“All beauty comes out of ugliness. That’s why I write. I write when I’m on the verge of bursting out in tears, when I stare up at the ceiling in vain hoping that the tears will slide back, out of sight. Because when I’m in one of those moods, I can’t sit still because I need a release. That’s why I write. It’s a high. It’s a passion. It’s where I can express what I don’t dare to say out loud, woven into the patterns of the words I pen.” -- Ash

            Girls and the bathroom have an interesting relationship. It’s like this safe haven, this place that you can let go and chill out and not worry about whether or not you look fat or if your hair is messed up. No matter how alliances and loyalties and friendship work outside of the bathroom, every girl in a public bathroom knows that the bathroom is the one chill-out zone where you can gain a little bit of a reprieve from the pressures of looking good.

            During English class on Wednesday, I head to the bathroom on the other side of campus. I need the long, quiet walk. I take my sweet time even though we’re reviewing the first few chapters of Their Eyes Were Watching God. I really don’t care right now. For the past two days, I’ve been extremely careful not to get myself into any situations that could ignite rumors. Sarah and I haven’t gotten a chance to talk about Hamza and right now, I’m too exhausted and stressed out about college applications and homework to get myself involved with her infatuation.

            I head up the stairs of Renfrew Hall and swing open the door silently, immersed in my own thoughts. At the water fountain in the middle of the boys’ bathroom and the girls’ bathroom, a guy and a girl, definitely younger than me, stand facing each other. They have one hand clasped together, fingers interlaced. I awkwardly make eye contact and then head into the bathroom, only freezing when I stride by the mirror and catch sight of my black hair; the girl also had black hair…could it have been—

            “Please don’t tell anyone.” Her voice is begging me, and I sigh, wondering if I’m wearing a sign that says, ‘Willing to Entertain Drama.’ I really don’t want to hold people’s secrets. I’m not one of those girls that goes around inquiring about rumors. I just want to do my thing and get out of here. And I also just want to go to the bathroom. My bladder can’t hold this much.

            “I won’t.” I respond, heading into the stall before I ruin my pants from having to go so badly. After I’m done and walk outside to wash my hands, I hear her voice again, making me jump slightly and splashing some drops of water on the drably grey tile floor.

            “It would be a bitchy thing to do…spread my crap like that.” God, attitude much? I grab some paper towels, one for my hands, the other one for the tile floor. Wouldn’t want anyone to slip.

            “Hidayah, is a defensive attitude something you and Hamza share or is it coincidentally ingrained in both of you to have one?” I ask calmly. Hamza’s little sister uncrosses her arms, taken aback. “I just said I won’t say anything. Believe me, I’m not trying to sound condescending but I have my own stuff to worry about right now.” She’s silent, trying to read me. I continue, “Besides, I have no one to tell. And I’m not going to tell Hamza, if that’s what you’re worried out, which I’m pretty sure you are.”

            “Aren’t you guys like best friends?” She asks suddenly, confused.

            I can’t help but crack up at the thought of Hamza and me being best friends. More like best enemies for the past five years. “No, not at all. Look, just as a word of advice, be careful who you share your stuff with. Don’t set yourself up to be the next piece of gossip.” I’m about to walk out when she stops me again.

            I turn to see her standing with her mouth gaping open. “You’re not going to lecture me?!” Her incredulous expression makes me raise my eyebrows.

            “Were you expecting me to?”

            “Well no, it’s just that I—”

            “You figured I’d get all up in your grill for dating and how that’s against our religion?”

            “I’m not dating him.” She protests weakly.

            I throw up my arms. “Well there you go. Kaboom. You’re not dating him. Therefore, no reason to lecture you. Not that I’m any place to.”

            “So you date?” Her eyebrows knit together, like I’m an enigma, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m real or putting on a façade.

            “Not at all. It’s against Islam.”

