This is dedicated to a friend who's been there for the real life Battered, With Love, someone who was there to listen to me when I felt the frustration and helplessness Eiliyah felt in this chapter. Yang, you're amazing and even though we live on opposite coasts (East Coast > West Coast), I think about you nearly every day and I wish you were still here.

Recap of the last few chapters because it's been so long!

Harun and Eiliyah discuss how they don't want to go to the same college. Eiliyah goes over to Hidayah's house to tutor her (keep in mind that Hidayah is Hamza's little sister). Hidayah gives Eiliyah some insight about Hamza's home life and situation. She also shares The Code Book with her, which is something her 27-year-old cousin Haniyah Musa-Ali put together. It's just a bunch of codes because she was really interested in that sort of stuff. She and Hamza are really close. Lastly, Eiliyah attempts to bring up the issue of going to different colleges at a family dinner, and they dismiss the thought immediately.

The memory chapter (chapter 18) is the time when Hamza and Eiliyah (they were in 7th grade) had to read Romeo and Juliet as Romeo and Juliet, in the balcony scene. They got into a huge fight that turned physical so they both ended up in the clinic and then the principal's office. Juwariyah, who was then newly married and pregnant at the time, came to pick up Eiliyah and took her to Johansen's Printers on the way home where she had to pick up wedding invitations for her sister-in-law, Razzia. Eiliyah meets Rhys there for the first time, but since they went to different middle schoosl, didn't see him again till high school.

Now onto the fun stuff!

"The sad reality is that no matter how much you genuinely change, people are going to keep seeing you in the same way as they did years ago. If you try to tell them you've changed, they think you're being fake. So don't make apologies or fall into despair about what the people say. Just work to keep your spirit alive because they sure as hell can't take that away from you." -- Ash

            Drew’s the one to invite me. “Yo, Eiliyah, the guys are playing basketball on Friday after school. Wanna come?”

            We’re sitting in math class. I shoot him a look. “Me? Basketball?”

            He shrugs before taking the derivative of the second problem we’ve been assigned. “I mean, why not? There’s no rule saying we can’t invite you.”

            “Yeah but it goes against Guy Code. Basketball is guy time and there’s no way a girl can interrupt that. You know that.”

            Drew grins. “Yeah, but you’re not a girl.” I shoot him a what-the-hell look and he just laughs, causing our teacher to glare at us. We quiet down.

            “Who’s ‘we’?” I ask.

            “The guys” is his reply.

            I gasp dramatically. “No! I never would have figured that out,” I mutter sarcastically. Drew just grins again. He’s getting a kick out of this.

            “Fine. Omar, Zayd, AZ, Amaan. So all the Khans. And then the Mehtas. So that’s AJ, Krish, Raj, and Akash. And then me, Nathan, Rhys, Jacob, Harun—”

            I glance at my brother who is sitting next to me doing his work. I tap his arm and quickly ask, “Are you going to play basketball on Friday?” He nods, and that only adds to my surprise. It’s unlike Harun to not to tell me things like this. I’m usually his ride. Did he just ask our older brothers for a ride or something?

            Part of me feels a twinge of surprise and…hurt? I haven’t felt the emotion in a while but perhaps that’s what’s pricking at my heart right now. It’s just that with so many things going on in my life, the monumental shifts, I’m taken aback that my brother, my one solid rock in life, is withholding plans from me, an act that’s foreign in our relationship. Not that I mind our independence from each other. It’ll do us good, especially for college next year because let’s face it, he and I have completely different interests and what we want to do in life. I want to do…more. Beyond this, I mean. And he wants to do more, but in his own way.

            “Who’s your ride?” I ask while carefully being expressive through my facial expressions without giving him any indication of the surprise or hurt I feel.

            “Rhys. Staying at his house for dinner. Dad knows.” After I nod, he turns back to his work, leaving me there biting my lip thoughtfully. When I turn to Drew, I see he’s been observing my and Harun’s exchange. Even though he can’t understand sign language all too well, he didn’t fail to figure out the nature of our conversation based on our facial expressions. He looks like he wants to say something, but restrains himself at the last moment. I don’t fail to catch the line of perplexity that mars the space between his eyebrows, a disruption in the natural flow of things, noticed yet unmentioned. Story of my life.

            In Newspaper, I’m off running errands all around school, my notepad in hand. A pen holds my hair up in a messy bun, and I take it out to check off everything I’ve managed to accomplish so far in this fifty-minute period. Right now, I have to run an interview sheet to the front office and get it signed by one of the deans who has agreed to be interviewed for one of my articles on recent school renovations.

            The air-conditioned office allows an icy cold mercy from the heat outside. With a hasty smile at the front-desk receptionist, I walk down the narrow halls quickly, taking sharp turns around the corners. Just as I round the last corner, I see a box heading my way and I instinctively put my hands out to prevent it from slamming into my chest. Instead, the box hits its carrier with considerable force and my eyes pop out when I hear the groan and the low “uff.”

            “Dude, I am so sorry!” I exclaim, reaching out to take the box as the guy carrying it doubles over a little, clutching his stomach. The sight makes me wince for two reasons. One, he looks like he’s in a pain and two, he is Hamza.

