Fact: Ninety-nine percent of the human body is made up of six elements—oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium, and phosphorus.
Truth: We are more than the sum of our parts.
Truth: Some of the elements burn and consume all the others in their flame.
All morning and into the afternoon, I distractedly worked the register at my parents’ store, thinking of those whispers I thought I heard earlier. I was sure it had been my imagination, but a Montage of Eerie Things™ ran through my mind: red letters, the flashing lights of the fire trucks at school, the name Ghost Skin, that swastika. Poison. Swallow your poison. I reorganized shelves, rang up customers, helped Dad unload boxes of whole spices: cardamom and fennel seeds and star anise. And that all had me craving chai, so Mom steeped a cup in the tiny half kitchen in the back storeroom. Two burners, a sink, and a small fridge. She didn’t always add fresh ginger to the simmering pot of tea leaves and other spices, but this day she did, and with the constant shiver I was feeling, the warm, fragrant spices in the chai were perfect. How can a few simple ingredients stirred together be so magical?
I warmed my hand on the steaming cup as I lifted it to take a sip of the milky tea. We sat together in the late-afternoon light at the small Formica table with red vinyl chairs my parents kept near the big plate glass windows. Chicago winters could be bleak, gray skies for miles, but on the days when the sun did shine, it felt like a small gift. I watched as my parents sat side by side, in companionable silence, their chests rising and falling in sync with each other. There were many, many things going wrong. But for a moment, this was right.
“Do you think they’ll find him?” I asked. “Jawad, I mean.” My parents’ faces looked drained.
“I pray they will, beta,” my mom said. Between her sips of chai, my mom was running a tasbih through the fingers of her right hand—ninety-nine prayer beads looped together and strung with green silken threads that formed a tassel at one end. I knew that each prayer she whispered was for Jawad to be found. I was wearing a smaller tasbih bracelet around my right wrist, thirty-three beads of sandalwood. Thirty-three hopes for Jawad to be safe. I knew some of those prayers were for me, too.
“We met his mom once or twice, years ago when…” My mom got choked up and her voice trailed off as she looked out the store windows. My dad covered her hand with his. They didn’t always show a lot of affection in front of me, so this small gesture surprised me. It worried me a little, too.
“The mosques in the city are joining to do a search—different groups going to different neighborhoods in waves, to see if we can help the police. I am going after we close the store,” my dad said.
“I want to help. I’ll join you.”
“No… you can stay here with your mom. We don’t know.… I think it’s for the best for now.” My parents exchanged glances. My dad always scrunched his forehead when he worried. I had a feeling Mom and Dad weren’t only concerned about the missing boy; they were scared of something happening to me. I didn’t fight it. I understood it. Right then I decided not to tell them about my column being plastered everywhere with Swallow your poison scribbled across it. I didn’t want to burden them even more. So I nodded at my parents, agreeing to stay back from the search.
My mom gave me a soft smile, her face relieved. “You know, beta, sometimes we forget to be thankful for small things. To be grateful for all that we have,” she said.
My dad grinned and added, “Like your mom’s chai.”
I raised my half-full cup. “To Mom’s chai.” They both raised their mugs and clinked mine.
I knew my dad wanted to help with the search, so I suggested he go ahead while I helped Mom hold down the fort—it had been mostly quiet in the store. My dad headed upstairs to our apartment to get ready, and my mom went to make him a large thermos of tea.
I grabbed the window cleaner and sprayed the inside of the door. My dad wanted it spotless at all times. I bent down to put the bottle on the floor, and when I stood up, Richard was walking toward the store, a huge smile on his face. I grinned back at him as he jokingly mimed at me, pleading to be let in. I moved away from the door so he could enter. The cheerful brass bird bell rang as he stepped through the doorway. I tried not to read into his being here. It definitely did not mean anything. Anything like him liking me. Nope. I wasn’t imagining us cozily sharing cocoa at Medici while watching snow slowly fall outside. Not at all.
“Hey,” I said. “What are you doing here?” Gulp. It was one thing to play it cool. It was another thing to be an ice queen.
“Great to see you, too!” he said, chuckling while gently nudging me with his elbow. I nudged back, letting myself lean into him a tiny bit. Pretending to ignore the little spark of joy flashing in my chest. Pretending my face wasn’t feeling all warm. And so, so happy that my dark-brown skin never revealed a full blush.
