Coral Orange
I stay quiet for a long time, answering Jamie in gestures or one-syllable words.
He doesn’t look the least bit worried that I’m upset, and I’m not.
Because the silent, stunned expression on my face says it all.
Jamie’s own expression is strange. There’s a splash of frustration mingling with the melancholy.
He looks like the Mona Lisa, and I know why.
I’m dazed out of every word.
No one has ever said anything of that magnitude or depth about me.
My parents did shower me and Amal with love, but I don’t think I was ever praised for who I was. I was seen for the art I drew and the studying I did. But me… the essence of who I am, the little things I do, was never spoken about.
He asks me if I’d like to know where we’re going next, and I shrug.
“All right,” he says gaily, all the melancholy gone. “It’ll be a surprise!”
We look like an odd couple. Him smiling so wide he might get permanent lockjaw, and me with a blank, shocked expression.
I want to analyze everything he said. I try memorizing the words to repeat them to myself or at least write them down somewhere, but already I’m forgetting the exact wording.
Jamie orders a taxi that meets us outside the cemetery, and I’m not sure whether the rich have access to more instant taxis than the rest of us.
“You hungry?” Jamie asks when we’re inside the cab, warming our hands in front of the heater.
I shrug again.
“I don’t think there’s halal food where we’re going.” He frowns, his nose scrunching. “I keep forgetting to check for these things.”
“It’s okay,” I say quietly, and stare out the window.
I’m funny and kind, and I shine.
I’m brave.
There’s a bit of traffic on the way, but I don’t notice it. The cab finally stops, and I peer outside to see the huge Coney Island sign.
“Oh my God,” I breathe out. “I haven’t been here since I was twelve.”
Jamie pays the fare, and we get out.
On a Friday, Luna Park is a bit empty, but there are some Muslim families with their children and a few other people walking around.
The hum of the roller coasters rumbles through the air, and the noise from the whole park isn’t as loud as it’ll be this evening.
Still, I can smell a hint of the hot dogs and sugary waffles wafting toward us. The lines for the rides aren’t long.
“We don’t have to wait,” Jamie says, light shining in his eyes. “Come on.”
I stay in place, not moving, and he looks back, eyebrows raised.
“Are you scared of roller coasters?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Then why is your voice trembling?”
“Because I’m cold?”
He tilts his head to the side. “Are you?”
Frenzied laughter-screaming echoes from the Cyclone, and my stomach drops.
“All right.” He sighs. “If you don’t want to do it—”
I’m brave.
“I’ll do it,” I interrupt. “It’s just that… it’s so fast. And it knocks you from side to side.”
He studies me. “We really don’t have to.”
“I want to,” I say firmly, and march toward the ticket booth, where a curly-haired woman with heart-shaped glasses greets us.
“Hello, what can I help you with?” she asks.
“Two of those ultimate wristbands, please,” Jamie says, and with one beep from his phone, she hands us our wristbands, and we put them on.
“Cyclone first?” Jamie nods toward the famous wooden roller coaster.
I eye it warily and wince when another bout of screaming reaches us. “Sure. Let’s get it over with.”
He looks like he’s fighting a laugh.
There are a couple of people in front of us. Jamie bounces on his feet while I try searching for anything that looks loose or wobbly, but aside from a slight trembling that has to do with physics it looks okay.
“You know, it was opened in 1927,” Jamie says. “Was made into a New York landmark in 1988.”
My stomach seizes. “That is a very long time ago. No one here was born then.”
“Pretty sure there are people alive from 1988.”
More screams. “Is it up to code? Why does it look so… worn down?”
“Definitely up to code. And I think that’s just the vibe. In 1977, for its fiftieth anniversary, some guy called Michael Boodley rode it one thousand and one times. And that was 1977. They didn’t even have Bluetooth back then.”
“Uh-huh.” I hold on to the barrier for support. “Why are you parroting facts?”
He shrugs, hands in his pocket. “You know I like to research. I googled where we’re going and fell into a deep hole of facts on Wikipedia.
We’re in the southwest part of Brooklyn.
Right there is the Atlantic Ocean, whom we’ll say hello to after a couple of rides.
Fun fact: Coney Island was first known as Konijn Island by the Dutch settlers because there were a lot of wild rabbits here.
” He grimaces. “Not a fun fact because they killed them all.”
“Next!” one of the attendants working the Cyclone shouts, and the people in front of us rush forward. They check their bags and race to claim their seats.
