Rose Gold #2
I stare at her, a horrible thought slithering into my head.
That she doesn’t see me as someone like Nicole or Jenny or Hayley.
Or any of the girls who are walking outside in the hallways.
That even if I hadn’t lost Mama, I would always live my life to a lesser degree than she does because I’m Muslim.
Because I wear the hijab means there are so many things I can’t do that she can.
I can’t fall in love, because she thinks I’m not allowed to.
That my parents would shame me for it. That the Islamic way of getting to know someone is wrong because the term dating encapsulates only her meaning.
It’s an unconscious bias, but it’s one that makes me sick to my stomach.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her eyes tearing up. “I didn’t know this would offend you.”
I need time to think. I always thought she saw my pain as an obstacle, not my identity.
I nod.
“I’m—Mason asked me out this weekend. The girls are coming over so we can pick an outfit. Do… would you like to come?”
Stuck in a house with Nicole and Linda, munching on lettuce and carrots. I probably would have said yes before I discovered the sketchbook, before the colors started coming back.
I shake my head. “I don’t think the girls would be too happy if I joined.”
She scrunches her nose. “Who cares? I want you there.”
I like this Alexis, when she’s not with her friends. “I know. We could do something you and I next week.”
She nods. “I’d like that.”
I wait a second after she’s gone to dash out, not wanting to be alone in the classroom in case Adrian shows up, but I also don’t want to fifth-wheel stiffly behind them until we go our separate ways.
When I’m out of the gates, I get a text.
Jamie: do you have time to meet me here?
He sends me his location, somewhere on Fifth Avenue. It’s not far from the school.
Me: yeah. I’ll be there
He sends me a thumbs-up.
Even though I haven’t walked down Fifth Avenue much, I know exactly where he is.
The mural.
Jamie is sitting on a bench outside Central Park with an uninterrupted view of the mural on a beige building.
He doesn’t hear me walking up to him. He’s staring intently at the mural like he’s trying to memorize every line and color.
There’s a certain dreamlike look in his eyes, his whole body relaxed.
I can’t help but admire the way he looks. So sure of himself.
I sit beside him, keeping a healthy amount of distance between us.
“Beautiful.” He smiles softly at the mural before turning toward me. “Thanks for coming.”
I stay quiet.
“I want to talk about what happened yesterday,” he says, and I jump.
“We already did.”
“No, I—”
“I really, really don’t want to.” My heart beats painfully. “What would you have done anyway? Just let it go. It happened. Whatever.”
He runs a hand along his face. “How do you do that? How do you make it sound like it wasn’t a big deal?”
“Because this is the price I pay for attending this school,” I retort, and he stares at me.
“It’s a price I pay every day out in the streets.
I don’t want you to look at me and see the bullied girl.
Nothing happens when people who look like me speak up.
” I shudder in a breath. “Believe me, I’ve tried before. I don’t have the power you do.”
His throat constricts. “I know. I’m aware of what I can do.
How I look. And it’s because of that I should have done something.
” He closes his eyes for a second. “Bà Ngo?i used to get a couple of comments when we were out. I used to go quiet because I’d look at her, see what she’d do.
She was the adult. I was the kid. Sometimes she fought back; sometimes she didn’t.
I slowly became more conscious of how society sees me.
” He runs a hand over his hair. “I should have done something. That’s all.
I shouldn’t have left the first time when Hayley said that horrible thing about your name. ” He doesn’t meet my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
My mind finally registers he’s apologizing. That he apologized in the art studio. There’s raw sincerity in his voice, and my heart aches in a different way.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
He finally looks at me. “How are you feeling?”
I swallow hard. “Terrified,” I whisper. “I hate this.”
His expression twists with sympathy. “I hate this too.”
I nod, comforted by someone acknowledging my pain. “It’s just this year, and then hopefully I leave New York and all the horrible memories here.”
He blinks. “Where to?”
I smile instinctively. “San Francisco. Hoping to study at this really good arts college. Opus.”
Recognition lights up his eyes. “I’ve heard of it. A lot of artists who win awards graduated from there, right?”
I nod. “What about you? What are you doing after school?”
He smiles, but it’s somehow sad. His eyelashes are unfairly long, brushing his cheekbones. There’s a freckle right beside his right eye, and I think he would be perfect in an animation. All his emotions and feelings so openly written on his face.
“I want to go back to Wisconsin. Learn to run the farm with Bà Ngo?i.”
“And college?”
He shrugs. “Colleges are scams because of the tuition, but my parents want me to go to Yale or Harvard.”
I snort, and he straightens his back. “What?”
“That is the most privileged thing I’ve heard anyone say.”
His cheeks become pink. “Yale and Harvard?”
I shake my head. “Choices.” At his questioning look, I continue, “Tuition is definitely a scam because of how high it is, but a rich kid like you probably doesn’t have to worry about student debt.
You don’t even have to go to college, because you’ll inherit an entire farm, which definitely is worth a lot of money, along with your parents’ company.
But for the rest of us who don’t live like that, we don’t really have a choice.
It’s college and student debt to get the job to pay off that debt.
