Dusky Gold
I’m an exposed nerve. Every brush of wind feels like a thousand knives, and I don’t know how my heart can keep up with all the electrical jolts frying it.
I keep telling myself that no one can trace anything back to me.
Amal tries calling one more time when I’m home, but I ignore her.
Jamie walked with me to the school gates before leaving, and I couldn’t find the courage to apologize.
Not when we were surrounded by the whole school and local reporters.
I keep typing a message before deleting it. When he upset me, he apologized in person. That’s what I should do.
I try focusing on my schoolwork and reading, but my mind keeps drifting to the mural.
I haven’t opened a single video regarding it.
But more than the mural, the loss of Opus is a visceral pain.
I’m out of the race before I even started.
I guess next year I’ll be home, helping Baba with the gas station and applying to community college.
I doubt I’ll be able to think of an artwork that’s Opus-worthy.
I’ve been building this application ever since I was nine.
I don’t know how I sleep, but I do.
What feels like hours later, something vibrates aggressively somewhere beside me. Groggily, I raise my head, and it takes me a whole minute to remember I’m in bed.
The vibrating stops before starting again.
“Wha—” I mumble. My room is wrapped in night, and I blindly grab in the direction of where my phone is vibrating its heart out.
Squinting from the harsh light from my screen, I make out Jamie’s name.
“Hello?” I answer, my voice scratchy. “Jamie?”
“Jihad?” His voice is loud and full of life. Like he’s been running around. “Oh, thank God.”
I push myself to sit. “What the hell? It’s two a.m.”
“I know. I know. But this can’t wait until tomorrow.” His voice is near frantic, and sleep vanishes from my eyes.
“What?” I snap. “Did something bad happen?”
“What? No, listen. Listen.” His breath comes out choppy. “Your mom’s sketchbook.”
I fling myself from the bed, tripping to the drawer in my desk where I kept it, and relief sings through me when I see it there. “What? What about it?”
“Submit it to Opus.”
Silence suspends between us.
“Jihad?” he asks, concerned.
“What are you talking about?”
His voice goes back to being animated. “I’ve been thinking about this the whole day.
I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. And it hit me.
It’s so obvious. Jihad, your sketchbook.
Submit that. That’s your way in. You think they wouldn’t take you then?
” He’s choosing his words carefully like he’s worried someone is listening in. And maybe they are.
“But… you know, how?”
Excitement seeps into his voice. “I’ve thought of this. You don’t have to explain it. There’s no reason for you to do that. They have the technology to really determine it’s yours, and honestly is there any harm being done? Those paintings disappear. There’s no lasting damage.”
I sit heavily on my bed.
“You’ve either been home or with me every time the murals have appeared, and there are cameras all over New York’s subways. If you were there, they’d have seen you,” he continues.
I clear my throat. “I just…”
“What?”
“I just never thought of my blessings like that. It was… always so personal. They happened to the person who had it. And now…”
“I know,” he says gently. “Are you worried you’re betraying your ancestors?”
I blink. “No. It’s not that. It was an intimate secret, and now it won’t be.” I stare at the shadows eating up the floor. “Jamie, I’m sorry.”
“Why?” he says, surprised.
“For what I said. It was unfair and cruel. And I shouldn’t have belittled what you’re going through. I think I just realized you need me like I need you.”
It’s easier saying these words at night when no sun’s rays can expose the magnitude of truths.
He’s quiet, his breathing slow. “I do. But not in the way you think.”
I still, clutching the phone tightly to my ear.
“I don’t need you because you’re the only one who knows. Or because you’re the only Muslim friend I have. I need you because you’re you.”
His voice is low, sending shivers all over me, and that feeling I ignored for so long flares.
“You still there?” he asks.
“Hmm,” I say, and he chuckles.
“Think about it. For Opus.”
“I will. Though I know what I’m going to do.”
I can hear the smile in his voice. “They have no idea who’s coming to their college. I envy them.”
I press a hand over my heart, trying to calm it.
“Good night, Jihad,” he says softly.
“Good night, Jamie.”
I wake up the next morning with a newfound sense of hope from the lingering effect from Jamie’s phone call. He thought of me the whole day and night. He stayed awake, trying to find a way for me to apply to Opus.
My heart patters again. I decide to wear the gloves he gave me.
