I’m okay. I might look shaken up to you, but I’m okay. Your aunt left you a blessing I found, and it’s changed my life. The colors listen to me, and I can see them. Everything I paint is all over New York.
Amal is okay too. I don’t know if she told you, but she’s pregnant. You have a grandchild.
And I want to leave for San Francisco. I never told you that. But I want to leave. I have to. I’m sorry. Forgive me for leaving you.
Tears drip down my cheeks and nose, and I sink to the ground, hugging my knees.
Jamie carefully places the bouquet by her gravestone and crouches beside me.
I sniff, wiping a hand across my nose. “During Eid in Syria, we visit family members who passed away. Thank you for suggesting coming here.” I place a hand on the soil, digging my fingers into its rigidness but barely scraping the surface. I can’t smell the flowers. Not even the ones Jamie bought. I’m desperate to smell anything besides the icy air. My nostrils are solidified. I look at Jamie, giving him a watery smile. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
“It’s no issue,” he says in a rough voice, and then looks at Mama’s gravestone. “May I say something to her?”
I blink. “Yeah, sure.”
He clears his throat. “Mrs. AlQudsi, Jihad’s mom, Salam alaykum. I’d like to introduce myself. My name is Jamie Murphy, and I’m eighteen years old. I’ve recently become Muslim. I’m pretty good at soccer, and my favorite food is anything my grandmother makes. I’m Jihad’s friend, and I think I’d like to tell you about her. I’m not sure if anyone has. She’s…” He smiles, eyes faraway above her headstone. “Brilliant. I know you’ve seen the art she draws, but I can tell you she brings life to it. And not just because they’ve turned into murals all over New York. Yeah, everything she draws in the sketchbook she found is on nearly every building. But that’s not what I’m trying to say. There is emotion in every color and sketch. She’s funny and kind. She shines so brightly in school that everyone can’t help but look at her. She thinks they’re staring because of her name and hijab, but I know most of them are staring because she simply glows.
“When I first talked to her, I felt incredibly intimidated because as kind as she is, she’s brave. I know she doesn’t see it. She tries to keep her head down, but I’ve seen her not back away when someone tries to hurt her. She doesn’t let them get to her. The times when she does smile, I can’t help but stare. She told me how you spoke to thejellyfish and whales and how you breathed in the Mediterranean. I think she could do the same. I think when she goes to San Francisco, she’ll find the relatives of those jellyfish because I know they talk to one another. I just know they’ve heard of her. I want you to know she’s changed my life, and I’m just the beginning of a long list of people who will absolutely love her. Thank you for her. Thank you for naming her Jihad.” He finally looks at me, smiling. “She’s all the colors of bravery.”
Coral Orange
I stay quiet fora long time, answering Jamie in gestures or one-syllable words. He doesn’t look the least bit worried that I’m upset, and I’m not. Because the silent, stunned expression on my face says it all. Jamie’s own expression is strange. There’s a splash of frustration mingling with the melancholy. He looks like theMona Lisa, and I know why.
I’m dazed out of every word.
No one has ever said anything of that magnitude or depth about me.
My parents did shower me and Amal with love, but I don’t think I was ever praised for who I was. I was seen for the art I drew and the studying I did. But me… the essence of who I am, the little things I do, was never spoken about.
He asks me if I’d like to know where we’re going next, and I shrug.
“All right,” he says gaily, all the melancholy gone. “It’ll be a surprise!”
We look like an odd couple. Him smiling so wide he might get permanent lockjaw, and me with a blank, shocked expression.
I want to analyze everything he said. I try memorizing the words to repeat them to myself or at least write them down somewhere, but already I’m forgetting the exact wording.
Jamie orders a taxi that meets us outside the cemetery, and I’m not sure whether the rich have access to more instant taxis than the rest of us.
“You hungry?” Jamie asks when we’re inside the cab, warming our hands in front of the heater.
I shrug again.
“I don’t think there’s halal food where we’re going.” He frowns, his nose scrunching. “I keep forgetting to check for these things.”
“It’s okay,” I say quietly, and stare out the window.
I’m funny and kind, and I shine.
I’m brave.
There’s a bit of traffic on the way, but I don’t notice it. The cab finally stops, and I peer outside to see the huge Coney Island sign.
“Oh my God,” I breathe out. “I haven’t been here since I was twelve.”
Jamie pays the fare, and we get out.
On a Friday, Luna Park is a bit empty, but there are some Muslim families with their children and a few other people walking around. The hum of the roller coasters rumbles through the air, and the noise from the whole park isn’t as loud as it’ll be this evening. Still, I can smell a hint of the hot dogs and sugary waffles wafting toward us. The lines for the rides aren’t long.
