“You read his messages every day?” Muhammad stops sponging to look at me. It’s a weird look, almost like he’s looking at someone in the hospital.
“They help my day, okay?” I secure my phone in its zippered compartment in my backpack and stand up.
“How does that message help your day? He’s telling you to share so that you can get what you want. It’s like he’s saying that he invited all of us this weekend so that he can maximize things for his business. We all know what his success scenario is: make loads of money.”
“You’re just a hater.” I yank the front door open. “And a mama’s boy.”
The last thing I hear as the door closes is his laugh.
? ? ?
I doodle in history while Mr. Pape reviews points of view. Sandra is sitting next to me, peeling an old student council vote sticker off her desk with precision, lifting this end, then that corner, making her way around the edges carefully. I look up from my picture of a hideous Muhammad in an apron and catch an intense stare from Lauren, who’s at the desk nearest to the door. It’s a glazed gaze. I turn the corners of my mouth up and do a little wave. She registers me, softening her face with a smile. Then she lifts the end of a lock of hair and drapes it under her nose and nods toward Sandra, a smirk on her face. I turn back to my doodle and pretend to be intent on my work.
When we pack up to leave, I notice I’ve doodled a huge mustache on my brother. It’s scribbled in quite ferociously.
I let Sandra go ahead of me and wait for a bit before I head to the cafeteria. It’s bothering me that Lauren’s homing in on me like that. Maybe I’ll cool the reacquainting with Sandra for a while.
But when I get to our lunch table, Sandra is already sitting beside Tats. And like yesterday and the day before, she doesn’t say anything, just sits there and eats. Tats has run out of impersonations, and I’m quiet, aware that when I passed Lauren’s table, her friends muffled their chatter.
We have a subdued lunch, and I wonder if Tats and I will end up muted like Sandra by the time school lets out next week.
? ? ?
We get to the locker room early. Tats places her backpack on a bench and pulls out an enormous transparent makeup bag. She picks out two tall canisters from among the makeup. “Leave-in conditioner and/or mousse. I didn’t know if you wanted to go for the slick look or big curls.”
I unwind my hijab and stick it in a cubby. Taking a claw clip out, I shake my hair side to side in slow motion as if auditioning for a Pantene commercial.
“WOW!” Tats puts the hair products down and rushes over to me. “You don’t need my help! Your hair looks amazing!”
“Thank you, thank you very much,” I say, grabbing the mousse canister to use as a microphone. “I’d like to thank my mother for suddenly becoming so obsessed with her hair and thus investing in the best conditioner in the world. Also, for buying us a top-of-the-line curling iron just two weeks ago. Thank you, Mom, for making this moment possible.”
“But doesn’t she wear a scarf everywhere?”
“She’s been trying new stuff out. It’s like she just remembered that she has hair and a face. After the divorce, I mean,” I say, remembering that Linda has great hair. And always manicured hands. “You should see all the new makeup she, I mean we, have.”
I open the zippered compartment at the front of my backpack to reveal a sample from Mom’s makeup collection, most of it acquired recently. I refuse to link the purchases to the Meet Your Match flyer in her dresser. No, just no.
“Okay, let’s do your face.”
I succumb to a bit of lipstick and mascara. We put the makeup away as the rest of the girls come in. I change in the bathroom stall and wait until I hear Lauren’s voice trail out of the locker room. When I come out, it’s only Tats and me. “Thanks for waiting.”
“You’re wearing a tracksuit?”
“Yeah.” I look in the mirror and zip the jacket up all the way. I’ll be hot, but it will feel better than wearing shorts and a tee. I can only do so much.
We walk out into the gymnasium and head to where the girls are sitting down, by Jeremy’s feet. He’s got a catcher’s mitt on, and he’s throwing a ball up and down. I sit at the edge of the group, wrapping my arms around my legs, willing him not to see me yet. I want to have a moment to take a breath. I know I look good, but, oddly, I don’t want him to intentionally look at me. Maybe if it’s by accident, it would feel better?
A long, blaring whistle invades my thoughts. Ms. Eisen is coming out of her office, her whistle stuck in her mouth. It emits another long screech.
I look around like everyone else to see what the problem is.
“Janna Yusuf, get up! Did you forget there’s a male present? Go get your hajeeb!”
I’m so startled that her words don’t sink in. So I continue to sit there dumbly. Then Tats, who’s more with the program, steps up to the plate with her input.
“Ms. Eisen,” she says, her tawny hair almost bristlelike beside mine, “Janna doesn’t need to wear her hijab for gym. It’s in her religion. In the Qur’an.”
Some of the girls laugh. Miriam laughs the loudest because she’s Muslim—one who doesn’t wear the hijab but still knows the Qur’an, still knows that it has no verses on gym class.
Ms. Eisen blows the whistle again. I get up and walk to the locker room, trying to decide if I should act like I’m shocked there’s a male present, or if I should rock my silky hair for all its worth in its last foray in front of Jeremy’s eyes.
I end up hunching over and slinking away, shame curdling inside me then reaching its fingers to wrap tight around my body. So tight that it squeezes tears out of my eyes. She just embarrassed me in front of the whole class. In front of him.
I don’t come out of the locker room again. Tats comes looking for me, but I’m pretending to take a shower, so she leaves after trying to talk over the waterfall. I’m actually wearing my tracksuit and standing in the water, thinking of those lyrics about love going to waste.
As soon as Tats leaves, I peel off my soaked clothes and dry my hair back to its fried frizziness. Then I stuff that frizz into my black hijab, cover my body in black layers, and take the roof key from Tats’s pencil case.
Someone broke up the gummy bear heart collective I left up here. They squished the two gummy bears in love. Smeared remains, colors entwined, cling to the asphalt.
Is Allah upset at me?
I sit there and let the heat wave coil over my covered self.
? ? ?
When the bell rings, I walk home without stopping by Tats’s locker as usual. I want my bed before anyone else gets home.
Through the double doors, I notice a familiar figure in the lobby and slow down, briefly debating whether I should go around to the back of the building, near the dumpsters. Instead, I pause by the mailboxes and take out a textbook from my backpack.
Mr. Ram is parked by the fake-plants extravaganza. He’s staring out the wide windows at nothing.