Rose Gold
What?” I gasp, but it comes out as a wheeze.
He pushes his hair back, shaking his head. “No. No. We’re not going to play this game. It’s you, isn’t it?”
I laugh. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about. What murals?”
He breathes in deep, and it shudders along his frame. “Jihad, don’t act stupid.”
“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.” My mouth is dry, and my stomach churns with acid until I know it’s going to dissolve me from the inside.
He sniffs, taking a step toward me, and I take one backward.
“I saw the way you draw. And I felt like those murals’ style looked familiar.
And then you acted strange after I said that mural of the girl with the jellyfish reminded me of your mother.
For some reason, I couldn’t shrug it off.
It kept replaying in the back of my mind, but I thought it was nothing.
And then yesterday, all of… that happened.
And today a mural shows up, and I thought of how they were showing up after something…
bad happens to you. I saw that sea turtle in the girl’s hair, and it hit me that I’ve seen it before.
On the cover of your notebook. It’s exactly the same.
And those jellyfish are not like any jellyfish I’ve ever seen.
So I google them, and guess where they’re mostly found. ”
My throat is closing up, my chest compressed like something is sitting on it.
“How are you getting around town so fast?” he asks breathlessly. “Do you have a crew?”
“Are you going to tell someone?” I ask quietly, because it doesn’t matter if I deny it from now until the end of time.
It doesn’t matter if it really wasn’t me.
If he tells the principal or the police, I’ll be in a whole load of trouble.
It will be seen as damaging property, which would be a misdemeanor.
I looked it up. Defacing multiple buildings could land me in jail.
I know being Muslim and named Jihad will only add oil to the flame.
The judicial system in this country isn’t kind, and I might end up in a juvenile facility, and that would ruin my life.
The media will spin it whichever way they want.
No proof is needed, just one person to point a finger at.
He stiffens. “Of course not.”
I can’t swallow past my closed-up throat.
“It’s you,” he says, but this time there’s no accusation in his voice. There’s wonder and awe.
I can’t look at him. I feel like an exposed wound.
Those murals were a forgotten gift from my great-aunt.
They were words I couldn’t say. No one was supposed know because no one would understand.
They can have their theories on what they’re supposed to be, what certain things mean, but the true meaning is mine to have.
But he’s been watching me. Listening to me.
My voice is momentarily gone with fear, so I just nod.
“Wow,” he breathes.
I clear my throat. “Why won’t you tell?” I croak.
He stares at me like I’ve grown two heads. “Why would I?”
I shrug.
He pushes his hair back and takes a seat on one of the chairs opposite the easel. He gestures at me to do the same.
“They’re beautiful,” he says quietly. My heart flutters at the reverence in his voice. “Is the girl your mom?”
I nod.
He leans back in his chair, rubbing his chin. “I… have so many questions.”
I massage my eyes. “I’m sure you do. Look, I don’t know what this is. We’ve…I’m…” Words fail me. I can’t forget looking up and seeing him stand there.
His cheeks become ruddy, and he glances away. “I owe you an explanation.”
“I didn’t want your help,” I find myself saying.
He bites his lower lip. “Even so. I hesitated. I didn’t know what I was looking at, and I just couldn’t move. It’s a shitty excuse, but it happened so quickly.” Guilt sears his tone.
I don’t know how to tell him I hope he forgets what he saw. The shame is still branded in my bones. If it happens again, I don’t want to tell him. I don’t ever want him to see me like that. I don’t want anyone to. Not Baba. Not Amal.
“I’m sorry,” he says. This time when I look at him, he holds my gaze.
“For not being there for you. I didn’t want to come in today, because I was embarrassed of what I did.
But when I realized it was you painting those murals…
You don’t have to tell me how you’re getting your murals out there.
I won’t ask, and I promise you; I won’t tell anyone.
But if someone from your crew can’t do it, I can. ”
I stare at him. “If you’re caught, you could be arrested.”
He shrugs. “I’ll be fine.”
“Why would you do that?”
There’s something about his expression, like he sees too much of me. “Because people should see what you draw.”
I scratch the chair’s arm. “There isn’t a crew.”
