“I don’t know.”
“I’m sorry it’s like this,” she says sorrowfully. “Jihad, I have to… if I could take you with me, I would. You know you’re always,alwayswelcome to visit anytime. We’ll talk every day. I promise.”
“With the time difference?” I ask dryly.
She hesitates. “We have some overlapping times. You know this isn’t easy for me either.”
“Well, it’s a decisionyoumade.” I know I’m being unfair. “You said our family is small. We have no one else. It’s just us. And now we’re broken up even more.”
Amal shudders in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”
“How long until I become someone you don’t talk to?”
“That willneverhappen,” she says fiercely.
“Really? We barely see each other here. You don’t believe me when I tell you I can’t see the colors because of the blessing. How do you think our relationship is going to survive with you being on another continent?”
“Jihad, please.”
“It doesn’t really matter.” I look at the notebook beside me and hug it to my chest. Tears bubble inside me, but I won’t let them fall. Not for this. “I guess I’ll be leaving, too, and then it’s just going to be Baba alone here.”
She goes quiet. “I didn’t think of that.” I hear her tapping her forehead with her palm. “Damn it. Okay, all right, if you get an acceptance to Opus, I’m telling Baba to move to Qatar. He can’t be alone.”
I huff out a laugh. “He’s alone right now, Amal. I’m alone, too, but you wouldn’t know that, would you?”
The line goes silent for so long, I think she hung up on me. But then she says, “What are you talking about?”
I guess I’m not feeling very forgiving, because my blood spikes with anger. “You haven’t been back to this apartment since the funeral. You have a fancy life, and now you have Qatar. You ran away like you’re the one who’s suffering the most. What ifIwant to run away?”
“Youare,” she snaps back. “That’s why I convinced Baba to put you in that school, because I know you want to leave New York. I’m sorry you’re seventeen with no high school diploma yet! I can’t snap my fingers and make it happen. I have a life to think about, Jihad. I have my baby’s. I’m doing what I can, but I’m not going to ask your permission onhowto live it. I’ve been more than nice. I told you to come in the summer. I told you we’ll talk every day. I told you if you want to move there, I will help you. Whatmoredo you want?”
My jaw feels heavy, and my nose burns. “Nothing,” I croak. “I want nothing from you. Have a nice flight.”
And with that, I hang up before she can reply.
She doesn’t call back.
Alexis doesn’t text me the entire weekend, even though I sent her three messages. I’m sure she and her friends discussed me extensively in their separate group chat. Monday comes too soon, and I don’t want to rehash everything with Alexis. I don’t want her to be caught between me and the girls, but I’m done trying to make nice with them.
My head is full of these thoughts as I’m walking to my locker. The hallways are pretty full, and I pass Mason and his friends, hearing him before seeing him. His locker is half open, and he’s leaningagainst it in deep conversation with the guy standing next to him. My eyes wander in his direction, and I do a double take when I catch sight of what’s plastered on the inside of his locker door.
He catches me and raises his eyebrows in question. “Yes?”
I clear my throat, shaking my head slightly. “Is… that Muhammad Ali?”
Mason glances at the black-and-white poster of Muhammad Ali standing over his opponent in victory. “Good job, Jihad. You know the sky is also blue, right?”
“You’re a fan?” I ask, trying to understand what I’m seeing and hearing.
“Who isn’t?” he replies, rolling his eyes. “He’s a testament to greatness.”
I’m speechless. Is he pulling my leg? Surely he knows what Muhammad Ali stood for, the way he fought for justice and proudly wore his identity as a Muslim.
“Right. He was. Awesome that he was Muslim too,” I say, and keep walking, not looking back to see the impact of my words. It takes me a second to realize what’s really bothering me.
For people like Mason, I have to stand out to be embraced. I have to cure cancer, be a heavyweight champion, establish myself as an essential human being who has contributed greatness to the world in order for my other “less attractive” aspects to be accepted. Or, if I’m being honest, ignored. Then it would be okay that my name is Jihad. Because then I’m not like theothers. My people can’t exist as they are. We must prove ourselves worthy of a life.
It’s such an eye-opening realization that my shoulders sag a bit from it.
