SAFIYA

JANUARY 7, 2022

Lie: Cowards die many times before their death.

Truth: Haters who hide behind masks, internet trolls, the random guy who yells racists things out a speeding car window are all cowards. And they’re thriving.

My suspension was basically for a day and a half—the rest of yesterday and today. I’m honestly surprised I didn’t get a longer one, but Hardy was likely relishing the idea of making my life miserable, and I had to be present in school for him to do that. Ms. Cary was probably getting a lot of crap from Hardy about how she needed to control me. I sort of felt bad about it, but I’d done what I had to do.

I had today plus the weekend of working in the store to try to earn back my parents’ trust; they weren’t thrilled with my resistance journalism, even if they admitted I was in the right (sort of). “There are better ways of making the point than by defying your principal and breaking the rules,” my mom argued. I didn’t bother explaining that breaking unfair rules was the right thing to do. That administration is best that oppresses students the least. Isn’t that what we were supposed to learn when they made us read “Civil Disobedience” by Thoreau in American Lit?

Technically, I was to get zero credit for any missed schoolwork while on suspension, but since I’d met all my graduation requirements and mostly had independent study, I wasn’t worried about it. Ms. Simone had already emailed me the Senior Lit assignment and said as long as I answered the questions on the Gwendolyn Brooks poems we were reading, I’d be okay. I needed to get the book, which I was going to ask Asma to grab from my locker. Journalism, as my dad loved to say, was going to be a sticky wicket. I did not think Ms. Cary was going to give me any leeway.

It was still early, not even 9:00 a.m. The store wouldn’t be open for another hour, so I meandered back to the pickle shelves and started sorting. I was reordering the extra-spicy mango pickles when my phone buzzed. I snagged it out of my back pocket to find a text from Asma.

Asma: You’re not here and you’re still causing a riot

Me: Oh no. Don’t tell me

Asma: There were flyers taped all over school when we got here

Me: And…

Asma: Don’t freak out!

Me: Asma!

Asma: The flyer was your column about the swastika but there was a sentence like scribbled on top of it. Sending pic now

I stared at my screen. My fingers trembled, so I gripped my phone tighter. It was my article printed out with the words Swallow your poison, for you need it badly scribbled over my column.

Me: WTF?! Is that a metaphor?

Asma: I dunno. I’m sorry. Hardy had them all taken down before the bell

Me: Ugh. But it’s gotta be the same people right?

Asma: There wasn’t even an announcement about the swastika or the leaflets

Me: Of course

Me: Any chance you can bring me my Gwendolyn Brooks book from my locker?

Asma: Okay. I have debate so it might be on the late side. Gotta run

Me:

I stared at the photo of my column with that… I dunno… threat, I guess, scrawled over it in thick red marker, the same color as the swastika painted on the school. If the purpose was to terrify me, it was working. But why me? Ms. Cary asked me if someone had something against me. My heart thumped against my rib cage. I licked my dry lips. What was the poison they wanted me to drink?

I shook my head, glancing at my screen once more before shoving the phone into the back pocket of my favorite worn jeans. That Amber Alert was still on my lock screen. A chill slithered through my veins, like ice crystals swirling in my blood. I swore I felt a gust of wind inside the store and heard a swirl of voices. No, a single voice. A whisper. But I figured I was tired. I rubbed my hands over my arms and went to grab a sweater. I hoped they’d find that kid.