Chapter 1
Bubble-Gum Pink
Alexis Williams and I met the first day of kindergarten. I was crying, holding on to Mama’s manto, begging her not to leave me, when Alexis took my hand and in her other held up a Twix.
“Wanna share?” she asked.
I remember because I gather kindness like precious stones. Because friendship doesn’t come easily to me, and all I can do is hope to be noticed.
And Alexis noticed me.
It takes three buses and a total of one hour and twenty minutes to reach Alexis’s house the next day, but I’m happy to do it. Alexis’s house isn’t frozen in time. The sun shines through the French windows, and there’s always something delicious baking in the oven.
When Alexis opens the door, she squeals and flings her arms around my neck.
She’s in cutoffs and a tank top because the August heat has been persistent this summer. I’ve worn my lightest clothes, an oversize summer shirt and linen pants. I remember that the shirt is supposed to be blue and the pants cream. There was no air on the buses, and I sweated well into my shirt.
“I haven’t seen you in ages!” she exclaims. Her chin-length blond hair is tied into a messy, small bun at the top of her head. “We have so much to talk about.”
“How long have you known?” I ask with a raised eyebrow as she tugs me up the stairs.
Her town house has a modern twist to it, with enormous light fixtures and, from what I can remember, monochrome shades of sage.
The walls along the hallway leading to the living room are filled with different shapes of mirrors, and there are antique rugs hugging the tiled floors that her mother probably bought from an online store that takes inspiration from the Eastern side of the world.
“A while,” she admits with a cheeky grin.
I roll my eyes. “Shouldn’t I say hello to your parents?”
“Nah,” she says when we reach her room, closing the door and locking it. “They’re busy. It’s fine.”
I nod, rubbing my hands over my arms.
Alexis’s room is bubble-gum pink and teal blue.
Though everything is gray right now. Her desk is situated in front of the large windows, where the sunlight streams in, falling onto her queen-size bed.
There are potted plants in every corner and one hanging from a basket.
She’d asked me to paint the roses and peonies on her walls, back before everything happened.
Even her mom was impressed. It took me three full days to complete, and I took the bus every single day, but it was fine.
Even though I felt out of place in Alexis’s home most of the time, it was a lull from the anxiety in my home when Mama was battling cancer.
“Your eyes?” Alexis asks, and I look up at her. Her brow is furrowed with concern.
I shake my head.
“Not even like a shade of something?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I’m sorry.”
She scoffs. “What are you apologizing for?” She nods at me and sits cross-legged on the rug. “You can take off your hijab. I told dad not to come up.”
I hesitate for a second before beginning to unwrap my hijab.
I saw the way Amal used to be ostracized by friends for rules and ideologies they didn’t share.
I saw the discomfort on her face, but she held strong, not backing down.
It didn’t do her any favors, but eventually she was able to find a few friends who loved her for who she is.
I didn’t want to be like that, because I didn’t have her free, loud spirit.
I wanted to be palatable, so I kept parts of myself hidden.
If I were at a Muslim friend’s house, they would understand if I wanted to keep my hijab on because their father or brother was home.
And while Alexis never intentionally made me uncomfortable, these aren’t waters I want to test. I don’t want to come off as difficult or weird. Not more than I am.
Alexis leans on her elbows, watching me fluff out my waist-length hair.
I’ve been growing it ever since I was ten, when Mama was first diagnosed with lung cancer.
She never touched a cigarette her entire life, yet the disease festered in her lungs.
She used to say it was because she’s an island girl, her body and soul craving the saltiness of the sea. The clear island air.
“I know I’ve said this a million times before.” Alexis stares at my hair with wide eyes. “But you would be so popular without your hijab. I feel bad you have to wear it in this summer heat.”
I know Alexis doesn’t mean anything when she says that, because I know what comes after it.
“But you’re still so pretty in your hijab,” she continues. “Like, I don’t know, it makes your eyes bigger, and honestly, they’re like black holes.”
I widen my eyes even more, and she laughs.
Still, a trickle of unease spills down my spine.
There are moments in my life, in every Muslim’s life, that happen in seconds, but the effects linger and are revisited again and again, when I wish it had gone a different way.
Heartbeats where I have to make a decision and weigh out the consequences.
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 the soil 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 is Bloom1012 because she used to be obsessed with Winx Club when 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?”