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            “Alright, everyone, ready to go?” Mr. McPherson claps his hands together, effectively catching everyone’s attention. It’s dark outside; the sun has yet to make an appearance. We’re standing at the bus ramp at school at six o’clock in the morning, about to head to St. Augustine for the day. We’ve been learning about the Spanish discovery of Florida and today, it was time to go experience history

            “Yes!” We all respond in unison. Mr. McPherson orders us to get on the bus, saying we can sit next to whoever we want. My palms start sweating at the thought. I don’t have many girl friends, mostly because they already have their little groups and cliques. All my guy friends will feel awkward sitting next to a girl, so…that leaves me with nobody, really.

            I take my time getting on the bus, which is a major mistake. I should have been one of the first people on and just sat in an empty pair of seats. Then, if someone wanted to sit next to me they could.

            For the bajillionth time, I wish that Sayeeda and Omar went to my school. I wish Harun wasn’t sick so that he could come today. Without them, eighth grade has been lonely and boring.

            Don’t get me wrong, in sixth and seventh grade I had plenty of friends, mostly girls. We did the usual girl things, and it was fine for a while. Then, in seventh grade, Hamza showed up and he and I became enemies in such a short amount of time, I still can’t think of the deciding moment where he first started hating me and I started loathing him and his actions. For the four months we were stuck doing that group project in science, I used to want to tear my hair out in fury.

            At the same time of this field trip, Musa and Isa were a year and a few months old, and Musa began to exhibit the first signs of autism. We were scared, all of us. My parents, in particular, were grief-stricken, forced to watch as their own daughter, the one who gave up her teenage years to raise her younger brother and sister, experienced the pains of having a child with a disability all over again.

            No matter how much I dislike my sister at times, I will be the first one to say that she has had a tough life, and I can’t even begin to fathom the pain that she’s gone through in her twenty-seven years of life.

            Musa’s autism took a toll on all of us as a family, and seventh and eighth grade were tough times for all of us for a myriad for reasons. Some of them affected the whole family; others, just me. I neglected to tell my parents this but as the problems at home grew worse and more persistent, my personality started changing.

            My already too-mature-for-her-age self grew even more mature and I became quieter, no longer interested in talks of boys or clothes or fashion. My mind was preoccupied with bigger things, and I became the outcast.

            The one thing more painful than being formally kicked out of a group of friends? Being informally kicked out, where they don’t tell you they want nothing to do with you; they just show it. The remaining year and a half of middle school was hell, with my stomach dropping at every prospect of social interaction in the form of academic work because I had no one to turn to.           

            I’m not blaming Hamza for all that happened, but it’s safe to say that he was part of the reason why that year and a half was nearly unbearable.

            The bus is nearly full and I try stalling by walking slowly so that I can search for empty seats next to people where my company is welcome. All the girls in my class have their best friends, so they’re sitting next to each other. The boys have their friends too.

            I sense my archenemy, Shay Mitchells, step on the bus behind me. This pressures me to hurry up and sit down. I’ve walked halfway into the bus and I need to find a seat, and fast. “Can I sit here?” My heart pounds as I ask Hamza, who’s playing on his Nintendo DS.

            He stares at me for a few seconds, and I painfully wait for his response. “This seat is taken.” He says. I’m pretty sure everyone within a three seat range hears, because he says it loudly and because they all erupt in laughter. I can barely manage to say “oh” before I take the seat next to the guy sitting behind Hamza, not even bothering to ask him if I can sit there.

            I thought my humiliation was over. Boy was I wrong. Right after Hamza said no to me, Shay, who was literally right behind me, is invited by Hamza (quite loudly) to sit next to him. This causes everyone to laugh again, and the boy I’m sitting next to, Dawson, shoots me a pitying look. I can’t tell which is more humiliating, so I recline my seat back and close my eyes, pretending my cheeks aren’t burning in embarrassment.

            An hour and a half later, the bus rolls into St. Augustine, and the excitement becomes contagious. The day is so crisp and beautiful that I smile despite how crappy I feel. After we’re all off, Mr. McPherson starts shouting out the groups. I zone out until I hear my name. “Eiliyah, Christian, Carlo, and Hamza! Mrs. Tyson’s group!” I make my way over to the three boys and Carlo’s mother. I awkwardly raise my hand in a dorky wave.

