Of course it was the point.
A lump began to lodge itself in my throat. I sniffed and concentrated on breathing, barely noticing the approaching footsteps until they pounded with urgency. I looked up. It was Vanessa—followed by Lisa, in gym shorts. In an instant they were crouched down beside me, out of breath and faces creased in concern. Vanessa handed me a bottle of water. I took a big sip, then wiped my face.
“Are you okay?” Lisa whispered. She gave me a cursory once-over, the way her mom did whenever I arrived in her office and wasn’t feeling right.
I shrugged, not wanting to cry in front of them.
They flashed an unreadable look at each other.
“You don’t look okay,” Vanessa murmured. “Let me take you to the nurse. Then you should go home.” She slung my bag over her shoulder, while Lisa pulled me up.
With my arms around both of their shoulders, I winced and forced myself to put one foot in front of the other, then drew a shaky breath. “Thanks. But…um…how…?”
I wasn’t sure how to ask the next question. But it didn’t make sense that Vanessa and Lisa were together right now. There were friendly, but they weren’t friends. There was no tension or negativity between them; they just had their own scenes. I happened to be the one tiny sliver of overlap in the Venn diagram of Vanessa Richman and Lisa de la Pena—in the same way that I was friendly with Kerry Morrison, but only hung out with her when Lisa was around. It would be weird if Kerry and I suddenly appeared out of nowhere, as if she were the Boots to my Dora.
“Instagram,” Vanessa said in the silence.
I stopped hobbling. “What?”
“Someone…,” Lisa began, then bit her lip. “Someone took a picture of you from the top of the stairs, like they knew it was going to happen. Like they were waiting for it. And they posted it. Immediately. I’d just changed into my gym clothes when I saw it.” She glanced at Vanessa.
“And I was coming down the hall, and she showed it to me,” Vanessa continued. “And so we both went to Ms. Wallace.”
“Get this,” Lisa chimed in, gently ushering us down the hall. “Ms. Wallace actually said—well, more like screamed in front of the whole class—‘What assholes!’ ” She and Vanessa exchanged a quick awkward smile. “She told us to go find you and see if you needed any help.”
“So that’s what we did,” Vanessa said, matching Lisa’s movements. “Rushed, actually.”
I nodded. We shambled toward the nurse’s office in silence, heads down, creating a wall between the world and us. Not that any wall was necessary; the halls were empty.
“You know what you need?” Vanessa whispered. “A snuggle with Thomas.”
Lisa smirked. “Is Thomas some sort of weird code name for Amir?” she asked.
Even I had to laugh at that. A tear fell from my cheek. “He’s my cat,” I breathed.
* * *
—
Vanessa was right, of course. A snuggle was just what I needed. A few hours later, I was in bed with our ancient Devon Rex.
Mom grew up with all kinds of pets, but Dad is allergic to animal dander. The story goes that she was willing to sacrifice pets to marry him. On their fifth anniversary he surprised her with the gift of a furless hypoallergenic kitten. So Thomas has been a Bakkioui longer than my sisters or me. It’s hard not to get jealous, unless we have him one-on-one.
As he padded over my stomach, rearranging himself for another nap, I almost felt normal. My leg was elevated on a throne of pillows. It had stopped throbbing. Injury-wise, I’d had plenty worse. Hopefully at my next PT appointment I’d get rid of my clunky metal brace and upgrade to a sleeve, something fancy like the Pro-Tec Gel 400. I already knew from the EDS blogs that it was super-sleek, lightweight, and supportive—and, most important, available in my favorite color: indigo blue. I also knew that it was expensive. I made the mistake of mentioning this fact to Dad, who snapped that insurance would pay for it, and that I had to “stop looking up prices online.”