            “Then why—”

            “Because. Look, I know I don’t wear the headscarf and I may not look that religious but I really do try to follow it as much as possible. It’s a beautiful religion. And I know that most of the Muslim kids at this school aren’t interested in following it. Yeah, I think it’s wrong. But God knows that I sin and do stupid stuff too, so I’m not going to go around lecturing anyone. I know what you expected to hear is me lecturing you that it’s wrong to touch a guy or date him or be romantically involved with him. But you didn’t ask for my opinion and I’m not in any place to lecture you because I sure as hell don’t know the whole story.” I finish my spiel, keeping in mind that I’ve been gone from class for a long time. “I have to go. See you around, Hidayah. I hope it works out for the best, okay?” She nods, and I walk out, wondering what effect, if any, this will have.

            Sayeeda comes over Friday afternoon after school because we missed our Panera day this week. We’re sprawled out on my floor doing homework and catching up and eating. My door is closed, so Sayeeda takes off her headscarf. “I don’t get why I’m a senior and still doing grammar homework.” She complains.

            I grin. “Could be worse. I’m reading about Janie and her quest for love. Ick.”

            “Love is so romantic.”

            “Not when this woman tries to find it. She’s so irritating. Stop whining about your life and what you want and start thinking about others.”

            This only makes Sayeeda laugh. “Eiliyah, stop thinking about what she’s doing from your mindset.”

            “What?”

            “You’re a strong, independent woman because life has made you that way. Janie isn’t like that. She’s an only child, grew up with her grandmother, and has no responsibilities to anyone else after her grandmother dies. I know it’s killing you that she’s being about as strong as a rubber glove but put yourself in her mindset.” I huff even though she’s right. As I flip the page, I see more line markings.

            “Sayeeda, this book is weird. I swear.” She looks up and asks me why. I extend the page towards her to demonstrate. “There are random line markings. Like random letters underlined. And then there are numbers.”

            She shoots up and grabs the book, her eyebrows furrowing as she sees what I’m describing. “Oh my God, Eiliyah, it’s like a code!”

            “Maybe it was a way of taking notes for whoever had this before me.”

            “No, it’s a code! Where did the markings start?”

            “Page three, I think.” She starts flipping to the page. “I, um, kind of erased the markings at first.” This makes her freeze, look up, and then glare at me.

            “Eiliyah, you are SUCH an idiot! Why would you erase it?!”

            “It was getting distracting.”

            “Well why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?”

            “Because I rarely use my copy. I usually read using Harun’s.”

            Sayeeda flops back onto my bed. “Eiliyah, I swear. Sometimes I don’t know if you’re just super down to earth and logical or if you’re really, really stupid.” I don’t exactly know how to take that.

            Harun and I dedicate Friday afternoon to filling out college applications. He looks so calm and confident, in a button-down as he assuredly fills out his name and other information at the top of each application. How? How is he so calm and confident even though there are still some stupid people that assume that he’ll never have a career because he’s deaf? Doesn’t it worry him? Doesn’t it hurt him? The thing about Harun is that he and I may have shared a womb for nine months, but there are times that he is an enigma. Especially about his deafness, he’s very quiet. He doesn’t talk about it much.

            We both set to work on our University of Florida application in silence. That’s where Juwariyah went, University of Florida. There’s also two University of Miami applications we’re going to fill out next, which is where my twin brothers went. I feel it again, this slow vacuum building in the pit of my stomach.

            The truth of the matter is that I don’t want to go to college in Florida. And I don’t want to go to a college just because Harun is going there. Does that make me a bad person? For wanting a life different than my brother’s? Don’t get me wrong, I would walk to the ends of the world for Harun. If he ever needed anything, or needed or wanted me to go to college with him, I would in a heart beat and with pride and honor and nothing but sincere joy. But that’s just it. I know he doesn’t want that. I’ve seen it on his face, when he thinks no one is looking. How his eyes light up when he sees something he loves, but I have a feeling he protects his desires because exposing hopes and wishes and dreams leaves the opportunity for them to get crushed. But when I see him look at the sky, I know he’s just not admiring the clouds or the birds or the sun or the moon. For him, it’s so much more than it. It’s the space, the freedom, the ability to do and desire anything in this world.

