Chapter 22
Emerald Green
A message pings on my phone. It’s a photo of gummy bears.
Jamie: no gelatin!
Me: congratulations! You’re getting good at finding hidden gems
Jamie: is it frowned upon to buy out the stock?
Me: I’m not the law
Me: but yes do it. be responsible for the halal gummy bear shortage in this city
The moment of shyness between us on that bench was a blip.
Jamie: found another article online about the wonderful murals in the city. Would you like to see them?
Me: I don’t know who you’re talking to. I don’t like art
He’s been sending me snippets of articles online. Pictures of the murals he runs past. I don’t read them, trying to keep distance between the world and my art. I swipe past videos and comments. I’ve asked Jamie to let me know if there’s anything out of the ordinary being discussed.
But in case there are eyes in our phones and laptops, we keep the conversations vague and general.
It’s been eye-opening and surprisingly wonderful to discover what it means to be Muslim through his eyes.
I find more appreciation for waking up before the sun rises to pray Fajr. He misses some prayers, remembering too late or sleeping through his alarm for the morning prayer.
But the way he tries heals something within me.
He starts going to the mosque every other Saturday, proudly showing me the Arabic alphabet he’s finally able to write.
Things are different now with Amal in Qatar. She sends me pictures every single day, and I don’t have the heart to tell her I don’t want to see them. That they make me feel left behind.
“I forget I don’t have to read the ingredients when I go grocery shopping here,” she says to me on the phone. It’s three in the morning for me but nine a.m. for her. She woke me up, but I don’t care. I haven’t spoken to her in weeks. “I can’t explain how amazing that is.”
I grunt in response, my eyes half closed.
“How’s school?”
I make a face. “Fine.”
Conversations between Alexis and me have gone dry. The last proper text she sent me was a month ago when Nicole threw a fit about Jamie. I’ve tried reaching out twice, but she answers days late. She still smiles at me during classes but sits with her friends and has stopped asking me to join them.
Amal tells me about Marwan’s new job and the crib she picked out for the baby. We say goodbye because she has to get ready for a housewarming party her neighbor is throwing for her.
I lie back in my bed, all sleep gone.
I sigh and lean over to my nightstand to grab the sketchbook.
I’ve drawn five more murals in the past month, since the day Jamie converted.
People have put together that the character in the murals lives in the Middle East. Probably from the Islamic architecture I’ve been painting. The sparkling domes and the crescent adorning Mama’s jewelry.
Mama and her stacks of sketchbooks like she’s living in a bubble of imagination.
Mama’s face constructed from arabesque architecture, different hues of blue and green swirling together to make the sea and country.
Mama reunited with the jellyfish, who can’t believe how much she’s grown.
The inside of Mama’s rib cage, where her heart houses her family.
And Mama falling in love with Baba, the color in her hair turning red and spreading pink and orange shades all over her body.
I was nervous painting the last one, even though I’ve been a bit liberal with Mama’s features. Baba and I were in the car heading toward the gas station when he saw it. He didn’t say anything but did a double take.
“What’s wrong?” I asked carefully.
He stared at the mural until the car behind him slammed the horn.
But throughout the day, he had a faraway gaze like he was looking at the past. At night, he looked at me and asked, “That woman in the painting looks like your mother, no?”
My heart fluttered. I suspected he would recognize my art sooner or later. “Do you think so?”
He hummed and then shook his head. “Maybe I’m seeing her everywhere.”
The murals, the sketchbook, the conversations with Jamie—they’re all an escape from school. It doesn’t get better, and it doesn’t get worse, but it’s on the precipice of becoming unbearable.
The janitor gave up on my locker, which now has a forever-broken lock.
I figure if it’s going to be like that, I might as well have some fun.
I take a few colored papers from an old notebook, cut them into little pieces, and tape them all over the locker.
It’s a bright spot in the middle of endless gray lockers.
Boys, especially Mason’s friends, still ask me to take them into a closet for some fun.
I don’t let the disgust show on my face, looking them up and down before walking away.
All of this happens when I’m alone, an easier target that way.
I can take all of this and more when I’m still looking through the telescope. When my future self no longer has tired lines around her eyes and her fingers are smudged from expensive acrylics.