Realizing that he was slightly hangry, Dad apologized and kissed me on the head. “You deserve a Ramadan treat.” After that, he left me in my room with Thomas. He’d settled; he started to purr. The sound grew and filled the room, loud and slow and rhythmic. I kissed his wet nose. Mom once told me that Sufis liken the purring of a cat to dhikr: divine remembrance. It’s a balm. It can heal. The Sufis were right, and Mom was right, and Vanessa was right. I was healing. But I wondered if I could heal in a place where I didn’t feel safe.
There was a knock on my door. “Salma?” Mom asked.
“Come in.”
She entered slowly, smiling at the sight of the cat and me. “Salma, about school tomorrow. I am happy to drive—”
“Can’t I stay home?” I interrupted.
She shook her head and sat on the edge of the bed. “You can walk just fine.”
“I’m not talking about that.”
“I know,” she said.
“Do you have any idea how—how…” I was about to say how messed up Franklin is. But I needed Mom to hear me, to know that I wasn’t being hysterical. “How Franklin can be so nasty?”
She swallowed. Then she stood, avoiding my eyes. “I do. But not everyone at Franklin is the same. It’s up to you to prove the nasty ones wrong.”
I scowled. Time for one of her go-to mantras. Salma, it is your senior year. Or Salma, please take your behavior seriously. Or my personal favorite: Salma, we don’t talk about money, but if you’re going to receive tuition benefits, then you’ll need to maintain a four-point GPA through graduation.
So I waited. She didn’t say a word, though. I should have been relieved. I wasn’t. I was angry. The longer I waited, the angrier I became. She reached for the door.
“How?” I shouted. It was loud enough to wake Thomas; he jumped off my stomach. “How do I prove them wrong?”
“Salma…” Mom drew a shaky breath. “Stand up for yourself and your culture.”
“My culture? It’s the same as theirs! It’s fucking Franklin High School!”
She blanched at the F-word. At least that was something. I wanted more, though. I wanted her to call me on it. I wanted her to yell back. To be not broken. Wasn’t I the one with the injury?
“Turn it around, Salma,” she said. “Turn it around.” She sniffed and shut the door behind her.
* * *
—
I waited another hour before I gave in to the temptation of FaceTiming Mariam. But screw it. I felt justified. She’d made me promise I’d resist for her sake, because free video calling was illegal on her end, whatever the platform, even Skype. (Needless to say, my attempts to instruct her on how to circumvent this failed. She was hopeless. VPN, girl! It’s easy!) Maybe it was a mistake to wait. It was past midnight her time. I was almost positive she wouldn’t pick up. I listened to the dial and waited for video.
Audio came on first. “Mariam?!”
“YOU!” she shrieked in delight. In that moment, her face filled the screen.
I hadn’t seen her since we’d said goodbye.
In a way it was lucky the sudden lump in my throat kept me from talking. I couldn’t tell her what happened. Best not to. Besides, she looked so happy. Why ruin a glow I missed so much? I kept my brace and crutches out of frame.
She got right into it, jabbering away. Everyone was well. Her father was finally happy. His new practice was kicking ass. It was apparently much easier to fast in a Muslim majority country. Not that I would know either way. “And no idiot bigots! Only rich people with back pain!” Her new school seemed cool. Well, with caveats. “Weird, though, like…linguistically. My teachers are from Scotland, and Australia, and New Zealand, and I can’t understand them. My math teacher is the worst. He’s a Kiwi and sounds like a rugby player who got all his teeth knocked out. I’m like, ‘Wait, we’re speaking the same language, aren
’t we?’ Oh, get this: I’m a total anomaly. All the kids here ask me to talk ‘American.’ ”
When she finally took a breath to pause, I wasn’t sure what to say.
In the silence, she sighed. “Problem is, I’ve got nobody there like you. I never will.”
It was an offhand line. But it was exactly what I’d craved to hear. Our moon was still full.
Luckily, before I could start bawling, she was off again on another tangent. I forced myself to recover. Her only real complaint—aside from the lack of an insta-friendship with a Salma B. clone—was that there weren’t any boys as cute as Amir.
