Me:I don’t know who you’re talking to. I don’t like art
He’s been sending me snippets of articles online. Pictures of the murals he runs past. I don’t read them, trying to keep distance between the world and my art. I swipe past videos and comments. I’ve asked Jamie to let me know if there’s anything out of the ordinary being discussed.
But in case there are eyes in our phones and laptops, we keep the conversations vague and general.
It’s been eye-opening and surprisingly wonderful to discover what it means to be Muslim through his eyes. I find more appreciation for waking up before the sun rises to pray Fajr. He misses some prayers, remembering too late or sleeping through his alarm for the morning prayer. But the way he tries heals something within me. He starts going to the mosque every other Saturday, proudly showing me the Arabic alphabet he’s finally able to write.
Things are different now with Amal in Qatar. She sends me pictures every single day, and I don’t have the heart to tell her I don’t want to see them. That they make me feel left behind.
“I forget I don’t have to read the ingredients when I go grocery shopping here,” she says to me on the phone. It’s three in the morning for me but nine a.m. for her. She woke me up, but I don’t care. I haven’t spoken to her in weeks. “I can’t explain how amazing that is.”
I grunt in response, my eyes half closed.
“How’s school?”
I make a face. “Fine.”
Conversations between Alexis and me have gone dry. The last proper text she sent me was a month ago when Nicole threw a fit about Jamie. I’ve tried reaching out twice, but she answers days late. She still smiles at me during classes but sits with her friends and has stopped asking me to join them.
Amal tells me about Marwan’s new job and the crib she picked out for the baby. We say goodbye because she has to get ready for a housewarming party her neighbor is throwing for her.
I lie back in my bed, all sleep gone.
I sigh and lean over to my nightstand to grab the sketchbook.
I’ve drawn five more murals in the past month, since the day Jamie converted.
People have put together that the character in the murals lives in the Middle East. Probably from the Islamic architecture I’ve been painting. The sparkling domes and the crescent adorning Mama’s jewelry.
Mama and her stacks of sketchbooks like she’s living in a bubble of imagination.
Mama’s face constructed from arabesque architecture, different hues of blue and green swirling together to make the sea and country.
Mama reunited with the jellyfish, who can’t believe how much she’s grown.
The inside of Mama’s rib cage, where her heart houses her family.
And Mama falling in love with Baba, the color in her hair turning red and spreading pink and orange shades all over her body.
I was nervous painting the last one, even though I’ve been a bit liberal with Mama’s features. Baba and I were in the car heading toward the gas station when he saw it. He didn’t say anything but did a double take.
“What’s wrong?” I asked carefully.
He stared at the mural until the car behind him slammed the horn.
But throughout the day, he had a faraway gaze like he was looking at the past. At night, he looked at me and asked, “That woman in the painting looks like your mother, no?”
My heart fluttered. I suspected he would recognize my art sooner or later. “Do you think so?”
He hummed and then shook his head. “Maybe I’m seeing her everywhere.”
The murals, the sketchbook, the conversations with Jamie—they’re all an escape from school. It doesn’t get better, and it doesn’t get worse, but it’s on the precipice of becoming unbearable.
The janitor gave up on my locker, which now has a forever-broken lock. I figure if it’s going to be like that, I might as well have some fun. I take a few colored papers from an old notebook, cut them into little pieces, and tape them all over the locker. It’s a bright spot in the middle of endless gray lockers. Boys, especially Mason’s friends, still ask me to take them into a closet for some fun. I don’t let the disgust show on my face, looking them up and down before walking away. All of this happens when I’m alone, an easier target that way.
I can take all of this and more when I’m still looking through the telescope. When my future self no longer has tired lines around her eyes and her fingers are smudged from expensive acrylics.
Jamie and I make it a habit to spend lunch in the art room. It works for me to be away from everyone in the school. There’s genuine friendship here, what I always thought I had with Alexis. He replies quickly to every text I send him and emails me all the notes he took. Outside the classroom, he’s wonderful. I don’t know what he’s heard from the other students about what happens to me, what rumors there are about me. Though sometimes, he comes to class looking a little rattled and frustrated, and he won’t tell me why.