Jamie and I make it a habit to spend lunch in the art room.
It works for me to be away from everyone in the school.
There’s genuine friendship here, what I always thought I had with Alexis.
He replies quickly to every text I send him and emails me all the notes he took.
Outside the classroom, he’s wonderful. I don’t know what he’s heard from the other students about what happens to me, what rumors there are about me.
Though sometimes, he comes to class looking a little rattled and frustrated, and he won’t tell me why.
“When are you sending your sketchbook to Opus?” Jamie asks me one November day. He sits cross-legged in front of me. His lunch is a poached salmon he made himself since that’s something halal he could get from the grocery store without making his parents suspicious.
“I have until June. But I want to send it as soon as possible. I have two pages left to draw in. I hope I figure it out before the deadline.” I feel as if I could break into hives every time I think about it. I take a bite from my zait and za’atar sandwich.
Jamie watches me carefully. “You will.” Then his gaze falls to my sandwich, and his expression falters.
“What?”
There’s a crease between his brows, and his stare becomes laser focused, like he just realized something. “What are you eating?”
I glance at my sandwich. “It’s just zait wa za’atar. It means olive oil and thyme. But like ground thyme and other herbs?”
“You’ve had that all week, right?”
“Yeah?”
He raises his eyes to me and smiles, but I know his smiles now, and this one is somewhat strained. “Looks delicious.”
After lunch, Jamie and I have a period together, and I can walk to the classroom without looking over my shoulder. A couple of people watch us, but Jamie moves around them without a care in the world. I know every time Nicole hears about it, she adds another pin into the doll she made of me.
“Jihad!” I hear Audrey calling me.
I pause, glancing back to see her moving toward me. Jamie also stops.
“Hey, how are you?” she asks. I see her colors so clearly today. A deep mauve around her silhouette that ripples like waves. Her hair falls over her shoulders, and I think she looks absolutely adorable.
“Good.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you, but I got too busy. Did anything come from Dr. Mérieux?”
I blink and Jamie goes still. “No. Not really.”
Her expression falls. “Damn,” she whispers. “I’m sorry, Jihad. I really thought…”
“And I hoped I was wrong,” I reply.
She grimaces before leaving, and I turn to see Jamie watching me.
“Yes?” I ask.
“Why did you go to the principal’s office?”
My mouth goes dry. I don’t want to tell him. It’s too embarrassing, which I know is irrational, but I want to keep this part far away. Maybe if I don’t think about it, it’s not real. “It’s nothing.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You want to carry this on your own?”
I remember when he asked me if there was anyone to help me after Adrian cornered me in the chemistry classroom.
I take a deep breath. “There was an issue with some boys, and Audrey suggested we go to the principal. Nothing came from it. That’s all.”
He stills. “Is it still happening?”
“Not much. Besides, it’s nothing I can’t handle.” And I know I’m right. It’s just a couple of people whose barks are worse than their bites. A couple of remarks and a broken locker? That’s nothing compared with what could be.
Jamie follows me but he’s distracted the whole class, and every now and then, his gaze falls to my wrists. It’s confusing, and I’m not sure what’s happening.
“What?” I whisper, rubbing my wrists, and he looks up at me, like he’s seeing me for the first time.
“What are you doing after school?”
“Nothing.”
“Will you go somewhere with me?”
I nod.
He smiles and goes back to his notes. When I look around, I see Nicole starring daggers at me.
After school, I find myself trailing after him out the school gates.
Autumn has let the cold in, and it bites at my fingers. I pull the sleeves of my coat over them. Jamie notices and he takes off his own gloves before shoving them in my direction.
“I don’t—” I begin, but stop at his intense staring. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
I put them on, smiling to myself at the warmth seeping into my skin. The gloves are bigger than my hands but as soft as an alpaca’s wool and already warm from him wearing them.
We walk to another subway station and ride it for several stops before getting off. He doesn’t say a word the entire time, and I don’t ask where we’re going. There’s something comforting about turning off my brain for a while and just following.
The streets outside the subway are filled with people commuting home, and the sun creeps out from behind the clouds, although her warmth doesn’t reach us. I raise my gloved hands to my face, rubbing circles on my cold cheeks.