Moments for me when boys extend their hands for a handshake, and I have to decide whether to shake their hands or tell them it’s not allowed in my religion. And then see them exchanging looks or the embarrassed backtrack.
The first time Alexis made an offhand comment about my hair, I was too caught up in the moment that both lasted forever and ended so quickly. When she said how popular I’d be without my hijab. It didn’t come from a place of malice; it was a genuine thought. I didn’t want to make it awkward by telling her it made me uncomfortable with how she saw my hijab, so I let it slide. And then she started saying it every now and then. Too much time has passed, and there’s no way I can bring it up now.
I loop a finger around a strand. “You think? It’s just hair.”
“It’s so thick,” she says in awe. “Not like my limp straw hair.”
“Come on. Your hair is pretty.”
She rolls her eyes. “I can hear the pity in your voice, Ji. You’re getting me a wig for my birthday?”
“There’s no pity!” I laugh, but already she’s taking my mind off my hair and the reason it exists.
Mama went into remission, and I kept growing my hair because what if the cancer came back? And I was right. It did. And then it went away again. But my hair was always there—her cushion to fall on if she wanted it after her chemotherapy. I kept telling her I wanted to give it to her, and she would run her fingers along it, telling me how beautiful my heart was.
I glance at myself in Alexis’s full-length mirror and try to see what she sees. To my eyes now, my hair is a dark gray. It should be brunette, but brown isn’t just one shade. There is so much more to brown than meets the eye. My hair is umber, the same color as thesoil under the redwoods. It would catch the sunlight and turn syrupy. Each strand knows where it should fall in natural waves with some casual frizz. I never blow-dry or straighten it because it takes ages, and we don’t have the money to splurge on weekend blowouts like the ones Alexis and her mom get.
Alexis takes a deep breath, shakes her head. She grabs my shoulders, shaking me. “I can’t believe we’re going to be in the same high school!” She gasps. “Oh my God, I just realized. We began school together, and we’re ending it together!”
“I—I didn’t think of that,” I say, dazed, her giddiness infecting me, but it fizzles out before I can hold on to it. Emotions are hard to catch, but with Alexis, I can’t help the warmth flowing to every part of my limbs. For some reason, it’s easier with her.
“Okay, I need to give you a rundown on everyone at the school.” She grabs her laptop and pats the floor beside her. “Come, child. Sit.”
I snort and scooch beside her.
She types her password, which I know isBloom1012because she used to be obsessed withWinx Clubwhen we were kids.
“You know, my parents were surprised when your dad said you’ll be attending Braxton,” she says, squinting at the screen.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask, the words coming out of my mouth before I can stop them. They sound harsh, and I wince.
Alexis blinks and glances at me. “It’s just… they didn’t think you’d want a big change after what happened to your mom.”
The tension unwinds, and I nod. “Right. Yeah.”
We’re approaching dangerous territory. Somewhere I don’t even let my thoughts go to.
But Alexis slips her hand into mine and squeezes it. “Not me, though. I’m glad you’ll be there.”
I manage to smile back.
“I told the girls all about you, and they’re really excited to meet you.”
“Really?” I can’t imagine anyone being excited to meet me. My voice isn’t as loud as Amal’s, my spirit isn’t as infinite as Mama’s, and my jokes aren’t as funny as Baba’s. In my small family, I could easily disappear. In a classroom, I don’t exist.
Which is why sometimes I wonder why Alexis is still friends with me. She’s like a sunflower, opening her petals toward the sun. I’m a crocus; my stem is embedded in the soil, and I go dormant, hiding from people’s eyes. Even my flower name isn’t pretty. Crocus.
Alexis opens an album and clicks on the first picture. “Okay, you need a quick lesson on who’s who at school. Everyone’s pretty nice, but of course, there is sometimes drama. And it’s mostly because someone stole someone else’s boyfriend. It’s so stupid.”
“Right,” I say, anxiety creeping up like little ants scurrying. I tamp it down by asking, “Is there anyone in these pictures who might be a boyfriend for you?”
Her cheeks become a shade darker. “No,” she says quickly. “I mean, I have crushes, but I crush on everyone.”
I study her for a long second while she tries her best not to meet my eyes. “Okay.”
“So we’re about a hundred and twenty.” She points at the class picture. “How many did your old school have?”
“Over a thousand,” I answer, remembering the crammed space and the wobbly desks. It was a good school, and the teachers tried their best, though, just like in any other school, there were some bullies here and there. We came from a huge variety of backgrounds, and it wasn’t rare to have financial issues. Looking at Alexis’s classmates with their different shades of white faces and smug expressions, I know I’m going to be the exception. The one sticking out like a sore thumb.
