2

JAWAHIR

“Get your thug hands off her,” Ayaan yells at the young man shielding Jawahir.

“I’m protecting her,” the guy says softly. His mouth is almost against Jawahir’s left ear. Jawahir’s eyes open again, but she can’t make words come from her throat. She thinks he smells nice, not loaded with rank cologne to cover the stink of cigarettes or weed like so many boys at Northeast.

“We protect our own,” Ayaan says. Jawahir hears a thump. The young man grunts in pain, no doubt from her cousin’s kick. “Get back to your corner selling poison, killing your community, and—”

“Listen, I don’t want to hear—” the young man starts to speak, but he stops as Farhan, Abdi Ali, and Ayub pounce, fists and kicks flying. He makes no noise, but the others shout curses in Somali.

“Stop!” Jawahir cries out, but the boys don’t listen. She tries again. “Please stop!”

“He jumped her,” Ayaan shouts at the attacking boys. “I saw it.”

“No, that’s not what—” Jawahir starts to speak, but bodies tumble around her as a group of black students, one of them wearing a varsity jacket, comes to help the person who came to her aid. She thinks about her mom’s stories about the homeland, when she felt helpless as young men waged war in front of her.

Jawahir tries to regain her feet and crawl to safety, but stumbles. She covers her head with her hands and feels the hot blood oozing. She knows her hijab is ruined; her dad will be angry.

“Follow me,” Jawahir hears the boy mumble. He rises to his hands and knees, head down. She sees the blood dripping from his head. The young man reaches his hands underneath Jawahir’s arms and pulls her to safety under a table. The floor is slippery with spilled food, drink puddles, and specks of blood.

The riot continues until the doors burst open and a squad of police with clubs, helmets, and shields pushes through the crowd. Jawahir starts to speak to the young man, but he’s ripped from under the table. Along with other black students, he stands by police order with his hands up, casual, as if out of habit.