A small whisper in my heart knows exactly why she’s leaving. I just didn’t think I would be left behind like this. But my anger covers everything. The colors are chaotic, the gray weakening like I’m punching through it.
Suddenly, this city feels like a monster opening its jaws to swallow me whole. It took everything from me and still wants more.
I stop and look around, unsure of where I’m going. The white gate of Washington Square Park gleams in front of me. It’s a bright Saturday afternoon, and the park is filled with families and other people enjoying the very last summer days that are more sweet than hot.
The conversations around me create a lull in my brain, a sort of white noise that calms me. A man gets up from the bench in front of the fountain, and I take his place.
I cross my legs, pulling them close to me, and watch the fountain for a second before my eye catches on something. My mural is painted on the ground. I look down to see that all of it is here, magnified. Under my bench is one of the jellyfish settled on a strand of Mama’s hair. Children run around the jellyfish, making a game out of it, while a toddler is stomping her little feet on the water bubbles.
A sob builds in my chest that disappears just as quickly.
How could Amal do this? How could she leave us? How could sheleave me to take care of Baba? How could she just move to the other side of the world and start anew?
I’m leaving too, I think fiercely.I’mnotstaying here.
There’s a whole life waiting for me in San Francisco.
Iwillget early admittance with a full scholarship to the Opus School of Art. I’ll graduate from Braxton, passing every single class. I will get a part-time job in San Francisco and move into an apartment that’s near the ocean. I will tell the jellyfish there about Mama, and they’ll pass her story all over the oceans and seas until it reaches the Mediterranean. Her story will reach her home.
“Jihad?” a voice says, and I look up, my gaze blurry then sharpening.
Jamie stands in front of me with an astonished look that turns into a grin.
This is the first time I’m seeing him outside school and out of uniform. He’s wearing linen pants and an unbuttoned white shirt with a turtle T-shirt.
“Hi,” I say, breathless. The switch in my brain from anger to surprise is jarring. The rest of my body needs a minute to catch up.
“Well, this just made my weekend. I was out for a walk.” He’s still smiling and then nods at the empty space beside me.
“Sure,” I say, still flustered. My brain is two seconds slower than reality. “How—why?”
“I live near here, in the West Village.” He sits, pivoting toward me. His smile falters for a second, and he squints intensely at me. “Are you okay? Your nose is incredibly red.”
I immediately rub at it. “I’m fine.” My voice comes out scratchy. I clear my throat.
“You sure?”
“I’m fine,” I repeat with an edge. “Sorry.”
He shakes his head. “I’m here if you want to talk about it.”
“Thank you.”
His expression softens. The irritation still hasn’t left my system, so I say, “Don’t look at me like that.”
He frowns. “How?”
“Like you’re pitying me.”
He lets out an incredulous laugh. “There are a lot of feelings I’m feeling, but I promise you, pity is not one of them.”
I hug my knees to my chest. He watches me while I watch the fountain.
After a second, I say, “Sorry I snapped. That wasn’t fair of me.”
I see him smiling from the corner of my eye. “Thank you.” A few moments pass, and then he asks, “Do you want to talk about it now?”
My lips twitch, and he says, “You can smile. I won’t tell anyone.”