            “You better be,” he mutters, straightening up when he recognizes my voice. When he stands upright, we look at each other and we both grow somber as we experience our first real interaction this year, away from the little actions and mind games.

            I don’t feel like arguing. “I am.”

            “Can I have the box back?” His tone is riddled with undertones of rudeness. His hands deep in his pockets, he looks anywhere but at me.

            “I would if you stuck your hands out.” Wordlessly, he holds his hands out and takes the box out of my hands. With extreme exaggeration, he steps out of my way and makes his way down the hall I just came down.

            “You gonna keep going on like this?” I can’t help it. I know this question will open up a million doors but I can’t restrain myself.

            “Like what?” He spits out. His Nikes stop moving along the linoleum floor.

            I turn around, squaring my shoulders, the only sign of my hesitation in the way I kick my sandal against the floor. I notice my sandals are black with turquoise beads and golden thread on the ankle strap part and Hamza’s high top Nikes are black with a golden check and turquoise laces.

            “Like,” I break my gaze from our shoes, “I’ve done something to wrong you. Like you can’t stand my presence. I haven’t seen you in a year and a half. Unless you’re acting butthurt over something I did to you sophomore year, I don’t think you’re justified.”

            He laughs scornfully and a sardonic smirk crosses his face. “Eiliyah Suleiman, people analyzer. Of course you have me figured out, right? See, that’s your problem. You think you know everyone, especially me. Get the fuck off your high horse, Eiliyah. You don’t know shit and you sure as hell don’t know who or what I am.”

            I resist the urge to argue with him. Around people you’ve known for a long time, it’s easy to fall back into old habits and every inch of self-growing you’ve done goes to waste. It’s funny because I don’t really have to say anything. He continues talking. “What’s ironic is that you think you have me all figured out when really, you don’t even know where your twin brother has been sneaking off too.” At the mention of Harun’s name, I resist the urge to shoot forward and throttle him. He doesn’t have the right to bring Harun into this. Not only is it a low blow, but he isn’t allowed to even mention my brother’s name without respect.

            “Don’t you dare bring—”

            “Eiliyah, Eiliyah, Eiliyah.” He smirks and steps forward by an inch. The box in between us separates us by more than a foot, but the slight move highlights the height discrepancy between us. I used to be taller by several inches. Now the tables have turned. “What were you going to say? How dare I bring Harun into this? Babe,” he says mockingly, “that’s just the beginning. You think you can lecture me about my ways when you don’t even who sent you that rose in English class?”

            I freeze. Did he just—how—how could—He steps a little closer, forcing me to look up at him in order to make eye contact. “The day you figure it all out, do me two favors. One, remember this conversation. And two, feel free to hate me. It’ll be worth it.”

            He turns and walks away, leaving me in my confusion, in the growing feeling of dread, the shifting of contents against the cardboard of the box the only sounds to accompany the thousands of opposing voices in my head.

            It’s a Panera day, and I’m utterly thankful. Harun takes the bus home and I head to the library to pray the early afternoon prayer, Zuhr, before I drive to Panera. It’ll take Sayeeda a little while to get there anyway; it’s farther from her than it is for me. After washing up and making ablution in the bathroom, I quietly ask the librarian if there’s an empty room I can use and she guides me to the computer room in the back. I set my backpack and shoes aside and wrap the scarf I have around my neck around my head.

            A shadow of calm overtakes me as I begin my prayer, Allah the only thing on my mind, my concentration devoted to God right now. At the end of the fourth sajdah, or bowing, the door swings open. My heart leaps as the noise tears a hole in my cloak of tranquility but I manage to calmly finish my prayers.

            When I finish, I hold my hands up to make some prayers for health, guidance, security, and peace. After I’m done, I look up and see a young guy, maybe a sophomore or a junior, staring at me with his mouth open. His hand is still on the door knob and his eyes are wide behind his glasses. Keeping my eyes on him, I unwrap my scarf and place it around my neck, put on my shoes, and sling my backpack over my right shoulder. “First time you’re seeing this in real life, not on TV?” I ask.

            He manages to compose himself and snap his mouth shut but he only nods. My expression is stern as I straighten out my clothes. I begin to hear him mumbling and trying to make apologies, his stuttering only increasing when he takes in my poker face. “I didn’t look too weird, did I?” The nature of the question mixed with how serious I looked makes him balk at first. When I crack a smile, he returns it.

            Laughing, he shakes his head. “Nah. Sorry for staring. It was really unexpected.”

            “Yeah, I guess it was.” Things are slightly awkward after that because neither of us knows what to do.

            “Yeah.” He walks over and grabs two rolls of paper that were lying on the table. “Well, I gotta go. My dad’s coming in an hour and a half.”

            “You’re here for an hour and a half?”

            “Yeah. I don’t have a ride till then.”

            “Where do you live?”

            “Edge of Marquenion and Belmont.”

            “Oh, hey, that’s on the way to where I’m going. Do you want a ride home?”

            I see his eyes light up. Now he won’t have to wait outside in the hot Florida sun. “That would be great, actually. Thank you so much.”

