Vermilion Red #2
“Nicole,” I whisper. My fear eclipses any anger I have as I see my future fading away through a telescope.
I swallow hard, breathing through my mouth, and look for my hijab.
But it isn’t here.
My mouth goes dry.
No. No. No.
I can’t find it.
They took it too. She took my hijab.
A sob bubbles in my chest, acidic and painful.
I sit on the bench, my empty bag beside my feet, the humidity from the shower dewing on my skin and my dirty gym clothes sticking to me.
I gasp through choppy breaths, feeling like I’m about to burst from the inside out.
I can’t stay here forever. No one will come looking for me. No one will ask where I am.
My phone is still in the small pocket of my bag, and I don’t know if they left it there on purpose or if they were in a hurry and forgot it.
I could call Jamie. Ask for his help, but I can’t. I can’t let him see me like this. Audrey could help, but she already left before I got out of the shower, and I don’t have her number.
I have no one but myself.
I glance down at my T-shirt and get an idea. It’s the only thing I have that I can wrap around my head.
When I fasten it, making sure there are no stray hairs, and look at myself in the mirror, I want to cry all over again.
My eyes are swollen, my nose red, the long shirt wrinkled. And the makeshift hijab looks comical. It bunches on the side, and I look like I should be committed. I can smell myself, and it makes me want to gag.
The humiliation is searing, branded on me, and I don’t think it’ll ever go away.
I don’t want to leave the gym, but I have no choice. I need to find my sketchbook. If I don’t have it, I have nothing.
I splash cold water onto my face and smooth down the shirt-hijab.
The hallway outside is empty. Everyone should be at lunch. I take out my phone and call Alexis.
She doesn’t pick up on the first try, so I call again.
This time she picks up on the fourth ring.
“What’s up?” she says lightly.
“Did you know?” I ask in a scratchy voice, throat raw and voice tight from tears.
“Know what?”
“What Nicole was going to do?” I hiccup. “Take my—my sketchbook.”
There are loud conversations in the background, and I imagine her surrounded by her friends and boyfriend, having the time of her life.
“Ji, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Alexis says, her tone concerned. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I snap. “I am not fucking okay. Your friends stole my sketchbook. I need it back now.”
I hear her shifting in her seat. “Okay, I have no idea what you’re talking about. We were together the whole time, and they didn’t touch your things. Do you really think I would let them do that?”
I laugh, and it hurts my throat. “Alexis, they took my hijab. My school uniform. I’m wearing my gym clothes. I have a shirt for a hijab. Don’t you dare gaslight me. You know they did this. Tell them I need my sketchbook. I need it.”
Alexis sighs. “Ji, I’m sorry this happened to you. Where are you?”
I lean my head against the wall, banging it slightly. “Just ask them if they have it. Or I’m going to the principal.”
“Okay, fine.” Then out loud, away from the phone, she asks, “Hey, girls. Hey! Listen, did you take Ji’s stuff? Her sketchbook?”
I hear a high-pitched giggle, and then Nicole says, “No, of course not. Why would we do that?”
“Yeah, we have a life, Alexis,” Hayley says nonchalantly. “Oh my God, truffle fries!”
“They don’t have it,” Alexis says to me. “Where are you?”
I stay quiet, biting my tongue so hard I can taste blood.
“Ji, are you there?” she asks.
“You know what, Alexis?” I rasp. “Fuck you. And fuck your friends.”
I end the call before she can say anything else.
The administrator’s eyes are wide when she sees the state I’m in.
She asks me to sit while she lets the principal know I’m there.
The colors in front of me are splashed in fiery shades, a vermilion red underlining them.
They rage against their borders, spilling into one another all over the walls around me. They scorch the earth.
Dr. Mérieux’s eyebrows raise a fraction in surprise, and he gestures for me to sit down.
“What happened?” he asks, and I see him recoil a bit when the smell of my dirty gym clothes hits him.
I tell him. He listens carefully, hands joined in front of him. My voice wavers, but I dig my fingers into my thighs to ground myself. When I’m done, he stares at me for a long time before leaning back in his chair.
“Are you absolutely sure it was Nicole, Jenny, and Hayley?” he finally asks.
“I—” I falter.
“This is a serious, serious accusation, Miss Dabbagh,” he says gravely. “If they have done this, if you saw them do this, if anyone else can corroborate what you said, then they will face severe consequences.”
My ears ring. “I’m—I didn’t see them.”
Dr. Mérieux grimaces. “Then you can understand my hands are tied with this. It will be a she said, she said situation, yes? And I can’t have disgruntled parents come in here asking why I suspended their children with no evidence.”
“Look at me,” I say, my jaw trembling. “I am the evidence.”
His gaze is pitying, and it burns me. “I know. I believe you. But there is nothing I can do.” He scratches his chin. “Do you have a friend you could always be with? Maybe the buddy who was assigned to you. Don’t go to places on your own.”
I gape at him, stuttering in a breath. “Right,” I whisper. “That’s it?”
He raises his hands. “If you can get someone to back up your story, then I can do something. Last time, you had Audrey, and I took care of it. Best I can do is move you to another gym class for the rest of the year. But you will have to attend your other classes.”
I don’t move, shocked out of my despair. He didn’t do anything. The jokes continued.
There’s no help for me here.
“Okay,” I finally say. “Okay.”
Dr. Mérieux gives one last sigh, and I sense this meeting is over, so I stand, thank him for his time, and leave.
Once I’m in the halls, I debate whether to go home or not. The makeshift hijab T-shirt is annoying, digging into my chin, and it’s squeezing my head in a way that’s giving me a headache.
I decide to go home and nurse my wounds. My sketchbook is gone for good, and I need to think of something else to submit to Opus. The I-80 is vanishing from the telescope.
Everyone I pass openly stares, and laughter follows me until I’m by the front doors. But a group of students gathered in the inner courtyard draws my attention, and dread circles me like sharks.
I walk slowly, pushing the glass doors, and those near the door glance back at me.
“Jihad?” I hear Jamie behind me and turn around to see the horror on his face.
Shame festers inside me. As if it’s my fault I look like this right now.
His eyes are drawn up, and I follow them.
“Oh no,” he whispers, and it’s like someone dragged a knife across my stomach, spilling out everything inside me.
I’m the court’s jester, drenched in tomatoes the masses threw at me.
I’m the punch line to the joke, and nothing I do matters.
My dignity is a phantom, and I’m the only one desperate to keep it intact.
Because up there on the flagpole, torn and muddied, is my hijab, wrapped into a knot out of reach.