            “Hello, sweetie.” Mrs. Tyson says in a friendly way. I smile back. “You have a gorgeous smile.” She comments, making me flush as the three boys look at me. Hamza rolls his eyes, and mumbles something like “Yeah right.”

            I ignore him and stay quiet as the boys argue about what to do first. We decide to visit the church, and then head over to Flagler College. Part of me aches to voice my opinion, say I want to go to a bakery and get some food for Harun.

            As much as I hated the beginning of that day, the thought of Harun and what he said makes me smile even to this day as I think about it. Harun had come down with the flu right before the field trip, and I felt awful because he was looking forward to it more than I was. I hated it so much. I hated life with ever fiber of my being. I hated myself because I got to do so many things that he couldn’t. At that moment, it felt like a curse to be blessed, felt like I was cursed to be me, to live the life that I had.

            Harun reasoned with me as a few tears leaked out in private and he saw when he threw up in the bathroom and I ran to him at the noise. He handed me his twenty-five dollars which Mom and Dad had given him to spend, and said that the biggest thing that would make him happy was if I raided a few bakeries and antique chocolate shops for him while I was up there. “If you don’t go that’ll make me even more depressed because then I won’t have awesome food.” He had guilt tripped me into going.

            I knew he knew that that’s exactly how he could convince me to go. As I think back on my life, as I think of every mistake I made, every person I have wronged, I know that there is still an ounce of good in me because the Lord knows that I can never refuse my brother anything, that I would give him the world if I could. Because that’s just what you do for your best friend.

            The church is gorgeous, with high ceilings where sunlight tries to leak in from. The pews are dark wood, elegant. The Bibles look so fragile I don’t dare touch them. The boys’ chatter sounds wrong here, like it’s too rough, too loud, for somewhere this gorgeous. As the boys talk and look around, I head to one of the pews and take a seat towards the front.

            I zone all of them out, just close my eyes and try to resurface some of my sanity. For minutes, I sit there, in complete silence, as I think of all the people in the past who have come here, for centuries, to seek out God. What hardships did they encounter? Were they better or worse than mine? Somehow my feet come up on the pew with the rest of my body and my arms wrap around my knees.

            “Eiliyah!” I don’t think I’ve ever hated the sound of my name that much before, as Christian calls my name.

            “What?” I turn around and all three of them—Christian, Hamza, Carlo—are staring at me. I grab my stuff and walk out, ignoring them. Once we’re all outside, they all decide they want to go to Flagler College. Again, I say nothing.

            An hour later, I’m antsy. I want to go to a bakery. I voice my request but Carlo says, “No, I want to go over to the water.”

            I sigh. “We’ve been doing what you guys want for the past two hours. I want to go to the bakery.”

            Mrs. Tyson intervenes, “Honey, we’ll go in a bit.”

            I open my mouth again, but decide it’s not worth the battle. I just nod and go along with the plan to head to the water. I’m bored after the first twenty minutes, and frankly, the low walls and the deep water makes my palms sweat.

            I’m usually a team player, but after three and a half hours of doing just what they want, and a chaperone that clearly favors her son, I’m sick of it. “Can we please go to the bakery now?” I ask. “I want to head into town and get some stuff.”

            “Be PATIENT, Eiliyah!” Carlo huffs. I resist the urge to ram my fist into his stupid face. Patient? I’ve waited for three and a half hours and he wants me to be patient? F—

            “Eiliyah, shut the fuck up.” Hamza says in a low voice.

            The anger begins to boil but I contain it. I tap Mrs. Tyson’s shoulder. She’s turned around, obliviously taking pictures of the stupid birds. “Mrs. Tyson, may we go to the bakery now? We’ve been here for about thirty minutes.”

            “Mm? Oh, yes, yes. Honey, just give me, like, ten minutes.”  That’s what she said ten minutes ago. I try to patiently wait for another ten minutes, but seventeen minutes later, as the boys do whatever and Mrs. Tyson takes pictures and chats with her husband on the phone, I am so, so done.

            My dad always said I had a wild streak in me. He said that I’m a patient person, which is true, but that once I’m driven over the edge, I’m just done with rules and regulations. I don’t want much in life, even when it comes to little things, but when I want something, truly want something, like in this case to make Harun happy, I go for it. So I didn’t give a crap about Mr. McPherson or the trouble I would get into by separating from the group. Frankly, I think I was just done at the point.

