Love from A to Z(4)

“You didn’t say anything!” I turned to her. “Nothing about what he’s doing! You acted like it was my fault!”

“I can’t prove anything about your teacher. Every time Dad and I offered to talk to him before, you said no.” With the car stopped where the entrance of the school parking lot met the road, she glanced at me, mouth trembling slightly. “Can’t you just graduate in peace?”

“You mean, Shut up, Zayneb! Don’t make a scene, Zayneb!” I put my hand on the door handle. “Can I get out? I’ll just walk home like I always do.”

She let me.

? ? ?

Ayaan had alerted me to Fencer before I entered his class this semester. There are only a few Muslims at Alexander Porter High, so we’ve gotten into this looking-out-for-each-other thing.

She told me Fencer was an Islamophobe. That she’d had two classes with him—one in junior year and one first semester of this year—and, somehow, he brought an uncanny number of topics and discussions around to how Islam and Muslims were ruining the world.

The thing is, Ayaan has wanted to become a lawyer since forever, so she’s about building up a case. She doesn’t say anything, didn’t say anything to Fencer, and just kept collecting information when she’d been in his class. Collecting evidence. Including, recently, data from his online personas. She was supposed to show me some screenshots soon. She said I had to come over to see them, as she wouldn’t risk sending them via messaging or e-mail. She didn’t say it outright, but I’m pretty sure she was worried I’d pass it on somehow and ruin everything.

The other thing is that Ayaan doesn’t wear hijab. She’s Muslim, and Fencer knows it from her full name—Ayaan Ahmed—but he’s not sure what kind.

Like, he doesn’t know if she cares about her identity or if she practices her faith. Or if she simply has a Muslim name.

He doesn’t know what I know: that Ayaan is a devout Muslim who goes to the mosque more than hijabi me. That she prays and believes and is on a million Muslim committees.

She’s been able to keep track of Fencer quietly, stealthily. Undercoverily.

But from the moment I arrived, I wouldn’t stop challenging his bullshit to his face.

Which made him more excited. And caused him to dial up his antics. It’s like, when I walk into his class, I can practically see his glasses train their crosshairs on my hijab.

What riles me is that people think Islamophobia is these little or big acts of violence. Someone getting their hijab ripped off, someone’s business getting vandalized, someone getting hurt or, yes, even killed.

No, there’s the other kind too, and it’s a more prevalent kind: the slow, steady barrage of tiny acts of prejudice, these your-people-are-trash lightsaber cuts that tear and peel strips off your soul until you can’t feel your numbed heart any longer.

Angrier than angry, because then you’ve got almost nothing positive left inside.

Then the truth reveals itself: The world doesn’t make sense, doesn’t work for you.

For me.

And I know it won’t ever work for me, no matter how much I fight or how angry I get.

That’s how I felt unlocking the door to let my suspended self into the house.

? ? ?

After dinner, Dad knocked on my bedroom door before opening it gingerly. He’d already given me a lengthy speech while we were eating (The best way to challenge these Islamophobes is by succeeding in society. Getting suspended is not succeeding! Don’t you want to join your sister and brother at university?), so I wondered what he wanted now. On the bed, cocooned in my ancient, raggedy but cozy blanket, Binky, I paused the reply text I’d been composing to Kavi, slid my headphones off, and stopped a comforting episode of The Office on my laptop, my questioning eyes on Dad.

He stroked his beard and cleared his throat. “Okay, I don’t want you to see this as a reward, but Auntie Natasha is on the phone with Mom. Trying to convince her to let you come earlier.”

“To Doha?” I couldn’t stop the stunned joy from escaping me. The blanket cradling my head dropped back as I uncrossed my legs. “Like, what do you mean, ‘earlier’?”

“Mom looked at flight options, and you could leave tomorrow afternoon if we drive you to Chicago. Auntie Natasha said instead of moping here, you should spend the next week with her, before Mom joins you guys.”

“Oh please, could I?” I shrugged out of the blanket, got up from bed, and went to the suitcase Mom had wheeled into my room last night with orders to fill it over the course of next week for our planned spring break trip to visit her sister in Qatar.

But with this news, I’d potentially be getting to Doha on Thursday, when everyone else at school had a week to go before break!

If Dad and Mom agreed to Auntie Nandy’s idea, that is.

I dropped the orange hard-case luggage on its side on the carpet and knelt to unzip it. “Please? I’ll pack right now?”

“But this is not a reward, you understand?” Dad crossed his arms. “You’ll have to do whatever Auntie Natasha says. She’s still working, you know. She’s not going to appreciate you giving her problems.”

“I promise, Dad.” I let the two halves of the suitcase fall open and looked up just as Mom came up behind him. Her face was sad, so I smiled to prove I’d gotten over being angry at her. “I won’t bother Auntie Nandy. I’ll be quiet and compliant.”