There’s just one path. A vicious circle. ”
His eyes stare straight ahead, a seriousness in his expression. “You’re right. I didn’t even think of it like that.”
I shrug a shoulder. “If you want my opinion, I think you should go to college and study something that helps the farm.”
His lips part, brown eyes shining. “Yes. Yes, exactly. Wisconsin has colleges.”
I blush at the way he’s looking at me. “It’s just an idea; you don’t have to humor me. Think about it. Maybe you want to do what your parents do.”
“Can I tell you something?”
“Sure.”
“I have no idea what they do,” he says solemnly, and I burst out laughing. “No, really. I interned there for a summer, and I know less than when I first started. I can’t sit behind a desk in an office for the rest of my life. Can you see me in a suit, talking about shares and mergers?”
“Not really, no,” I say, amused.
He cracks his neck from side to side. “They won’t like it. Me going back to Wisconsin. I know they won’t have a cow, pun intended, but it’ll be a tense conversation. Among others.” He sighs. “They brought me here so I could be closer to them, but nothing’s changed, really. I rarely see them.”
I poke at a stray piece of lint on my pants.
“My dad and I haven’t had a proper conversation in over a year, because he’s so depressed.
And I don’t know how to help him, and I’m angry at him for leaving me alone.
I lost Mama too. He doesn’t even know I applied to a school in San Francisco, because he never asked.
He thinks I’m going to stay here. And I don’t know how to tell him, because he stopped listening to me. ”
It feels easier to speak to Jamie when he gives pieces of himself. It’s like we’re holding those pieces in our cupped hands, each tentatively showing the other. Alexis was there to see me when the pain was at its crux, and then I got scared she would get fed up, so I kept the rest to myself.
Jamie runs a hand over his jaw. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’m so sorry too,” I say. We sit in our silence for a while.
He lets out a long exhale. “I keep thinking of Bà Ngo?i. She’s getting older, and she won’t be able to pick up the sheep anymore.”
“What?”
“The sheep sometimes like to run at full speed toward you, and you have to catch them,” he says matter-of-factly. “They think it’s a game, and it is until they’re sitting on you.”
“That… sounds awesome!” I exclaim, and he grins. “They sit on you?”
“Trust me; it’s not as cute as it sounds. They’re heavy and usually have been running in the mud. Their little legs are adorable, though.”
“So lucky.” I know we’re both thinking the same thing. We’re going to be separated in less than a year. I wonder if we’ll still talk. If he’ll reach out from time to time.
“You can visit whenever you want.”
My heart pitter-patters. “Really?”
He nods enthusiastically. “It’s a big farm, and we don’t just have sheep.
We have horses too. I could—Bà Ngo?i could teach you how to ride.
Plenty of things to draw and paint too.” His eyes widen like he’s realized something.
“I mean, if it’s all right for you to visit me.
If it’s okay for you as a Muslim. Bà Ngo?i will cook halal. ”
I bring my knees to my chest, hugging them, and I find no awkwardness when he mentions Islam. There’s no hint of a condescending tone. No exasperation. “Thank you. That’s really kind.”
“It’s an open invitation.”
“I think in another life in Syria, my family could have had a farm too. Do you ever think about that? What kind of person you’d be if you’d grown up in Vietnam?”
He hums. “All the time. I speak Vietnamese because Bà Ngo?i was adamant I learn it. Mom isn’t as fluent as I am.
Bà Ngo?i regrets not teaching it to her as much as she wanted to.
She was still learning how to live here, worried if she pushed Mom, Mom might be resentful.
And even though I’m fluent, I don’t think it’s as strong as it would have been if I grew up in Vietnam. ”
“Me with Arabic.” My chest feels lighter. “I’ve never been to Syria, and I sometimes think if I ever go there, it’s not going to feel like home. And then where does that leave me?”
Jamie nods. “I know what you mean. It did feel strange the first time I visited Vietnam. For the first few days, it was like I was trying too hard. Everything I did felt forced. I got some weird looks when I spoke Vietnamese because…” He gestures at his face.
“I wasn’t fitting in, and it sucked. But one night Bà Ngo?i and I went for dinner at one of those food markets, and it was just after the sun set.
The sky was a clear deep blue. It was crowded, the smell of cooked fish and rice everywhere.
I could hear the sea. And it just clicked.
” He inhales slowly, a soft look in his eyes.
“I could actually see an alternate version of myself who lived there his whole life. There wouldn’t be a farm, but there would be the sea. ”
“What would you have done then?”
He grins. “Raised a whole fleet of fish, that’s what.”
I snort.
He glances back at the mural. “For someone who’s never been to Syria, you do draw her with so much love.”
“Her?” I ask.
Jamie scratches his hand absently. “When you told me you’re Syrian, I went back and researched it. For a country so old, that has seen so much, I believe she’s alive.”
I stare at him. “I think so too,” I murmur.
He smiles at me, but then his smile changes for a second. Becomes something like curiosity, like understanding. It then vanishes, and for some reason, his cheeks turn a shade darker.
Something stirs in my heart, but it feels too foreign, so I nudge it away.
He clears his throat, looking ahead. “What will you draw next?”
I rest my head on my arm, looking at the mural as well. “Something happy.”