            I look around. They’re all preoccupied. I grab my bag, stand up, and start walking away. I don’t quicken my pace, and I don’t slow down either. I’ve given up caring. Frankly, Mrs. Tyson is turning out to be a horrible chaperone and if she gets in trouble, I hardly care anymore. I turn back when I’m several yards away from them, when they look like tiny dots in my vision.

            I shrug and continue walking until I hear heavy breathing through my left ear. “You…are so…fucking…stupid.” Hamza wheezes out, clutching a stitch in his side. I freeze, staring at him as he desperately breathes for air, gasping.

            “Excuse me?” I retort. “If I’m the one that’s stupid, you sure as hell deserve the ‘Asshole of the Year’ award. I’m sure you could give Kanye a run for his money.” I mutter the last part crossly.

            “You can’t just walk away like that.”

            “Like anyone noticed.”

            “They probably have by now.”

            “Like I give a fuck.” The curse word comes out of my mouth, shocking both of us.

            Hamza stares at me with his wide eyes, his forehead still shining with sweat from running. Then, he bursts out laughing. “I’ve corrupted you, huh?” Ew. Like I’d want to be corrupted by him. I tell him that and the laugh turns into a scowl. “Shut up. Let’s go.”

            “I’m not going back.” I try to say that as normally as possible, like I’m totally not wondering why Hamza has taken my wrist and started leading me in the forward direction.

            “No one said we were.”

            “With both of us gone we’ll be in huge trouble.” I reply. “One is whatever. Two is obvious.”

            “Whatever. I’ll take the blame.” This shocks me.

            “You’d do that?”

            “Whatever. Let’s go.” So we do.

            We went to three shops in town. The first one was a bakery. I bought all of Harun’s favorite pastries. I couldn’t stop grinning like a maniac as I thought of what his face would look like when I showed him the cherry Danishes I had found. At the next shop, they’re selling crowns. I knew the boys would love some, so I got one for Isa and Musa, praying that I estimated their head size correctly.

            It was nice, peaceful. Just me and Hamza, shopping, eating, talking, laughing. For some time it was almost like we were normal, just two friends enjoying time together.

            As we’re about to leave the crown shop, Hamza exclaims, “Wait!” and races back. Curiously, I follow him back into the store where he’s pointing at a silver crown at the very top of the shelf. It’s gorgeous, one of the nicer ones at the store. It’s silver, thin, with fake diamonds and emeralds adorning it in a simple way. It’s pricey, twenty dollars.

            “This one?” The man asks as he takes it down.

            “Yes.” Hamza nods and reaches into his bag to get his money.

            “You buying it for your lady?” The man’s accent, with a strange lilt to it, distracts me from the actual question until I realize he’s grinning at me with a twinkle in his eyes.

            “What?” I stupidly ask.

            “Did you ask your beloved to buy you this gorgeous crown, young lady?”

            My brain takes a good ten seconds to process the question. My mouth takes three seconds to open. “Um, I’m not—we’re not—I don’t—no. I don’t like crowns,” I finally spit out.

            Hamza’s cheeks are red, like he’s been slapped. “We’re not together. This is for my sister.” Hamza has a sister? One he’s willing to buy a crown for? That’s news to me.

            The man simply grins and hands Hamza some change from the leather pouch attached to his belt. Hamza takes the money and swiftly walks out of the store, leaving me to stand there attempting to process the events that just took place.

            “Young lady?” The man snaps me out of my thoughts, not because I’d zoned out that much, but because he’s lost his accent, now talking in a normal American, Floridian accent.

            “Yes?” I respond.

            His face grows serious and his eyes lock with mine intently. “Young lady, just remember one thing. Love comes and goes. It only stays if one is wise enough to realize and cherish it.”

            Oh God. Does he, is he really— “He hates me.” I blurt out. “I know it doesn’t look like it now for some reason but he hates me a lot. I don’t know what I did but—”

            “That is not hate. Hate is not expressed through the words, but by the actions. That young man, no matter what he says, shows no hatred when he looks at you. No matter what he says, I have seldom seen a man look at a woman like that.”

            “Eiliyah! The hell? Come ON!” Hamza’s voice shouts from the front of the tiny shop.

            I sigh. “I have to go.” I tell the man quietly. “I’m coming!” I shout louder so Hamza can hear. “Just give me two minutes.” His annoyed sigh fills the tiny shop.

            “See what I mean?” I mutter to the guy.

            He laughs and shakes his head. “He’ll come to terms with his feelings. Just give him a few years.” Giving him a small smile, I head out.