On my way to school, I take a deep breath and open a browser search on my phone. The first recommendations are articles written about the murals. I swipe past them. I go online to see what is being said about the mural on the school. All the videos on my feed are about the mural.
“Why would the artist choose Braxton as the only place to put up the mural? Is it a message of some sort? Is there anything shady going on inside?”
“Look at the colors they used on the Statue of Liberty. It’s not the same shade of green as the real statue but the same shade that jihadists use!”
“The artist could be an Islamist, or this might be the start of a new genre where they tackle different social issues. I’m more interested in knowing how they’re doing it? This is absolutely not the work of one person. It’s definitely a team.”
“Loving the way the Miss Liberty is looking. Personally, I feel she’s always meant to wear the hijab.
I did read somewhere that the original Statue of Liberty was meant to be a Muslim woman.
Oh my God, imagine if it actually happened?
Not one racist would have a leg to stand on when a Muslim hijabi is guarding America. ”
“Look, I love art. Love murals. I even like some of those weird contemporary artworks that look like a toddler just went all ham on them. Or like you threw a bucket of paint onto a canvas. But this? This isn’t art.
And if it is, it’s in poor taste. Some things you don’t, for the lack of a better term, deface.
Some things are sacred. I wouldn’t go to Rome and paint a mural of the pope in fishnets. ”
I close the feed, swallow hard, and think of anything other than what I watched.
I don’t want them to get into my head. My goal was clear from the beginning: draw Mama’s story.
But after what happened, I just couldn’t.
I couldn’t just go back to drawing her happiest, most treasured moments. Because the pain exists as well.
Only a few people have wondered about Braxton and why the mural was there. Everyone else was asking about the mural itself. The result. Because that’s what people see. They forget the why.
There are still reporters and social media influencers outside the school gates.
The reporters are trying to interview anyone walking in, but all the students are waving them off and hurrying inside.
I’m sure each of my classmates has a whole PR agency backing their family, advising them on everything.
Before I’m close enough for the reporters to notice me, a hand grabs my arm, and I immediately jerk back.
Alexis clasps my hands. “Stop, it’s me.”
We stare at each other. I’m breathing hard while her lips are pursed. She looks spotless, like someone ironed and styled her.
“What?” I ask more harshly than I intended.
She doesn’t flinch, but there’s a clench in her jaw. “I know it’s you.”
“What?”
She bites her lower lip. “I know you’re the one who did the mural.”
The noise gets fuzzy in my ears, but I manage to laugh. “Really?”
Her face flushes pink. “The magical stories your mom always talked about? The colors you stopped seeing? I should have known it was you. That’s your art style.”
I’m rooted to the ground. “You’re going to tell the principal it was magic that did this? You’re going to say I’m the one who has been going all over New York with magic, painting murals?”
She flushes. “I don’t know about the rest of the murals, but this is definitely you.”
“Right,” I say slowly, the panic settling in tiny waves all over me. “If you’re going to accuse me, shouldn’t you have proof?”
She purses her lips. “I heard you, Ji.”
I’m frozen. “Heard me.”
“Yesterday, you were right here talking to Jamie. I heard everything. So magic or not, I know it’s you.”
My skin itches, but I resist showing how rattled I am with every fiber and molecule in me. “Okay.”
She blows out a puff of air. “Okay?”
I shrug, and it catches her off guard. “Still no proof. It’s my word against yours.”
She comes closer. “I don’t need proof,” she says quietly, her blue eyes shining. “I know you did that after… after what happened that day. And I can just walk into Dr. Mérieux’s office and tell him I think it’s you. Once you’re gone, all of this will end, right?”
I stare at her, my jaw dropping. “Who the hell hurt you? Why would you do this?”
A gleam of satisfaction flashes in her eyes that she finally got to me, but it disappears when guilt twists her expression. She lets go of my arm and steps back.
“I don’t want to tell him anything.” She takes in a deep breath. “But you know you did this. I know you, Ji. I know when you’re lying. There are police in the school right now, and they will find out. And if it comes out I knew and didn’t tell anyone, I’ll get expelled.”
“But you don’t know anything,” I argue. My fingers have become ice-cold under Jamie’s gloves. “You’re literally speculating.”
She takes a deep breath. “I talked about this with Mom, and I’m sorry, but I overheard you. I don’t know if those magic stories are real or not. But I’ll have to tell Dr. Mérieux what you said if you don’t come clean.”