Bruised Purple
I ignore Amal’s messages and calls the entire rest of the weekend. Even Baba tries to convince me.
“Baba, talk to your sister,” he says from the doorway of my room, using the traditional word fathers call their children, but still unable, unwilling, to walk in. “Let her explain.”
“Okay,” I reply in a dull voice even though I want to scream. He doesn’t see me unless someone points it out. I’m scrolling through videos on social media, all discussing my murals.
He lingers for a few seconds before leaving me alone, and I go back to my videos.
A good number of people have deduced that the two murals are connected.
They talk about how it’s a story and are waiting for what the next mural will be.
There are some videos discussing how it’s spoiling the image of New York to have something like this splattered all over the city.
I see it trending online as #MysteryMuralist, and that hashtag makes all of this very real to me.
My pulse picks up its pace, and I wrap myself in the cocoon of my hair, finding safety in it. My art is not hurting anyone. They can’t trace it back to me. I quickly look up New York’s population, and my muscles relax when I see it’s more than eight million. I’m a needle in a haystack.
But I know deep inside that not even the fear can stop me.
It makes me slightly dizzy. I open the Notes app on my phone, placing it behind a password so no one can access it.
There are many moments in Mama’s life I want to illustrate, all leading to when she passed away.
But she was more than what happened to her.
I can give her a better ending. A peaceful one for the magical girl with an imagination so wide, it was endless.
The jellyfish were her friends, and she spoke to the Mediterranean.
He knew her, and she found herself in his waters.
I come up with a list, but I’m not committed to it. Maybe I’ll get inspiration for something different.
A message notification pops on my screen.
Amal.
Amal: talk to me
I swipe it away, but more follow.
Amal: please
Amal: you know this stress isn’t good for me or the baby
Amal: these are critical months for me
Amal: I’m leaving in three weeks by the way
Amal: I don’t want to leave with you not speaking to me
I chew on my tongue. The betrayal still feels fresh, and it hurts to know she’s been holding on to this for months. I get why she’s doing it, but I don’t understand how she could have kept it a secret. How she’s not easing me into this after everything we’ve been through.
I open the message and send an OK.
My phone immediately rings, and I let her sweat for three seconds before answering.
“Are you talking to me again?” she asks.
“I don’t know.”
“I’m sorry it’s like this,” she says sorrowfully. “Jihad, I have to… if I could take you with me, I would. You know you’re always, always welcome to visit anytime. We’ll talk every day. I promise.”
“With the time difference?” I ask dryly.
She hesitates. “We have some overlapping times. You know this isn’t easy for me either.”
“Well, it’s a decision you made.” I know I’m being unfair. “You said our family is small. We have no one else. It’s just us. And now we’re broken up even more.”
Amal shudders in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”
“How long until I become someone you don’t talk to?”
“That will never happen,” she says fiercely.
“Really? We barely see each other here. You don’t believe me when I tell you I can’t see the colors because of the blessing. How do you think our relationship is going to survive with you being on another continent?”
“Jihad, please.”
“It doesn’t really matter.” I look at the notebook beside me and hug it to my chest. Tears bubble inside me, but I won’t let them fall. Not for this. “I guess I’ll be leaving, too, and then it’s just going to be Baba alone here.”
She goes quiet. “I didn’t think of that.” I hear her tapping her forehead with her palm. “Damn it. Okay, all right, if you get an acceptance to Opus, I’m telling Baba to move to Qatar. He can’t be alone.”
I huff out a laugh. “He’s alone right now, Amal. I’m alone, too, but you wouldn’t know that, would you?”
The line goes silent for so long, I think she hung up on me. But then she says, “What are you talking about?”
I guess I’m not feeling very forgiving, because my blood spikes with anger. “You haven’t been back to this apartment since the funeral. You have a fancy life, and now you have Qatar. You ran away like you’re the one who’s suffering the most. What if I want to run away?”
“You are,” she snaps back. “That’s why I convinced Baba to put you in that school, because I know you want to leave New York.
I’m sorry you’re seventeen with no high school diploma yet!
I can’t snap my fingers and make it happen.
I have a life to think about, Jihad. I have my baby’s.
I’m doing what I can, but I’m not going to ask your permission on how to live it.
I’ve been more than nice. I told you to come in the summer.
I told you we’ll talk every day. I told you if you want to move there, I will help you. What more do you want?”
