Vermilion Red
The apartment is too quiet when I get home, and even though the colors are beginning to show up there, they’re not as strong as they were on Coney Island.
But I hold on to the joys of Jamie and the future awaiting me in Opus.
I haven’t drawn anything for the murals in over a week, being busy with school and my sketchbook submission.
“I’m sending my sketchbook tomorrow,” I say on Monday to Jamie, who sits cross-legged opposite me on the art studio floor, with our food in front of us.
He tried his hand at making yabra’a, which floored me.
He sent me a video of the vine leaves in one plate and the minced meat and rice in another.
He told me it can’t be more different than making cà chua nh?i th?t, a dish that involves stuffing meat in tomatoes, and he wanted to make something Syrian for me.
He watches me take a bite, anxiety in his eyes, and I don’t think he heard what I said. The yabra’a tastes amazing, and my eyes widen. “Um, is this the first time you’ve made this?”
He nods.
I stare at him. “This is perfect.”
His face breaks out into a relieved grin. “I was scared I left them too long on the stove.”
I take another one, dipping it into the yogurt. “This is the best thing ever.”
He watches me eat and nudges the Tupperware toward me. “Eat as much as you want. I made it for you.”
My cheeks burn, and I try not to think about what he wanted to tell me on the beach.
“So you filled all the sketchbook pages?” he asks. He was listening.
I nod. “I’m going to the post office after school tomorrow.”
He stabs his plastic fork into a yabra’a. “Shouldn’t you have done this last year?”
“The process has two steps. First is sending your application within the normal deadlines, as with all colleges. If they approve it, you go to the next step, which is sending in your art piece. Last year, I got cleared for the next step. If I’m admitted, I’ll be able to get the scholarship as well, because it was in my application.
They want to see your work from your final semester, because what if you think of something to write or draw later that would get you in, but you didn’t have it by the standard application deadline?
It would be a lost opportunity to you. So they operate on a rolling deadline. ”
He looks impressed. “They’re going to love you.”
I blush. “I hope so.”
When I’m back home, I pick up my own sketchbook, thumbing the worn-out cover and smiling to myself at how many times I’ve cracked the spine open to draw in it, to write something, to paint something that spans several pages.
I ended it with a tree taking up the last two pages, branches holding up different fruits, all found in Syria.
A hopeful ending. The sketchbook is too big to put into an envelope, so I scour the apartment until I find a small cardboard box that will fit it.
I hardly sleep that night, my heart pounding.
I think of how far I’ve come. How much I’ve lost and how close the end is.
My hands tremble, and I press them to my chest. I roll over and call Amal.
It rings for a bit before the line cuts off.
We keep missing each other. Sighing, I tug at my hair strands, wrapping them around my fingers over and over again until I fall asleep.
At school, I’m so giddy I don’t even mind having gym before lunch.
I choose a locker in the corner, away from the other girls, and change into my gym clothes.
I don’t have the same sweats as the rest of the girls.
Mine are a pair I’ve owned for years and aren’t a part of the school uniform.
But they’re such a similar gray color and style to the school ones that I hoped I’d be able to fly under the radar.
I did have to get the official white shirt because the school logo is on it, and I wear a white long-sleeve shirt from home under it to hide my arms.
I hate PE, where I’m usually the cliché of the unpopular girl who’s picked last or not picked at all. But today, I’m surprised when Nicole’s team picks me among the first choices for volleyball.
I walk slowly, finding Audrey on Nicole’s team.
She smiles at me, and I return it.
“Worst class ever,” she mutters, and I half laugh.
“Hey, Ji.” I hear Alexis behind me and turn around.
“Hey, stranger,” I reply.
She grimaces. “I deserve that.”
I shrug. “I’m not sure if I did something wrong? Is it because of what happened with Mason?”
She glances over at the other girls. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Mason was out of line. I’ve just been busy with school. I’ve been put on a wait-list for Yale, so my parents have been coming down hard on me.”
“Oh,” I say. “Okay. Sorry about that.”
She waves a hand. “It’s all right. Who cares, I got into NYU and that’s what I want anyway.”
She looks flawlessly pretty in her sweatpants and T-shirt, her hair pulled into a high ponytail.
Her shirt is tight, giving her a perfect cinched waist, and her sweats hang low around her hips.
Every girl is wearing them the exact same way, and I feel a pang of jealousy at how they all look great while I’m a shapeless blob.
