9

RODNEY

“You are seriously messed up in the head,” Marquese tells Rodney, who is tired of listening but is trapped with him on the light rail. “I think inside CHS they shrunk your skull and brain along with it.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Rodney finally says, shutting down the Marquese tirade. They are headed to the downtown library on a Saturday afternoon, Marquese to deal, Rodney to study. Not to study for school, but to study everything Rodney can about Jawahir, who plans to meet him there.

“I’m not one to say anything against a brother getting a little something,” Marquese says. Rodney hates his tone; the idea of “getting a little something” seems vulgar even though not that long ago, that’s how he thought and spoke. But about Jawahir, it just seems wrong. “But with all the crap since the fight. You representing all of us, so you’re making us look bad falling for a Muslim.”

“I can’t explain.” Rodney stares out the window as the train moves almost as slow as a city bus. He wants the train to move faster, but the only place the train picks up speed is out of the tunnel at the airport.

“You watch yourself ’cause the word is out, and they’re just as pissed about that scene in the media center as us. Now, at the big library, first floor is neutral, we got the second, they got third. Be careful.”

Rodney frowns at the idea of a library divided up like a war zone or like his neighborhood. Marquese keeps talking, and Rodney pretends to listen, but he’s thinking about Jawahir. They kissed before they knew each other’s names, which seemed right to Rodney. Names are labels, and to Rodney, he thinks the world has too many labels, tats, and flags. Symbols used for war, not love.

Just before they split up in the library foyer, Marquese gives Rodney a fist bump. “Look, I’m just watching out for you. Times is tight now. You got to get your—”

“I love her.”

Marquese’s laughter bounces off the glass ceiling. “You just met her. You ain’t even—”

“That’s how I know, Marquese,” Rodney explains. He’s talking slow, making sure that his friend understands every word. “I shouldn’t feel like this about some girl, some girl I don’t know, some girl that everybody tells me to stay away from, but I can’t. It’s not just that she’s beautiful, but she’s something innocent and I ain’t felt that way in a long time. This is real, not like Aaliyah who—”

“You’re just rebounding from Aaliyah, that’s all.”

“No, you’re not listening, Marquese. It’s not like that. It’s not a lie or a pose. This is real.”

“Well, crap’s going to get real, so whatever you gotta do, do it, but don’t tell me. You hear me?”

Rodney smiles and bumps Marquese’s fist. His thick knuckles are tough. Rodney remembers how small and soft Jawahir’s hands were. Rodney’s knees buckle with the memory of Jawahir’s lips.

Marquese heads up the stairs to do business, while Rodney waits. Rodney wishes he could call Jawahir, but he knows her dad won’t let her have a phone. Or Instagram, anything. She’s doing nothing ordinary for a ninth-grade girl. It fits, he thinks, since she’s extraordinary in every way. He’ll have to wait until he sees her.

Finally, he hears footsteps approaching from behind him and spins around to see Jawahir approaching. But Jawahir’s not alone. One of the tough Somali boys, Farhan, is with her. So is the mean girl Ayaan, who sneers at Rodney from a distance. Rodney’s ready to text Marquese for reenforcements.

“Stay away from her, thug,” Farhan hisses like steam coming from the radiators in Rodney’s old house. “I hear you talk to her again, let alone touch her, you answer to all of us. She belongs to me.”

Rodney’s hands dive into his pockets: phone in left ready to text; fist in right ready to fly.

“I’m sorry,” Jawahir whispers as she passes by Rodney, following two steps behind Farhan, one behind Ayaan. Steps behind so neither see her toss a crumbled piece of paper behind her back. Rodney picks up the paper and smoothes it, reading words that fill his heart with joy. “Light rail station @ 2:00.”