and voice that suggest otherwise. “These are facts. I knowthey’re not representative of a whole community. But stereotypes exist for a reason. They all have a degree of truth.” He thinks for a second. “I guess a stereotype for Americans would be arrogance, and it’s a bit true. Maybe jihad doesn’t mean what people think it does, but the reality is that the meaning has evolved. So why would you let your name be what the extremists are called?”
I stare at him, the heaviness giving away to something emptier. “So your only issue is my name?”
He shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t really care what you believe in. It’s a constitutional right for every American to have their beliefs. I think everyone should be equal, but that’s not reality, and so we work with what we have.”
I glance at my fingers, trying to discern any hint of brown from the gray. “And yet you’re okay with how this world works for you. You’re saying that’s reality, nothing to do about it. Let me conform to whatyouwant.” I snap my eyes back at his, anger stirring in my blood.
He raises his hands, letting out a little chuckle. “You’re taking it the wrong way. Obviously, you’re not a jihadist or anything. I don’t think the school would have let you in if you were a threat. This is just free advice to, I don’t know, change your name? Alexis mentioned your family is struggling, right? You don’t want to add more disadvantages against you.”
It’s a slap to the face, and I feel the sting of it on my cheek.
“We’renotstruggling,” I say with steel in my voice.
He nods, and his voice is too gentle. “That’s good. You have options now.”
“Hey!” Alexis says, placing her tray beside me. Jenny exhales in relief, and the other two nod at her. I know it’s because they don’t have to sit beside me.
I wish I didn’t care, but I do. It hurts to know my existence aloneelicits such a reaction. Pressure rises behind my eyes but disappears just as quickly when exhaustion rolls over me.
I wish I had Mama waiting for me back home so I could hug her and let this sadness dissolve. But I don’t let myself think of that alternate universe, because this grief is too heavy to carry it as is.
“I got you this,” Alexis says to me, placing a plate with a brownie beside my lunch. A peace offering.
I blink, warmth returning to my fingers. “Thank you.”
She gives me a small smile and then turns to Mason. “So what did we miss?”
“Nothing much.” Mason winks at me, then stands and leans across the table toward me. He holds out his hand. “Just wanted to welcome Jihad to the school and give ano hard feelingshandshake about earlier.”
I stare at him, heat rising to my cheeks.
He raises his eyebrows, giving me a pitying look. “You know it’s rude not to shake someone’s hand, right?”
Everyone’s eyes are on me, and I wish I could just leave.