“Or as funny,” she lamented.
The old Salma B., her Mason Terrace BFF, was back. I smirked into the phone. “Give it time. At least another week. Want me to hack the school database? Maybe I can find a boy you missed.”
“You know, there is this one teacher…”
“Mariam!” I laughed.
“I’m kidding. That’s super-haram.”
We hung up promising to check in with each other through any means (legal or illegal), at least twice a month. “Until the future.”
This actually used to mean something. It meant Boston. Mariam had applied to BU; I applied to MIT. Vanessa…well, Vanessa wasn’t sure she was ready for college. She wanted to take a gap year. Amir, of course, took his sweet time agreeing to the “plan,” but eventually he did—thanks to Epstein, who reminded him that the New England Conservatory of Music had a top string program. The latter point appealed more to Epstein than Amir, because I think Epstein secretly wants to be a teen again. But whatever, it worked. Amir applied. There was a plan. We were supposed to stay together.
* * *
—
Later I found out that Mariam already knew what happened. And that Amir had told her. And that they had conspired with Vanessa, who then conspired with Lisa, to plan what followed next.
At 12:04 a.m., Amir texted with a cryptic message:
I’m asking you a favor. The sucky part: You need to go upstairs and open your front door.
Seconds later, I heard a car outside. It loitered for a minute, then sped away.
I was touched, intrigued, but also mildly annoyed. Amir knew the nature of my injury. He knew what he was asking. This was going to be a pain in the ass. Well, a pain in the leg.
On the other hand, everyone was asleep.
Slowly, cautiously, I limped upstairs.
When I opened the door, I found a vase of fresh flowers on the stoop: a bouquet of lilies and baby’s breath. The fragrance filled the hallway. Once I managed to close the door, I allowed myself to take a deep intoxicating whiff. It was only when I opened my eyes that I noticed the small card strung around the vase.
WITH LOVE FROM MARIAM, VANESSA, DORA AND BOOTS, AMIR, AND EDWARD NORTON
My phone dinged: another text from Amir.
Tomorrow morning I’m asking you one more favor.
I didn’t even realize I’d started crying until a tear splashed on the screen.
Ready for it. Thank you.
In a delirium, I hobbled into the kitchen to set the flowers down. My mom had left her laptop open on the table, which was unusual for her. I touched the pad to revive the screen.
There I saw an unsent email in progress to Principal Philip.
I am writing on behalf of my daughter, who was attacked on the Franklin premises. I am outraged that I haven’t heard from you. We are not litigious, though in this case we certainly have every right to be. Above all, I am deeply shocked and saddened. Your silence signals tacit approval of bigotry at your school. My daughter’s pre-calculus teacher enabled a fellow student, Michelle Mayor, to
That was all.
It was enough. I wiped another tear away. Mom wasn’t broken at all.
I WASN’T SURE what to expect the next morning. The muffled purr of cars pulling in and out, the thump of doors closing—these noises generally don’t register during breakfast, as it’s the only time Mason Terrace ever consistently has traffic. So when I opened the door to hobble to the bus, I was genuinely surprised to see Amir’s white Volkswagen Jetta. I giggled like one of my sisters. I couldn’t help it. He stepped out of it with a big fake show of being gentlemanly.
He placed his hand over his heart and bowed. “Here I am, at your service.”
“Okay, I get you’re being ridiculous,” I said. “But this is totally out of your way. And don’t you usually practice oud right now?”
Amir waved his hand dismissively. “Not an issue,” he said.
That was BS. He loved his oud like I loved my computer.
“Your bag and crutches, my sweet?”
I concentrated on not blushing or acting like a middle schooler (failing) while he threw my stuff in the trunk. The next thing I knew, he was sweeping me off my feet—literally—and carrying me over to the car. When we were both inside, he handed me a fresh double latte with extra whipped cream. My favorite. I brought the warm cup close to my face. It was sugared kareem. It woke me up.