I take in a deep breath and let the feelings out when I exhale. It’s not their fault. It’s not mine either. It’s like Bà Ngo?i said. This moment isn’t forever.
The gym is divided into two parts with two nets in between. One for the boys, and one for the girls.
Nicole gathers us around, flexing her fingers. “All right, whoever gets the ball, pass it to me or Jenny. We’ll be able to score. Okay?”
The other girls nod, and one rolls her eyes.
“What if you’re too far away?” one of them asks, and I think her name is Lena. She has her blond bangs gathered with a butterfly clip.
“We won’t be,” Nicole says firmly. “And if we are, just pass it between you or something.”
“Ugh, who cares?” the girl who rolled her eyes says, and I have to agree with her. So does Audrey, who nods as well.
“I do, Brittany,” Nicole says. “You can sit this one out if you want.”
“Oh my God, relax. It’s not that serious.” Brittany rolls her eyes again but is already stretching her arms.
Nicole doesn’t reply, but her stare could burn Brittany alive.
No one tells me what I should do, so I move toward the end corner, but Nicole grabs my arm.
“No, I want you right here.” She places me in the middle right in front of the net. “If anyone hits you, just yell ‘hate crime.’”
I blink, not sure if she’s joking or not. She doesn’t look like she is.
“But I’ve never played—” I begin, but she’s already moving on to talk to Hayley.
The ball hits me multiple times, and one time it smacks me on the cheek. The heat on my cheeks is more to do with the embarrassment from the laughter I hear. I try ignoring them, trying to hit the ball, and I’m able to do it once before it slips from my fingers and falls.
“Damn it, Jihad!” Nicole barks from where she’s standing.
I swallow hard, sweat pouring down my forehead and neck all the way down my spine.
It was a mercy not being picked, and I wish could go back to that right now.
Audrey tries to help, but she’s just as bad as I am.
I run and jump and am finally able to pass the ball to Brittany, who grabs it like she doesn’t care.
She doesn’t even move from where she’s standing, and the ball slides from her hands and bounces to the floor again.
Nicole doesn’t say anything to her. “Okay, let’s try again.”
It goes like this until the PE teacher blows her whistle.
“Okay, everyone. That’s enough for today. You got about fifteen minutes until lunchtime, so hit the showers.”
I walk up to Nicole, who’s talking to Alexis and laughing, not one hint of her annoyance from the game on her expression. I toss the ball forcefully at her as soon as she looks up, and she catches it at the last second with a small grunt.
“Got it out of your system?” I snap, and leave before she says anything else.
Everyone breaks out into little groups, chatting with one another, hurrying toward the locker room.
Audrey catches up with me, brow furrowed. “Was it just me or was Nicole…”
I nod. “Yeah.”
She lets out a low whistle. “She’s got issues; that’s for sure.”
The sound of the water running muffles the conversations, and I grab my bag, a towel, and find an empty shower stall near the end.
I place my bag out by the door and strip inside the stall before washing my hair and body.
I crank the water on the colder setting, relishing the way it cools my overheated skin.
I take a bit more time with my long hair.
When I’m done, I grab the towel, dry myself, and pull my hair into a tight bun.
Opening the door, I crouch and rummage through my bag, looking for my school uniform. My heart begins pounding restlessly when I realize the only thing in my bag is my gym clothes. My school uniform is gone, and so is the cardboard box that has my sketchbook in it.
I wrap the towel around me, running and nearly tripping to the lockers, praying I somehow forgot them there. But there’s nothing.
My chest hurts.
“Hi, did you—did you see my uniform here? And a cardboard box?” I ask one of the girls, who’s slipping into her skirt.
She shakes her head and goes back to pulling her sweater on.
My vision spins, and I think I might throw up from the way my stomach is clenching.
The locker room is slowly emptying while I search everywhere. People either stare at me with pity or like I’ve grown a second head, but they all leave.
I collapse onto the bench, trying to breathe through it all, but my chest hurts and seizes.
Soon enough, I’m the only one left, the echoes of everyone outside fading away.
There’s nothing for me to wear but my dirty gym uniform.
I bite back my tears, grinding my jaw, which feels too heavy, and go back to the shower stall.
My skin crawls when I put my joggers and both shirts on. It’s as if I didn’t take a shower at all. But none of that matters when I remember I can’t find my sketchbook either.