8

JAWAHIR

“That’s him,” Jawahir whispers to Ayaan when she sees the young man walk into the library. Her body feels like it’s short-circuiting, every sense overloading with new sensations. “That’s him. That’s the boy—”

“Sit down, girl!” Ayaan grabs her hand as Jawahir starts to stand and pulls her down. Ayaan sighs. “Jawahir, I see that look in your eyes. Don’t do it. What is wrong with you? If your dad—”

“I just want—” Jawahir stops, stumbling over the unfamiliar word want. In her house, you did what you were told and what was needed. “Want” was as foreign and forbidden as pork or alcohol.

“Not just your dad,” Ayaan says. “If Farhan or his friends see you even talk to him, they’ll—”

Jawahir nods in agreement, smiles at her cousin politely, and frees herself from her grip. She walks quickly toward the door. Ayaan yells at her in Somali. Jawahir turns to see that the other girls at her table, and the boys at the adjoining tables, are staring at her. Some start texting.

The commotion gets the boy’s attention. He stares at Jawahir, and a smile lights up his face. He starts toward her, walking and then almost running. “Fool, what are you doing?” someone yells from the door. Jawahir recognizes him from the video. He was the one fighting with Farhan on the table. Jawahir’s rescuer stops, turns and stares at the other boy, but says nothing.

“I said, what are you doing?” the young man repeats. He’s blocking the door. The first shout gets the attention of the other students in the room. Now everyone is staring at Jawahir. Some of the African American girls start shouting, but it’s hard to hear because the Somali boys are shouting louder.

“I’m free. Screw this,” the young man says. He reaches out his hand. Jawahir takes it. He drops his books on the floor and starts running toward the fire exit. Jawahir, hand in hand, follows. As he kicks the door open, a loud siren screams and lights flash. Jawahir lets go of his hand, and they sprint together toward the bus garage. The young man runs beside her. The sirens in the distance grow faint, and the sound of their breathing gets heavier as they reach the garage. “Let’s stop running,” he whispers.

The boy leans against the garage. Jawahir stands on her toes to kiss him. She feels ten feet tall.