“Is… is that why you asked me the color of my hair?”
I nod.
He whistles. “And now?”
My heart lifts. “You believe me?”
He laughs. “The evidence is right outside. Unless you’ve hired a hundred people to run the streets at night, all painting the same picture.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t have enough money for that.”
He snorts and then asks, “Can I ask what you’re drawing?”
My hands feel heavy on my lap. “My mother’s story. Somehow it felt right. The sketchbook was supposed to be hers, but she’ll never know about it now. It’s kind of an ode to the life she lived that no one knew. She had cancer.” I clear my throat. “Lung cancer. She said New York air didn’t agree with her.”
Jamie’s expression falls. “May she rest in peace.”
“Ameen.” The Arabic word slips out before I can stop it. Being so outwardly Muslim has made me feel I should tone down all of who I am. The hijab is loud enough. But Jamie just nods.
“I can’t believe you recognized my drawing style.” I try to move on from the moment.
He looks bashfully at me. “How could I not?”
Baba probably doesn’t see much of anything these days. But Amal must have seen thousands of my drawings, and even she didn’t see how that was me out there. Just shows how busy she’s become, how her life has broken off from mine, and I know this is what happens in life. I know this, but I didn’t think it would happen to us. Not after Mama died. I thought we’d become closer.
“I’m half convinced I’m dreaming,” I say. “I’ll wake up any second now, and I’ll be back in my bed and find out only two days have passed since Mama’s—and it would have just been a grief-filled depressive manic episode, I suppose.”
“So I’d only be a figment of your imagination?”
“Unfortunately so,” I say matter-of-factly. “I mean, they say people we see in our dreams aren’t made from our brains, because our brains can’t create faces, but it’s people we’ve seen before. I might have seen you on the subway or, I don’t know, walking down the street.”
A smile pulls on his lips. “And you think I wouldn’t have stopped and talked to you?”
My stomach tugs. “I—I—”
“Because I would have. If this is just a grief-filled depressive manic episode and you wake up, trust me, I’ll find you.”
My face warms, but it’s a different kind of warmth. “Why would you do that?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Because meeting someone like you is a rare occurrence.”
Jamie leaves, telling me the school think he’s sick. I’ve gotten used to the teachers’ tempo, able to take notes and listen at the same time.When Dr. Garcia picks me to answer a question, something she loves doing to make sure we’re paying attention, I answer it perfectly.
“Good job, Jeeha,” she says with an impressed smile.
I don’t even care she didn’t say my name right.
After the last class, when everyone is packing their backpacks, Alexis slides into the chair in front of me.
“Hello? Why are you making this difficult?” she hisses.
“I’m not allowed to talk to Jamie now?” I ask, irritated.
“Not in an empty classroom with no lights,” she snaps back. I’m not even surprised she knows. It’s not like the hallways were empty when we left the art studio. “It’s becoming really hard to explain all of this to Nicole. She’s convinced because your parents don’t allow you to date, you’re secretly dating him behind your dad’s back.”
My stomach feels hollow. “What?”
“Idon’t think that. I know you don’t date.”