            Give him a few years, he said. Yeah, well, I gave him a few years and he turned into a bigger jerk than he used to be. It’s never like the movies, I swear. In the movies, there’s always someone that assumes the guy and the girl are all cute and a couple, but in real life, reality just gives you a slap. It’s that simple.

            We walk out of the shop in silence. The air has changed. “Hamza! Eiliyah!” Christian’s voice makes numerous people stop and turn. We both groan, knowing we’re caught.

            “Young lady! Young man!” Mrs. Tyson barks. “Where have you been?”

            “Uh…” Is my brilliant response. “Shopping?”

            “How could you leave us like that? And Hamza, what do you have to say for yourself?”

            Hamza shrugs carelessly. “It was Eiliyah, Mrs. Tyson.”

            “What?!” My mouth gapes open in shock. Whatever happened to taking the blame? As Mrs. Tyson continues to yell at me, I’m not even listening because I’m beginning to realize why Hamza’s behavior has changed. He’s punishing me. The man in the store embarrassed him by implying…whatever…about us so now he’s dealing with it by being a jerk to me and not taking the blame as he said he would.

            After Mrs. Tyson is done, I’m not at all fazed, but I grow quiet. The next three hours are spent in silence as we go around looking at all the historical sites. Once or twice, Hamza tries to say something but I glare at him and walk away.

            When we head into a restaurant to eat, Mrs. Tyson ends up sitting at one short end of the three sided booth with Carlo and Christian on one side and Hamza and I on the other. I sit as far away from Hamza as possible. Yes, I’m pissed. No, I’m not going to make a scene. I have feelings but I’m no drama queen. I’d rather work through this myself.

            The waiter at the restaurant takes our order after ten minutes. I order pasta and am about to order a salad too, then realize I don’t have enough money, which I mumble under my breath so no one really hears. I go about ordering my pasta and then wait, deathly quiet, until the food arrives. Carlo smirks, thinking I’m upset that his mom yelled at me. God, as if. If I was scared of her yelling at me, I wouldn’t have walked off. I make a note to stand next to Carlo when we visit the water fountain so I can dunk his stupid head in (joking…sort of).

            When the waiter comes back, I notice how attractive he is when he and Christian exchange a few words in Spanish. His melodious voice and accent’s rhythm rings in my ears as he converses. His arm muscles flex as he sets down the food. I get my pasta and I’m about to eat when a bowl of salad is set down next to me. Hamza ordered salad? I glance at him but he’s got his own main course and side dish. I frown in confusion until I catch the cute waiter’s eye. “On the house.” He whispers, then walks away with an empty tray in his hands.

            His kindness surprises me. He heard the comment I made? Shaking my head, I begin eating. When we’re done and the bill is split into four, Mrs. Tyson frowns. “Eiliyah, I think this is yours, although the salad isn’t on it.” She hands it over.

            “Oh.” I say. The waiter comes over as Mrs. Tyson lectures me about how I need to be honest and tell them the salad isn’t on the bill. God, this lady. “It’s on the house.” The waiter and I say in unison. This makes everyone pause. An awkward silence ensues until everything has been paid for and the waiter walks away with a parting smile.

            “God, Eiliyah, he had the hots for you.” Carlo teases. I glare. Yup, he’s getting his head dunked in the water fountain for sure. As we walk out, Christian and Carlo continue teasing me. Mrs. Tyson is…whatever, I don’t give much thought to her. Hamza is quiet, walking apart from the group with his hands buried in his pockets, looking as if something is on his mind.

            We head back to the water after eating, because it’s so close. My skin erupts in goosebumps when I belatedly realize my jacket is on the bus. Crap. My teeth start moving involuntarily. “Want me to take a picture?” Mrs. Tyson asks. Carlo is in the bathroom a few yards from where we are.

            “Sure.” Christian says. Hamza, Christian, and I are all sitting on the wall by the water. I’m in between them, and the tips of my hair are brushing against the back of Christian’s head. I tie my hair up, nearly hitting Hamza in the face.

            “Here.” He says quietly. I freeze, in the middle of completing the bun. Hamza hands me his jacket, a grey and black hoodie with a skull on it. Totally not me. But then again, totally not him to lend me his jacket.

            I put it on, looking down as we wait for Mrs. Tyson to take the picture. It smells…like Hamza. Like soap. “Look here!” Mrs. Tyson calls. All three of us glance up and she takes a shot, capturing my half-smile in the process.

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