“Sorry… um… surprised to see you is all,” I said, stepping to the counter to put down the cleaning rag. Wow. I’m not winning any awards for riveting conversation.
“Surprised in a good way?” Richard asked as he unbuttoned his dark-blue peacoat and walked over to the counter, across from me, and plunked down his backpack.
“Definitely,” I whispered, and quickly looked away.
My mom chose that precise moment to pop back into the store. How do parents always know? An inquiring eyebrow shot up when she saw Richard.
Richard turned to look at her. “Oh, hi, Mrs. Mirza. Good to see you. Let me know if you need any help moving boxes again. Or taste testing your samosas. They’re all I’ve been thinking about since Parent Night last month.” He knew how to charm everyone.
My mom chuckled. “You should come for dinner sometime, Richard. We’d love to have you.”
I was glad Richard’s back was to me, because my jaw dropped nearly to the floor. But my mom could clearly see me shaking my head in a combination of embarrassment and horror at having a… guy… a guy who was maybe a crush… over for dinner.
“My mouth is watering already,” Richard said, and my mom’s face lit up. Complimenting her cooking—which is amazing—is a sure way to her heart.
“Wonderful! Now, if you two will excuse me, I forgot something in the storeroom,” my mom said as she headed to the back. “Lovely to see you, Richard. Be careful when you’re going home, okay?”
“I will be. Thanks, Mrs. Mirza. Good to see you, too,” Richard called after her, then swiveled toward me.
“You are such a brownnoser.” I grinned.
“What? I was being serious. I literally dreamed about those samosas.… Does your house smell like this?” he asked.
“Like what?” I said, scrunching my eyebrows.
“Like this store. It smells so good in here,” he said, glancing around. I braced myself for him to make some dumb comment about chai tea or naan bread. “Like cardamom and ginger. Maybe fennel, too?”
Whoa. Wait. I was used to people jumping to conclusions about me, not the other way around. “I’m impressed. You know your spices.”
“I like to cook.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I’m more than a muscly jock, you know. Like I said, I have layers.” He laughed.
“So, cooking and tolerating journo movies I rec. What other secrets do you have?”
“I come bearing gifts.”
I grinned. “Wait, let me guess: Your presence is my present?” Oh my God. I am a total, utter dork. Gah. There was this tiny fluttery feeling inside my stomach that I had to fight so I wouldn’t blurt something even more ridiculously dorky and giddy.
“Of course. That goes without saying, right?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Actually,” he continued, unzipping his backpack and pulling out my beat-up Gwendolyn Brooks anthology, “I brought you poetry.” I’d bought the book secondhand at Powell’s, and the worn cover showed it. I suddenly felt self-conscious about it.
“Oh. Thanks. I needed that.” I quickly grabbed the book and put it under the counter and tried not to look disappointed that this was what he called a “gift.”
“I may have one more thing.” Richard reached back into his backpack and pulled out a small brown paper bag with some visible grease spots on it.
“Awww, you brought me trash. You shouldn’t have!” I joked.
He handed me the bag. “One man’s trash is another’s—”
“Cookies!” I yelped as I unrolled the top and the delicious smell of chocolate wafted out. A Medici garbage cookie, to be exact. “These are my faves.” I was absolutely addicted to these chocolate chip, M&M, and walnut cookies.
“I know,” he said casually. “You brought them up once in chem, remember?”
I did not remember, but waxing on about my passion for this perfect cookie seemed like me. I loved the cookie, and I loved that Richard paid attention to details. Details about me.
“Thank you so much. It’s super sweet of you. And I’m sure Asma appreciated you bringing the book by—one less errand for her.”
“I wasn’t doing it for Asma,” he said softly, leaning slightly over the counter, closing the space between us. I took a deep breath as he leaned in a little closer, loosening the knot of his light-blue cashmere scarf.
“So, who were you doing it for?” Whoa. Did that suggestive sentence come out of my mouth? Maybe I was all stick-it-to-the-man when it came to authority, but I was not bold at flirting. Never needed to be. Never truly tried. Maybe I just needed the right nudge(r).
Richard rubbed his chin like he was feeling for stubble (there was none). “You know how sometimes something can be right in front of your face, but you never really see it?”
I gulped. Yes. I did. So very much. I looked down at my scuffed blue sparkly patent Docs, then back up at him. I placed my palms on the counter, and my body inclined slightly toward his, like he was a magnet gently pulling me in. We were close enough so that I could see flecks of gray in his eyes. I stopped breathing while electricity crackled between us.
