Chapter 2
Sunrise Yellow
I don’t tell anyone what happened on the bus.
Amal would be angry and demand I go to the police and report it. Baba would be worried out of his mind, but he wouldn’t do anything. He can’t.
I know I should be in therapy to process the aftermath of losing Mama. Because of the sudden way she was taken from us. The panic attacks, the anxiety, the void. But our health insurance doesn’t cover therapy, and I never felt comfortable with my old school’s therapist.
So I did my own research.
I looked up panic attacks because they were starting to make me worry I might die from the lack of oxygen. There was nothing on Google about how to deal with exactly what happened to Mama. And I just couldn’t—can’t—dissect each coping mechanism until finding the one that clicks with me.
So I let the void take over.
For the next couple of weeks before school begins, I stay home and order my uniform online.
The girls’ uniform is a knee-length skirt, which doesn’t work for me, being a hijabi and all, so I order the boys’ uniform and pray it fits.
There is nothing in the school’s rule book saying that female students aren’t allowed to wear pants.
All it said was the uniform should be worn.
And I plan on doing just that.
Finally, the first day of school arrives.
I smooth down my shirt, making sure there are no creases, tucking it into my slacks before putting on the blazer.
I sigh, looking at myself from each side.
Even though these are my measurements, the uniform was clearly made for boys.
The sleeves are a tad too long. I fold them over the blazer’s cuff, trying to go for a chic look.
The slacks, thankfully, don’t drag on the floor, but I’ll have to be careful not to run or else I might trip.
I look up a video on YouTube about how to put on a tie, manage to make a knot resembling what it should be, and wrap a hijab that I hope my memory remembers correctly is gray.
Baba has already gone to work at the gas station. He left without saying goodbye or good luck. But I’m not surprised, and it doesn’t hurt me anymore. I think. My father isn’t my father anymore.
I’m not hungry, my stomach woozy with nerves, so I put on my shoes and leave.
I find Amal parked right in front of our building in her old Toyota Camry.
“What are you doing here? Don’t you have work?”
She lowers her sunglasses and smiles. “Took the morning off. And look at that uniform. God, why does it fit you like that?”
“They let you?” I ask, ignoring her comment and opening the door.
She hands me a to-go coffee cup and an everything bagel she bought from the deli down the street.
“You… you didn’t have to do all of this,” I stammer, the heat crawling up to my cheeks. “Amal, this is a lot.”
“Wow, you’re easy to please.” She laughs and turns the ignition. “Let’s get you to school.”
I take a sip of the coffee, trying not to smile. “Hey, what color is my hijab?”
She glances at me. “Gray, right?”
“Thank you.”
“Is it gray? Or is it a fancy artist color name?”
“No, it’s gray. You know I can’t see colors.”
Amal sighs. “You’re on that again? Then how did you choose this hijab?”
My skin prickles. “I guess I remembered where I put it. Do you think I’m lying?”
She shakes her head. “I think you’re still living in Mama’s dreams. They were just stories, Jihad.
You know, I researched this ‘sudden loss of color,’ and nothing came up.
Not with what happened to you. We did tests.
You weren’t exposed to fertilizers or styrenes, whatever that means.
Then you said it’s the blessing gone wrong.
I believe you believe that. But it’s not reality. ”
Amal stopped believing a long time ago. I’m not sure when her turning point was or what made her change her mind, but I could tell she was humoring Mama when she would tell her stories. And after Mama died, Amal completely gave up.
Still, it makes my throat tight and my hands clammy when Amal dismisses it. Dismisses what I believe. What I can and can’t see with my own eyes. The bagel is too heavy in my hands, and the coffee too sweet. I wish I could throw them away.
Amal sighs. “Look, I didn’t mean to upset you on your first day. I’m sorry.”
I glance out the window, biting my tongue. “There’s nothing to apologize for. You believe what you believe.”
Amal rolls up the windows and blasts the air-conditioning, the summer heat still sticking to the air like tar. Her hijab, which is square shaped, unlike mine, fits her perfectly. With her large black sunglasses, she looks like one of those 1950s movie stars in a convertible.
“How’s Baba?” Amal asks after a while.
I fiddle with my fingers. “He’s… he’s okay.”
“Really?”