My jaw feels heavy, and my nose burns. “Nothing,” I croak. “I want nothing from you. Have a nice flight.”
And with that, I hang up before she can reply.
She doesn’t call back.
Alexis doesn’t text me the entire weekend, even though I sent her three messages.
I’m sure she and her friends discussed me extensively in their separate group chat.
Monday comes too soon, and I don’t want to rehash everything with Alexis.
I don’t want her to be caught between me and the girls, but I’m done trying to make nice with them.
My head is full of these thoughts as I’m walking to my locker.
The hallways are pretty full, and I pass Mason and his friends, hearing him before seeing him.
His locker is half open, and he’s leaning against it in deep conversation with the guy standing next to him.
My eyes wander in his direction, and I do a double take when I catch sight of what’s plastered on the inside of his locker door.
He catches me and raises his eyebrows in question. “Yes?”
I clear my throat, shaking my head slightly. “Is… that Muhammad Ali?”
Mason glances at the black-and-white poster of Muhammad Ali standing over his opponent in victory. “Good job, Jihad. You know the sky is also blue, right?”
“You’re a fan?” I ask, trying to understand what I’m seeing and hearing.
“Who isn’t?” he replies, rolling his eyes. “He’s a testament to greatness.”
I’m speechless. Is he pulling my leg? Surely he knows what Muhammad Ali stood for, the way he fought for justice and proudly wore his identity as a Muslim.
“Right. He was. Awesome that he was Muslim too,” I say, and keep walking, not looking back to see the impact of my words. It takes me a second to realize what’s really bothering me.
For people like Mason, I have to stand out to be embraced.
I have to cure cancer, be a heavyweight champion, establish myself as an essential human being who has contributed greatness to the world in order for my other “less attractive” aspects to be accepted.
Or, if I’m being honest, ignored. Then it would be okay that my name is Jihad.
Because then I’m not like the others. My people can’t exist as they are.
We must prove ourselves worthy of a life.
It’s such an eye-opening realization that my shoulders sag a bit from it.
I get my books from my locker and make my way to calculus. My brain is buzzing, but my heart lightens when I see Jamie is already there.
“Good morning,” he says when I’m near, but then his smile falters. “Are you okay?”
I blink. “Yeah,” I say in a steady voice. “Yeah, I’m good. I did the homework too.”
He leans back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Excellent. Won’t be carrying you on my back anymore, huh?”
“Not me, you won’t,” I reply, smiling. It doesn’t matter. Mason doesn’t matter. A year from now I won’t even remember who he is.
My gaze catches on the people over Jamie’s shoulder.
Hayley and Nicole. And they don’t look too happy. Nicole, in particular, looks furious.
“Uh,” I begin, and Jamie follows my line of sight.
“Right.” He grimaces. “Nicole talked to me this morning, and as you can see, it didn’t go well.”
“That must have been awkward.”
He nods. “I suppose she felt I was leading her on, but I never thought I was doing that. I apologized for it.”
I frown. “You never treated her differently from anyone else from what I’ve seen. I don’t think you led her on.”
His shoulders straighten. “Really?”
“Yeah. She may have seen something that wasn’t there, but I don’t think she should be so… upset.”
He relaxes a bit. “Thanks. I kept second-guessing myself.”
When the bell rings, lunchtime injects everyone with a boost of excitement crowding toward the cafeteria. One boy catches up with Jamie to talk to him, and I slip through the crowds, needing some time alone to think about my realization.
Considering the way Hayley and Nicole were scowling at me, I decide it’s better to stay away from the cafeteria. Mason and Nicole are definitely in there, and I’m really not in the mood to be their punching bag. The art studio is thankfully empty.
“Hey!” someone yells behind me, and I whip around, heart in my throat. No one’s around but Nicole.
She stomps toward me, her black hair flying behind her. “I should have known you’d be a snake.”
“What?” I rear back.
She’s right in front of me now, my nose taking in a huge inhale of her perfume. Her eyes are bloodshot, the red vivid, her jaw strained. She looks like a viper ready to strike. I back away, but she only comes closer.
“You tell me to my face you’ll put in a good word for me with Jamie, but then you turn around and take him for yourself? Were you laughing at me the whole time?”
I blink, an incredulous laugh escaping, but this only makes her angrier. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”