I reached forward with my left hand, interlacing my fingers with his. “Do you have any idea how perfectly your name fits you?”
“Not until you came along. What’s a prince without a princess?”
I blew him a string of kisses.
“That’s all I get?” he teased.
“Hey, we’re right in front of my house. Titi could be watching. Besides, wouldn’t that break your fast?” I gently responded.
As we pulled away, Amir flipped on the radio. Coldplay’s “Hymn for the Weekend” was playing. It couldn’t have been timelier. Maybe he’d arranged this, too. The ride was a blur, though I was very conscious of how he dropped me off all VIP-like right in front of the school.
I smiled as he sped off toward senior parking. And I kept smiling. All morning long, even at Michelle and Mr. Davis. My mom might have been angry, was right to be angry—and I was grateful for every scathing word of her note—but right now, today, she would have to harbor that indignant rage for the both of us. For better or worse, Amir had sent me into school loving radically.
* * *
—
Fourth period, I heard my name crackle over the loudspeaker: “Salma Bakkioui.”
It was Mrs. Owens, of course. Still, I winced. My name had never been among those called out during the school day. Plus, she always called me “Salma B.” Why the sudden change? It sounded so official, so…well, plain weird.
“Salma Bakkioui,” she repeated. “Please come to the principal’s office.”
I ignored the puzzled stares as I crutched out of the classroom as fast as I could, wondering why on God’s green earth I, of all people, was being called to the principal’s office. But then I relaxed. Mom’s note. I bet I’m getting an official apology. Now, that would be civil.
“Hi, Mrs. Owens,” I said, breathless from the hurry. “Um, you called my name?”
She lifted her head slowly. Her eyes seemed to scroll up to mine, then flash away, her perpetually bright smile pained. Honestly, she looked sick, as if she were battling a stomach flu. It occurred to me suddenly that I’d seen this nauseated expression of hers before: in eighth grade, right after the mass shooting in San Diego. And a few other times in years past…I’d never put two and two together—maybe I hadn’t wanted to, maybe I’d been too young and naïve—but now the reason was crystal clear: she couldn’t bear to be near me whenever there was news about atrocities committed in the name of Islam. How long would it take her to get over this latest one?
Actually, why did I even give a shit? I would be graduating soon. It was her problem, not mine. Principal Philip would make everything better.
“I’ll walk you in,” she mumbled. She stood and turned quickly, maybe to avoid my glare, and led me to the conference room next to P
rincipal Philip’s office—where she closed the door behind me. No one was there. I sat and waited.
My phone buzzed with a text from Amir.
I heard your name. What’s up?
You know my mom. Tiger on the inside.
I bet she was so pissed off.
Still is. Complained too. Directly to Principal Philip. Can’t wait to see Michelle eat her words.
Take a picture for me?
Damn right I will.
I heard footsteps on the other side of the door.
Finally. Put on a smile, Salma, accept their apologies with grace.
The door creaked open.
Two police detectives entered. They wore matching dark suits—business suits, not cop uniforms—badges clipped to their breast pockets, American flag pins on their lapels. The first was tall and slender, but well built. He looked like someone who competed in triathlons. In the middle of his chin was a prominent dimple. The second was older, a bit disheveled, like he’d been staring at a computer screen for hours on end through his thick glasses. He didn’t greet me with a partial smile like the younger detective. Instead he grabbed a seat and pulled a notepad out of his pants pocket.
The door swung shut. I felt the room shrink and my temperature soar. I was expecting to feel relieved. Instead I felt ambushed. As we sat there in silence, I kept wondering why no one else had been invited to join us. Specifically Principal Philip. I’d been called to see him. Yet here I was, alone with two strangers. My thoughts raced into the past, scouring memories, chasing down any tension I’d missed between us. Nothing. None of the awkwardness I’d just experienced with Mrs. Owens.
No True Believers Page 5