I shrug. “I mean, we’re not like how we used to be back in the day. We don’t sing Fairuz, and he doesn’t tell me about Syria and stuff anymore.”
Amal gives me a sideways glance. “He still doesn’t talk to you?”
“There’s nothing to say.” My mouth feels heavy.
I don’t know how to tell Amal that because she left, Mama’s ghost doesn’t haunt her like she haunts Baba and me.
Mama isn’t in her apartment in SoHo, but Baba and I see her sitting on the old maroon sofa with the peeling leather at the back, her legs tucked under her while she reads a book.
We see her standing in front of her vanity, touching up the blush on her cheeks. We see her everywhere.
So, of course, we don’t have any words left to say to each other. Baba’s voice is gone, muted along with Mama’s. She took his imagination with her.
“Jihad, this isn’t right,” Amal says quietly, and I slide my hands into the pockets of the slacks and grip my thighs tightly.
I breathe through my nose so I don’t explode in her face. This isn’t the time, and I don’t want to start the first day at my new school with my blood boiling.
I let the emptiness take over.
“You both need to face what—” she continues.
“No offense, Amal, but I don’t want to talk about this, okay?” I say in a measured tone that sounds like a scream in this car.
The air between us turns icy, a white fog that hides us from each other. She doesn’t say another word the whole drive. We’ve hit the quota of almost fights before this one turns into a real one.
Since Mama died, Amal has been handling me with kid gloves. When we shared the same room, fights between us were the norm and usually ended with me backing down because she was older and stronger. Now she lets me get the last word.
“I suppose you don’t want to tell me if you’ve painted anything lately either,” she says casually, turning the icy atmosphere between us into a different type of chill.
“I’m good,” I say shortly, staring intensely out the window, and she sighs quietly.
The closer we get to Braxton Academy, the more the buildings look elegant, the people rosy faced and the streets cleaner.
Braxton takes up several buildings with a wide courtyard, looking like old money and dark history built from the ground up.
It’s as if I’m walking up to the haughty smirk of a beast only to be swallowed into its bowels.
The buildings are vast, spanning great heights, and reminiscent of Georgian architecture.
There is not one crack in the columns and pilasters, whose design must have been carved by human hands rather than machines.
Everything about this school emphasizes its history and importance, as if the building grew roots buried deep underground.
There’s a drop-off section just outside the gates, and Amal steers in, stopping behind an Audi whose driver gets out and opens the door for whoever is inside to climb out.
There are students everywhere, friends reuniting after the summer, hugging and laughing. They walk in packs and shout to one another. Those walking by our car give us surprised looks, and some hide their mouths behind their hands, dissecting the very old Camry with their eyes.
“Boy, do I miss high school,” Amal says, sarcasm dripping from her tone.
“Thanks.” I grab my bag. “Just what I need to hear.”
Amal puts her hand onto my shoulder, and I steel myself, facing her.
“You’re going to be fine,” she says seriously, and then wipes an invisible speck of something from my cheek. “Just…” She chews on her words, and I know what she wants to say.
A long time ago, she would have told me the old cliché of Be yourself! There are so many memories to make and friends to meet!
Not now. Not after everything we’ve been through.
“I’ll keep my head down,” I say, and the pain in my sister’s eyes could have broken me if I weren’t already in pieces.
She grabs me into a hug, and I let her hold me for a few seconds before I pull away.
“Here.” She pushes a piece of Tupperware into my hands. “Your lunch.”
“Thank you,” I say, staring at it for a second before getting out.
“Text me!” she calls.
I give her a thumbs-up while looking ahead.
I pull the strap of my bag closer, trying not to feel self-conscious. Like everyone around me is staring. Even though they might be.
The grass outside the main building is perfectly mowed, the smell somehow more pronounced in the morning’s humidity.
I don’t linger by the entrance, staring at the architecture of the high dome or the winding staircases that look like they’re transported from a boarding school whose students exclusively study Dante’s Inferno and find themselves sacrificing a friend to an eldritch god.
I don’t make any eye contact, heading directly to administration to get my schedule. In the acceptance letter, I was told to be sure to go to administration as it’s my first day in this school.
Once I’m there, I wait in line behind a smartly dressed woman in a suit who seems like she’s drenched herself in a flowery perfume. It instantly goes to my head, constricting the blood vessels and giving me a headache.