“Yeah,” I finally say with a smile that feels anything but genuine. “Everything’s okay.”
She pulls me into a hug. She smells like a strawberry. “This is going to be good for you, Ji. This year is going to change everything.”
I make it out of Alexis’s house within a half hour. The dinner was awkward with me, Linda, and Alexis engaging in small talk or sitting in silence. As soon as I step out the door, the air becomes sweeter. On the bus, I open the text chain I have with Amal.
Me:how’s baba gonna pay for the school?
She answers after a minute.
Amal:it’s none of your business
Me:yeah it is
My phone lights up, ringing.
“No, it’s not.” She sounds tired. It must have been a long day at the office. She’s an architect at a firm that doesn’t think breaks orsleep are basic human needs. “You’re seventeen. Please, just focus on school. Get the grades. And go to college. You’re not a parent.”
“Did you talk him into this?” I say, speaking in a mix of English and Arabic. “I’m doing fine, okay? I don’t think it’s right he should be spending thirty-something grand on this.”
Amal scoffs. “You’re not fine. And don’t you want to leave New York? You know colleges on the West Coast will want excellent grades. You… well… you have good grades. And you have your talent in drawing. But you’re not in any extracurricular activities or anything like that. You won’t stand out. Braxton can give you a leg up.”
I chew my tongue. Amal is the only person I’ve breathed a word to about my plans to go to college out of state. On the other side of the country. Baba still thinks I’m applying to NYU, and I know it would hurt him if he knew I couldn’t live at home anymore. It feels like a far-fetched dream when getting to Opus all hangs on scholarships. There’s no way I can afford an out-of-state college, but there is no place for my art like Opus.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
I can practically see my sister roll her eyes. “You’re changing the subject.”
“I don’t want to argue. It’s not like I have a say in this anyway.”
She seems to consider this for a second before saying, “Trying out a new recipe.”
“Where’s Marwan?”
Marwan is Amal’s husband. They met through a blind date, Muslim edition. One of her friends set them up during the iftar the Muslim Student Association organizes every Ramadan. Amal and I grew up with parents whose love for each other only grew stronger. Who wanted us to find that love for ourselves one day, and so they weren’t surprised when Amal came home and told them all about the tall, nerdy boy who stole her heart with his knowledge of gameprogramming. That was back in the day when we had a life within the Muslim community. Then the weight of the cancer took that away from us. There was no time to go to meetups or to the masjid if not for prayer. Then one day, we were all alone.
Now after her marriage, Amal has moved to SoHo, where her ironclad working hours are a barrier to us seeing each other.
“Vacuuming,” she says. “It’s his turn to clean and mine to cook. That’s enough changing the subject.”
“You think I can leave now?” I murmur, closing my eyes, and I see myself barefoot on the beaches of San Francisco, a pink sunset bathing me in her glow. The gulls are crying, the water is rumbling, and I feel alive.
“Yes,” Amal says simply. “You’re wasting away here.”
“At least Baba will have you.” I can’t imagine him working at the gas station alone, coming back home to an empty apartment where Mama’s ghost haunts him and the echoes of Amal and me linger in the air.
“Yes,” she says, and her voice is a bit strained. Before I can ask what’s happening, she exclaims, “Crap. I burned the rice. I have to take care of this. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Okay, love you.”
She hangs up before saying it back, and I sigh, looking out the window. My skin itches, and I wish I could see the colors of the sunset. I take a picture of it so hopefully I can see it one day.
The bus reaches my stop, and I grab my bag, walking toward the front. As I pass, a man hisses out, “ISIS bitch.”
It’s a split second, but it shakes me to my core, and I nearly stumble. I rush forward instinctively, worried he’ll grab my arm and twist it. Or slam me down in the narrow aisle. Pull a gun and point it at me. This sort of thing isn’t supposed to happen in blue New York. But it does.Blood… there was blood…
I’m off the bus, clutching my knees and breathing, but the air isn’tgoing in. There’s no room in my lungs for oxygen. They’ve shriveled like raisins, and I think I’m going to die.
People pass me, not one sparing me a glance, and those who do just raise their eyebrows and hurry on. My vision blurs, and I reach out to lean on a pole. The metallic smell sears my nose.