Most of the red compartments are quickly filled, which leaves Jamie and me to take the one at the very back. He hops in, and I don’t know how he fits with his long legs, but he makes it work.
“Come on!” he calls to me, and I press my hands together.
I climb in slowly, clutching everything with a death grip.
One of the attendants makes his rounds, ensuring we’re all strapped in safely.
“It’s not going to unlock, right?” I ask.
“Nope,” he says reassuringly.
“You swear?”
He chuckles. “I swear.”
“Have fun!” the operator yells from his station.
I brace myself as the train jerks into motion. My brain goes through all the worst possible outcomes of the tracks being weathered from wear and tear, a nail loosening, one of the wooden planks breaking, and me falling to my death.
Jamie raises his arms above his head, whooping. “Let’s go!”
“Put them down,” I growl, trembling from head to toe and clinging to the handles with an iron grip.
“Hell no!” he shouts.
The March wind rushes past us, and I’m glad I secured my hijab tightly around me.
The train inches upward at snail speed, which I’m sure is just to prolong the torture. Someone laughs in front of us, and I don’t understand how they’re not freaking out when the higher we go, the more certain it is we’ll die.
“How you holding up?” Jamie asks, and I shake my head.
I can’t speak, just grabbing on for dear life, and I close my eyes for good measure.
“Seriously?” He laughs. “Open your eyes. You need to see the horizon! That’s why we came here.”
I shake my head again.
“The ocean is beautiful. You’re missing out. Could be some inspiration for your murals.”
I crack one eye open. The ocean zooms in and out of focus, the blue glittering under the sun’s rays.
My limbs relax a fraction, and I open my other eye to take it all in.
I can feel the quiet of the ocean from where I’m sitting on the roller coaster.
The blue reminds me of how Mama described the Mediterranean.
A crystal blue. Like a diamond. A blue so lush, you think the color would stain your hands if you touched it. A blue you know you could breathe under, she said.
Maybe parts of the Mediterranean are here. They are linked like mother and daughter, holding hands through a strait.
“Wow,” I breathe, and a tentative smile pulls at my lips.
I want to stand in the waters.
“Jamie, I—” I begin, and the roller coaster drops.
I get off on shaky legs with Jamie hovering beside me, trying to help without touching me. His hands flail, and he chants apologies I barely hear. My heart is finally going back to its normal beating, and the blood is warming up my numb fingers.
The attendant hands me my bag, and I wobble down the stairs.
“You okay?” Jamie asks, worry creasing his brow.
Some of the people who were with us snicker when they pass by.
“I never knew you had such lungs on you,” Jamie continues, sounding impressed despite the worry. “I mean, that scream must have broken the sound barrier.”
I gulp in a mouthful of air and glare at him.
“You’re fine.” He grins. “So? Wasn’t it fun? I really wanted you to see the horizon from the top.”
When I’m sure my voice won’t break, I say, “It was.”
Triumph is in every inch of his expression, and he fist-bumps the air.
“I knew it!” He claps his hands together.
“All right! Let’s do that one next!” He points at another twister roller coaster that looks straight out of a nightmare labeled Soarin’ Eagle, where the people riding it are strapped to the seats standing up.
“Nope!” I yelp. “No way.”
“Fine. We’ll build up to it.”
“The hell we will.”
In the end, he suggests we get something to eat, and right on cue, my stomach growls. Luckily, the noise of the people and rides around us drowns it out. We get crispy fries, fried shrimp drizzled with a honey barbecue sauce, one large vegetarian pizza, and two lemonades.
“You’ve unlocked the level-three skill at finding halal-friendly food,” I say, and he looks particularly pleased with himself. “New York has a lot of halal places, but Coney Island still hasn’t caught up.”
With food in my stomach, the cool air on my face, and the rare sun warming me, I relax and find myself sinking into conversation with Jamie. I forget about school, Baba, Amal, and everything that’s an open wound. We go through so many topics, I’m not sure how one ends and the other begins.
He tells me how he chipped his tooth falling from the apple tree on the farm and how Bà Ngo?i practically dragged the town’s dentist from his home on a Sunday afternoon.
I tell him how I tried talking to the fish like Mama had told me she did by grabbing a goldfish at PetSmart, and the manager all but kicking Amal and me out.
He laughs so hard, lemonade almost bursts from his nose.
We talk about the things we love and the good memories we wish we could go back to.
It’s nothing like our deep conversations from before, and it means everything.
It’s light, and it makes me think of how normal this is, and how I longed for it.