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Winning is a strange feeling.
It feels foreign. This feeling of absolute euphoria that’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.
We won.
Laura Johnson is Elkwood’s president. The outspoken, unapologetically Sioux, Laura Johnson is Stu-Co president alongside Walter Cohen who is ready to redefine the very concept of Elkwood’s vice-presidency, morphing it into a power that might be so much more.
When I’d arrived home that day, Mom and Dad seemed to see the pure euphoria pooling out of my chest, because Mom had grabbed my shoulders, shooting me a million questions a minute.
“How did Ms. Anderson take the protest? Are you okay? Is Laura okay? How are Emory’s burns? How did the elections go?”
And I’d spilled everything out. Delirious laughs escaped my lips as I told them everything. Told them about nearly getting in trouble before the Thompsons showed up. Told them about the suspensions. Told them about Laura’s win and all the details surrounding it.
Told them everything.
As of now, I’m back at school with Laura, her shoes clicking against the marble as she fills me in on all her propositions. Some additions to the history curriculum featuring pre-colonial civilizations. Featuring the Americas before October 12, 1492. Featuring aspects of her history gone untold.
My history included. History featuring Frederick Douglass, the pre-colonial history of my own ancestors. The kingdoms, the empires. But it doesn’t stop there, because Laura’s already delved into different sects of our school, spoke to different people, jotted down ideas. Walter has brought his own ideas to the table as well, both sharing their notes, talking to different groups.
“We’re also talking to the administration about the photo you mentioned,” Laura says, tugging me out of my thoughts as I glance over at her, supplies held to my chest.
“Yeah?” I ask, falling into step with her as I urge her to continue talking.
“Yeah,” she nods with one of those grins as we turn a corner, “we’re hoping that they’ll give Elkwood’s non-white people more of a voice.” She purses her lips, eyes meeting mine. “Rather than just being used for good publicity.”
“I like the sound of that,” I say softly, Laura’s grin widening.
“So do I,” she says, her eyes flickering away from my face and to something ahead of us. “And there’s Walter right now.” She turns to me with a wink. “We’ll be going over points together. For lunch.”
“Alright,” I say, my fingers wiggling in a slight wave. Laura makes a move to leave before retracing her steps. My eyebrows fly upwards as her arm swings over my shoulder and her expression morphs into something almost relieved.
“Thank you,” she says, eyes serene. “Thank you for campaigning with me.” A pause as her eyes crinkle. “We made it, Amina.” She repeats it slowly. “We really made it.”
“For sure,” I say as she pulls away. A teasing grin flickers to my lips. “Now it’s time to actually get things done.” I give her a nudge. “Don’t disappoint.”
“You know me,” She says, that lightning grin back. “I never disappoint.” And with that, her eyes flicker and she’s down the hall, Walt slowing down as she falls into step with him, both delving into conversation.
Somehow, seeing their frames retreat down the hall, there’s a feeling of right that permeates through the walls of Elkwood. From the absence of racist taunts in the hallway to the tentative grins exchanged between different students.
It’s not perfect, of course.
The students that would’ve loyally voted for either Amber or Brett still send those cold looks as I pass them in the hallway. Jokes about the write-in votes still fly from locker to locker. Whenever I pass either Leslie, Amber, or Ms. Anderson in the hallway, not one of them sends a glance my way.
Letting out a laugh, I curve into the debate room, Mr. Pham glancing up from his desk and sending me a bright grin.
I return it.
And while imperfections might be prominent. The stars almost seem to be aligning.
***
The scent of pure library rises to the atmosphere as Ms. Knox grins at me from the front desk.
“Amina?” she asks, tilting her head to the side. A summer grin breaks out onto her lips. “Long time no see.”
“Seriously,” I exhale a breath as her hazel eyes find mine. “It feels like forever since I’ve been here.” My eyes flicker about the space as the memory comes to me. “When I, uh broke down.”
“Happens to the best of us,” Ms. Knox says, arms resting on her desk as a blue ballpoint pen is embedded in her curls. I’m about to let her know about said pen, but instead I settle with a silent laugh.
“I guess.” I say, head tilted to the side as a faint grin rises to my lips.
“And it’s okay,” Ms. Knox assures me, rising to her feet as she adjusts the waistband of her wide jeans, the floral top that she wears over her torso. “You seem happier. At least, you seem content. Like you’re doing okay.”
My thumb traces over my bottom lip in thought. “I’m smiling more, I think.”
“So,” Ms. Knox starts, weaving around her desk as she tosses an arm over my shoulder. “How’s life been treating you?”
“It’s been a trip,” I reply, adjusting the elastic that contains my curly bun. Curls spill out, and I tuck one behind my ear as I shake my head, the past few months crashing down on me like a ton of bricks.
Ms. Knox hums, a grin appearing on her lips. “Tell you what,” she glances down at me, huge glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose. “You’re going to fill me in on it.” A sparkling grin as she offers a suggestion. “Café?”
I return the grin, and Ms. Knox swoops her bag over the shoulder as I nod. “Café.”
***
A couple of weeks later, the photo ends up being taken. This time, however, it consists of volunteers, people who genuinely want to be part of the photo. And this time, it’s a natural setting. People seated around the table and delving into their lunches as they talk and laugh.
And I’m there, seated right next to Yasmine Abadi as she tells me something about her vacation and infinite stories that slip from her lips without much thought.
Being around so many other students used to be hellish. Elkwood was an ocean of lights, but I was the only one drowning.
However, now? With Yasmine’s arm slung around me, bringing me close, the henna curving up her hands visible underneath the sunlight.
She’s laughing, dark bun bobbing as she shakes her head. There’s the sound of a shutter, a brief flash. Emory’s across from us, seated next to Walter, a plethora of get-well cards and apology letters held in a bright bag seated on his lap. His burns are fading, his smile a bit wider.
He might move. The option is still up in the air, his parents mulling over whether or not to press charges. Charges mean a legal battle, and that means money and time and effort. As of now, though, he seems almost carefree, the effortless beauty of him captured by every camera flash.
Of course, Yasmine is smiling like summer, Jennifer Zhang behind the camera, light jokes filling the air like the universe belongs to us. Always has.
And so, I allow myself to feel okay. Just this once. As okay as my performance in the debate, one that has plunged me toward a spot at nationals. As okay as Yasmine’s autumn voice and the weather that’s less frigid than it was months ago.
As okay as the smile painting my lips in rainbow. And the panic attacks that have been subsiding. There, but not nearly as frequent. Unlikely to disappear, but no longer dominating every aspect of my life.
And for once, for once I genuinely feel okay.