My phone buzzed. Exactly my luck.
“Oh. Uh… hang on.” My body jerked back like it had been released by that magnetic pull. “Probably Asma telling me you’re going to be dropping off my book. I love her, but she totally has the desi lateness gene.” I chuckled awkwardly.
But it wasn’t Asma.
SWALLOW YOUR POISON.
The number came up as private.
“What is it?” Richard asked, his brow furrowing.
“I… think it’s… the person who put up the flyers. Ghost Skin.” I showed Richard, who narrowed his eyes at the screen.
“That sucks. I’m so sorry.” Richard placed his hand on mine. My heart raced. But I couldn’t tell if it was out of fear from the text or because his hand lingered. It felt warm, comforting, on top of mine. His skin was so soft—he must’ve moisturized constantly. How else could his skin be smooth and uncracked in a Chicago winter? We locked eyes across the conveyor belt on the counter again. I bit my lower lip.
“How can your hands be so warm? You weren’t even wearing gloves.”
“I never wear gloves. I don’t even have a pair. They’re like prison for your hands. Besides, I run hot,” he said, looking into my eyes.
Oh my God. I chewed the inside of my cheek. There was a chance I was going to combust. I gently pulled my hand away, and my eyes were drawn back to my phone screen. I was happy for the momentary distraction, but that scary message was still there.
“I wonder how this jerk got my number. What do you think it means?”
Richard rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know. Definitely creepy, though. Is your number unlisted?”
“Nah. It’s in the school directory they send home. I wonder if I should show the police the text?”
“The police?” Richard rolled his eyes. “They’re as useless as Hardy, and they’d probably make you fill out a bunch of paperwork to pretend they were actually doing something. Can they trace it if it’s from a burner?”
“It’s not necessarily a burner. Could be someone *67’d their actual number?” I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, preoccupied.
“They’d be pretty stupid if they did that,” Richard said, chuckling.
“Most criminals get caught for stupid stuff, though. Remember the Oklahoma City bombing? We studied it in history class last year? That dude was caught because he was driving without a license plate.”
“What an asshole. Got what he deserved.” Richard paused, looked down at his watch, and then cleared his throat. “Crap, I have to meet up with some guys from swim team. I’ll see ya in school on Monday?”
“Definitely. Thanks again for my book and the garbage cookie.”
“I aim to please.” Richard smiled and began rebuttoning his coat. “Hey, give me your phone a sec.”
“What for?” I asked.
“Trust me,” he whispered, reaching across the counter. I handed him my phone, and he entered some numbers in it. Then his phone rang. “Let me know if you get any more creepy texts, okay? Or if you want to, you know, hang out or whatever.” He grinned, dimples and all, as he handed me my phone.
“Cool. Thanks.” I returned the smile and hoped that he couldn’t hear my heart beating out of my chest.
I watched as he walked out of the store, his bag hung casually over his right shoulder. He looked back at me and winked. I shook my head and laughed.
I started cleaning again, but a few seconds later, my phone buzzed. I jumped. But it was Richard—a selfie with a goofy grin: So you’d get a funny text today too.
The smile on my face was so ridiculously huge, I was glad he wasn’t there to see it. Even though we’d been lab partners, it was only when we’d spent that evening together as tour guides for Parent Night that his casual friendliness started leaning into slightly flirtatious and interested. And there was something about the way he’d helped my mom with all the food she’d volunteered to bring and how he’d stuck around and chatted with my parents that endeared him to me even more.
Of course, I hadn’t shared that with him—I didn’t want to give away all my secrets. There were so many things going wrong. So many things to be scared and worried about. And Richard was the most perfect, gorgeous, and sweet diversion.
I picked up my phone, hesitated. Then sent my own silly selfie back—head cocked, eyebrow raised, mouth open in mock surprise. He heart emojied it immediately.
I bit my lip, then scrolled through my phone, pulling up that text again: Swallow your poison. Richard was probably right about the cops doing nothing. There had been a rash of carjackings the last three months, and the police barely seemed interested in solving those crimes. So what were they going to do about an anonymous text? Tell me it was a prank or a wrong number? It would be way more trouble than it was worth to file a report. I tapped my thumbs against my screen. I pulled Richard’s selfie up again and pinned it to the top of my text screen. The Swallow your poison text would get buried soon enough by new texts in my scroll. I smiled looking at Richard’s goofy face. There were so many things I’d rather think about than some stupid troll.