            And ironically, I think I’m the one person that wants him to be the most independent but our family makes me the one that holds him back. The irony of it all. God, the freaking irony of it all. I’m lost in those thoughts until Harun taps me. “Are you okay? You zoned out.” He signs.

            I nod. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just worried about this whole process.”

            “Why?”

            “Because…I don’t know what I want. I don’t know where I want to go. What if I set my hopes somewhere and then I don’t get in?” I think I’m living proof that it’s possible to ramble with your hands.

            “What’s there to lose?” He asks. His face contracts in confusion as if he really doesn’t understand. How amazing must it be not to think that there’s anything to lose?
            “I don’t know. My hopes?”

            “Well if we all thought like that then I would never be where I am today. And neither would you.” He makes it so easy, to want and to hope and to dream and to desire as if it’s not wrong, as if it’s totally okay. And hearing that, hearing that from someone who’s lost one of his five senses, someone who’s lost the potential for a “normal life,” makes me ashamed that I, who has lost nothing in comparison, would dare to think otherwise.

            The following week, Zubair and Zaid, my eldest brothers, come home from Miami, where they do their residencies at the local hospital. The first night they’re back, Mom makes a huge dinner enough to feed us and possibly the whole population of Luxembourg as well. The entire mood is buzzing excitement. It’s funny because growing up, being with family was a given; now, it’s a blessing. It’s especially really important for Harun and me when they’re home because we’ve never had that much bonding time on account of the fact that they’re about ten or eleven years older than us.

            “Ma, this is so good!” Zubair groans in appreciation. She’s made biryani. And I’m pretty sure Juwariyah and Jamal brought cheesecake and I swear, if it wasn’t their homecoming dinner I would have called dibs on a chocolate cheesecake slice by now.

            “Good. Eat up, you two are too thin.” Mom responds firmly. Musa and Isa giggle at some private joke and Juwariyah shoots them a suspicious look. I may not get along with my sister but she definitely makes cute kids. I’ll just say that straight up.

            After we thank God for the food He has provided us with, we pick up our spoons and begin eating. Indians eat with their hands (or really, their fingers) but since we use sign language to communicate, we prefer using spoons so that we can communicate over dinner with clean hands. It’s one of the things of living with someone with a disability. Outsiders assume that some things are changed and that our family is like everyone else’s. But honestly, when you live with someone with a disability, you quickly learn that it’s the little things that change the most and those same little things that everyone else doesn’t think twice about are the same little things that you would give anything in the world to experience.

            I wish Harun could hear my voice. I wish he could listen to me when I give speeches. I wish he could listen to Juwariyah sing (she’s a really good singer) when she’s happy. I wish we could be like other Indian families and chat as we ate with our hands. I wish I could go to the T-Mobile store and not hear my parents say that they don’t want to put any minutes on Harun’s phone because really, what’s the point? It’s not like he’s going to use them. I just wish, I really, really wish that I could just know what it feels like to look down at my phone and see that I have an incoming call from my brother and pick it up and hear his voice at the end of the line.

            I wish so many things, so many things that other people, people like you, yes you, take for granted. That’s all I want. I want the little things, I want those little joys. I would give up anything in the world for that.

            “Eiliyah, did you apply anywhere early decision?” Zaid asks.

            I chew my food and set down my spoon. “No, the counselor advised against it. Said it would be easier to get them to give me more money if I have other colleges’ offers to compare to.”

            “Good idea.” Zubair comments. “That can work out for the better.” He picks up his spoon again and begins shoveling food into his mouth. Zaid is sitting next to him, and Harun on the other side. All three of them are inhaling their meals. Dear God. Boys.

            “In state schools give good money too. They want to keep Florida kids here.” Juwariyah comments. She says it out loud as well; Jamal and the twins are still a little weak on sign language.