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
“You won’t believe me if I tell you.”
“Try me.” His colors brighten up a little. And yellow springs up for a second; the blond wavers to gray and back. But the contrast holds for a bit.
I take in a deep breath, debating with myself on what to say, what to hold back. I suppose telling him about the sketchbook won’t make sense unless he knows the entire story. “My mom used to tell us about how the women in our family have blessings.”
He leans forward, taking in everything I’m saying with wide eyes, his lips parted.
He doesn’t interrupt. My voice is quiet, tripping on my sentences, but I find it easier to speak the more I say.
I tell him about my great-aunt and the tree that made the sketchbook.
The memories the tree showed me. Mama, the jellyfish, and the Mediterranean. I tell him how I lost the colors.
“Is… is that why you asked me the color of my hair?”
I nod.
He whistles. “And now?”
My heart lifts. “You believe me?”
He laughs. “The evidence is right outside. Unless you’ve hired a hundred people to run the streets at night, all painting the same picture.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t have enough money for that.”
He snorts and then asks, “Can I ask what you’re drawing?”
My hands feel heavy on my lap. “My mother’s story.
Somehow it felt right. The sketchbook was supposed to be hers, but she’ll never know about it now.
It’s kind of an ode to the life she lived that no one knew.
She had cancer.” I clear my throat. “Lung cancer. She said New York air didn’t agree with her. ”
Jamie’s expression falls. “May she rest in peace.”
“Ameen.” The Arabic word slips out before I can stop it. Being so outwardly Muslim has made me feel I should tone down all of who I am. The hijab is loud enough. But Jamie just nods.
“I can’t believe you recognized my drawing style.” I try to move on from the moment.
He looks bashfully at me. “How could I not?”
Baba probably doesn’t see much of anything these days.
But Amal must have seen thousands of my drawings, and even she didn’t see how that was me out there.
Just shows how busy she’s become, how her life has broken off from mine, and I know this is what happens in life.
I know this, but I didn’t think it would happen to us.
Not after Mama died. I thought we’d become closer.
“I’m half convinced I’m dreaming,” I say. “I’ll wake up any second now, and I’ll be back in my bed and find out only two days have passed since Mama’s—and it would have just been a grief-filled depressive manic episode, I suppose.”
“So I’d only be a figment of your imagination?”
“Unfortunately so,” I say matter-of-factly. “I mean, they say people we see in our dreams aren’t made from our brains, because our brains can’t create faces, but it’s people we’ve seen before. I might have seen you on the subway or, I don’t know, walking down the street.”
A smile pulls on his lips. “And you think I wouldn’t have stopped and talked to you?”
My stomach tugs. “I—I—”
“Because I would have. If this is just a grief-filled depressive manic episode and you wake up, trust me, I’ll find you.”
My face warms, but it’s a different kind of warmth. “Why would you do that?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Because meeting someone like you is a rare occurrence.”
Jamie leaves, telling me the school think he’s sick. I’ve gotten used to the teachers’ tempo, able to take notes and listen at the same time. When Dr. Garcia picks me to answer a question, something she loves doing to make sure we’re paying attention, I answer it perfectly.
“Good job, Jeeha,” she says with an impressed smile.
I don’t even care she didn’t say my name right.
After the last class, when everyone is packing their backpacks, Alexis slides into the chair in front of me.
“Hello? Why are you making this difficult?” she hisses.
“I’m not allowed to talk to Jamie now?” I ask, irritated.
“Not in an empty classroom with no lights,” she snaps back.
I’m not even surprised she knows. It’s not like the hallways were empty when we left the art studio.
“It’s becoming really hard to explain all of this to Nicole.
She’s convinced because your parents don’t allow you to date, you’re secretly dating him behind your dad’s back. ”
My stomach feels hollow. “What?”
“I don’t think that. I know you don’t date.”
My irritation turns to anger. “I don’t have to explain the intricacies of how I date to Nicole. But how could you think I’m not allowed to date?”
She blinks. “Because you’re Muslim? Like, you don’t kiss and stuff before marriage.”
“And the only type of dating that exists is what you do? How do people in other cultures get married, Alexis?”
“I—I—” she flounders.