            “University of Florida gave you great money, didn’t it, Juwariyah?” Dad asks. “You only paid a few thousand a year.”

            Juwariyah smiles and nods. “Only three thousand a year plus books and all that. It was great. Your undergraduate degree shouldn’t cost you much.” She directs this advice to me and Harun specifically. I nod and attempt to smile back but the pit of my stomach is churning. In state. I really don’t want to stay in state. Oh Allah please don’t make me stay in state.

            “I think you guys would like UF or U Miami,” Zaid signs. He takes a gulp of water as my mouth turns dry. I want to shout out, want to declare that I don’t want to go to college with Harun, that we both want to take our different paths and fulfill that secret pact Harun and I made sophomore year: that we would go to the college of our dreams and not compromise those dreams for the sake of the other twin. I want to do all that, but my fear controls me so much that I sit there, mute and without an opinion I dare to voice.

            After dinner is over and we’ve all cleared the dishes, we head to the family room to sit around and talk as a family. We had this when we were younger but now everyone is so caught up with their own lives—Juwariyah is a mother, for God’s sake—that we rarely ever get to do this anymore. We joke and we laugh and we share stories, this harmony and easiness among all of us that makes me wonder if my dreams are worth going against what they want for me.

            It’s fifth period English on Monday morning and I am desperately trying to stay awake. The only thing I have going for me? Ben and I are texting as his parents drive him back up to his private school. Even that isn’t enough to keep me awake as Mrs. Winthrop goes on and on about Janie and her stupid quest for love and finding herself. “What does running away fromLogansymbolize for Janie?” She poses the question to the class but no one answers. I rest my head on my composition notebook. “Eiliyah?”

            I fight the urge to glare. Sighing, I lift my head up. “Um…” I pause as my brain pulls a brain fart. “It symbolizes freedom. It’s like she’s getting away from her grandmother’s view of what she wants and embarking on her own journey to find what she really wants.”

            “Good, good.” She continues with her lecture and I zone out, snapping back into reality when I feel my chair move. I turn to see who’s touching the back legs and Hamza smirks and glances away. Really? The kid is old enough to drive yet he feels the need to piss me off like this. Mature. Really mature. And his birthday is what, next month? He turns eighteen? If that’s not maturity, I don’t know what is (note the sarcasm).

            “Aa-lay-yah?” A hesitant voice makes my head shoot up. It’s a deep, masculine voice of a boy around my age. He’s reading off of a Post-It note while standing by the door of the classroom.

            “I have an Eiliyah.” Mrs. Winthrop says. The guy hands over what’s—oh my God, it’s a note and a single rose. My skin crawls as I break out in a blush. The cool air hits my heated skin painfully, a bittersweet, slow dance as my blood flow goes crazy. The eyes of my classmates gravitate to the rose and the beautiful cream note attached to the delicately curving stem. The tall boy drops it on my desk and smiles quickly until he turns around and walks back out. He must have been an office aide or something.

            The room is utterly silent and even Mrs. Winthrop stops lecturing for a bit, knowing she’s lost everyone’s attention. I stroke the velvety petals and my fingers trail down the dark green stem until my hands turn over the note on their own accord. It’s black print, against pretty, obviously expensive paper, with swirling, typed cursive.

My only love sprung from my only hate!

Too early seen unknown, and known too late!

Prodigious birth of love it is to me,

That I must love a loathèd enemy.

            My blood runs still and everything in that moment is like it’s at absolute zero—all particles in my world cease moving. The quatrain. Or whatever it’s called. It’s from Romeo and Juliet, which I read in sixth grade. I remember, because I was Juliet and Christian was my nurse and as I read those words, I fell in love with them.

            So many things, so many thoughts race through my head as I feel everyone staring at me. Slowly I set the rose down, and class resumes.

            I think Sayeeda is about to have heart failure. I know I’m not exactly Miss Popularity, but giving my own cousin a cardiac arrest would just plummet my already low status on the IB totem pole. “You. Got. A. Rose.” We’re back at Panera, eating tuna sandwiches and eating salad and pretending we’re not totally fat the other six days of the week.

            “I did. It freaks me out for a myriad of reasons.”

            She simply rolls her big brown eyes. “Of course. The logic must kick in.” I know she’s only kidding; Sayeeda has her head straight on her shoulders, which is why I love her so much.

            “Shut up.” I throw a crouton into her bowl. “Firstly, roses are my favorite flowers because they’re so beautifully complex. And I love single roses. Thirdly, that quatrain or whatever the heck it’s called is my favorite quatrain from Shakespeare. I read that play in sixth grade and loved it. And I was Juliet when I read that line too.”

            “Are you done?”

            “I bet I could think of more.”

            “Spare me. Do you think it’s from The Creep? Wait, who am I kidding, of course it is.”

            “Sayeeda, I doubt it. Well, I don’t know. Maybe. God, this is so, so complicated.”

            She raises an eyebrow and twirls the tassels of her headscarf. “Does Harun know?”

            I groan. “I’m sure the gossip has gotten to him. English is one of two classes I don’t have with him. I’m sure the gossip got around. Who knows? I was planning on telling him anyway.”

            “He won’t be happy.”

            “Yeah, well I’m not ecstatic either.”

            “I don’t see why.”

            “Because I hate how someone I don’t know knows me this well. It’s unsettling.”

            She’s silent. “I understand. I really do. But Eiliyah, you can’t go on with having these walls build around y—”

            “Hey.” Hidayah approaches us, nervously tucking her hair behind her ear. She stands there awkwardly. We talked a few more times after our bathroom conversation, but I generally don’t see her around school.

            “Hidayah, hurry the hell up—” Hamza walks over while frowning at his phone. He glances up, and our eyes lock. Something changes, I can tell by the way his eyes flash. His phone vibrates, and he picks it up, wordlessly swipes his phone without looking at it. “Hey, Harmony.” He purposely holds my eyes as he answers the call. I know he does, because I’m captivated, and once I make that realization I look away, focus back on Hidayah.

            “You were saying?” I give her an encouraging smile.

            Hamza’s walked away by now. “I heard you’re really good at chemistry…so I need you to tutor me.” She blurts the sentences out one by one with pauses in between.

            “You need me or you want me to tutor you?”

            She sighs, clarifying herself. “Please will you tutor me?”

            “Only if you make me cheesecake.” She grins widely at my mock serious comment.

            “Okay, then. Does Wednesday work for you? I know Hamza could give you a ride home….” Hell to the no. I’m not riding in a car with him.

            “I drive to school but I’d have to drop my brother back home unless he gets a ride home with his best friend. I’ll ask and let you know, okay?” She nods. We do the whole number exchange thing as Sayeeda watches and eats (nothing gets in the way of that girl and food).

            “Where’d you hear I was good at chemistry?” I ask.

            Hamza begins to walk over again. “Oh, Christian and Hamza were talking about it in the car the other day.” Okay? That’s odd.

            “Are you parents okay with me coming over?”

            She grins, looking her age, fifteen. “It was Hamza’s idea that you come over and tutor me.” At this, Sayeeda nearly chokes on her cherry tomato (I knew there was a reason never to like those). Hamza clearly heard what Hidayah says because he glares at her and rudely says that he and Hidayah have to leave.

            As they walk out, I repeat the mental image of Hidayah’s expression as she said that thing about Hamza. Yes, she needs tutoring, but she has an ulterior motive. And I’m going to figure it out.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

COMMENT! And VOTE! (But comment more). Because that totally makes my day! Please tell me what you think of this chapter and the story overall. I'm a little bummed it's not that popular as I thought it would be.

Anyway, enough about me. I just want to thank everyone for all the support. I pray for your well-being with a sincere heart and I truly hope you have a wonderful day. I'm not just saying that because I feel like I need to say it. I mean it from the bottom of my heart.

All my love,

Ash ♥