            I smile at the sight of having made his day. “No problem. Grab your stuff and we’ll go.” Ten minutes later, we’re waiting in the after school traffic, stuck in the parking lot. The AC is on full blast but it’s still not enough to block how the hot sun, even though it’s November. As I drum my fingers against the steering wheel, I look over at the guy, whose name I learned was Peter. Something is striking familiar about h—“You’re Hidayah’s boyfriend.” I say out loud.

            He looks over, surprised. “Yeah, I am. Do you know her?”

            “Yeah, I know her brother.” I say vaguely. “I saw you two together once. So you’re a sophomore?”

            “Junior.”

            “I see.” We continue on and we’re silent for the rest of the way. He gives me directions from time to time but other than that, we barely exchange words. I decide I like him. Not many people are confident with their silence. They feel the need to say something to fill the space without realizing that the space can be beautiful sometimes.

            After I drop him, I drive over to Panera, smiling widely when I see Sayeeda sitting at our usual window table. We hug and head over to order our food and then make our way over to the counter where the sandwiches are made.

            Burt is working today. I should really get into the habit of calling him by his real name, Hayden, because one day I’m going to slip and it’ll be awkward as hell. As he goes about making my tuna sandwich, he, Sayeeda, and I have a comfortable conversation. We’re not exactly friends with him but he’s…there. Like a fixture in our lives, maybe not one of extreme relevance, but there nonetheless.

            My tuna sandwich is ready first and I stand as Sayeeda waits for her order. “Why the smile on your face, Hayden?” Sayeeda asks teasingly.

            He grins as he reaches down to get the bag of chips. “My girlfriend should be here any minute. We’re going out on a date.”

            “Ooh, where?” I ask.

            “Ice skating.”

            “Interesting choice,” Sayeeda says with an eyebrow raise.

            He laughs. “I know. It’s just that it’s so hot here and back home in Connecticut, everybody is enjoying the cold weather. We miss winter so we’re escaping for a few hours into a ‘winter wonderland’ as she calls it.”

            “Well, when she gets here, send her over to our table. We’d like to meet her.” He smiles and says he’ll be sure to have her meet us when he finishes up his shift.

            When Sayeeda and I sit down, I ask about her day first and she goes off about her life before asking me what’s been going on in mine. I tell her everything that’s happened today, but I’m short with what I say about Harun. I want to find out myself first before I get her in on it. It somehow feels like an invasion of Harun’s privacy too, to be telling her all this when he didn’t tell her himself so I only say what I have to to make Hamza’s comment make sense.

            When I finish with how I met Peter, she slaps her hand down on the table, making the soup in her bowl slosh a little. “It’s the shoes.” She declares firmly.

            I miss biting my chip and instead bite my tongue a little. “What?”

            She nods adamantly. “I’m telling you, girlfriend, it’s the shoes. It’s all in the shoes.” I had mentioned to her, sort of as a humorous passing comment, that Hamza and I had matching shoes and out of everything in the story, that’s what she got out of it.

            “What’s all in the shoes?” I ask skeptically, just to humor her.

            “Listen,” she leans forward, the rays of the sun illuminating her emerald green headscarf beautifully, “you and Hamza are thinking on the same level somewhat with those shoes. There’s some sorta mind connection going on there.”

            I stare at her for about ten seconds, not blinking. Then I burst out laughing. “Are you serious? Get out of here, Sayeeda.” She joins me in my laughter.

            “Okay, so I was mostly kidding. But hey, it’s still cute. Now about this Harun thing. Do you think he and Harun are friends now? Or does he know something more?”

            Sighing, I shrug. “I have no idea. I know they’re chill. Harun never gets on bad terms with anyone. But it just bothers me that he knows something and I don’t and it’s been worrying me lately. Like how strange Harun has been acting lately.”

            “You can’t blame him for wanting his freedom. Your parents still all about him and you going to the same college?”

            “Yeah.” I move an olive around my plate absentmindedly. “I just want…more. I love him. I would go anywhere with him if he wanted me to. But he doesn’t. And I can’t help but feel like I’m always so intrusive on his life. And part of me just wants to do my own exploring. Do my own thing. Is that wrong?”

            “Not at all.” I know she’s being honest. Sayeeda doesn’t front.

            “I want to go into something that involves the world globally. Maybe international affairs, work for a non-profit. Harun wants to be a financial manager at some corporation. And more than that, it’s about identity for us. Being ourselves, away from each other. He doesn’t want to be That Deaf Kid and I don’t want to be That Deaf Kid’s Sister.”

            “Eiliyah, you have to tell your parents.”

            I crumble up my chips packet. “Yeah, but I’ve tried. We brought it up at a family dinner. They don’t even want to discuss it.”

            “Well then try again.” It’s a new voice speaking, definitely not Sayeeda’s. When we look up, we see a pretty blonde girl standing in front of us with her eyebrows raised.

            “Hi?” Sayeeda asks, trying to remember if she knows this girl.

            The blonde girl grabs a chair and pulls it up at our table, sitting down without being invited, not that she needed to be. She sticks out her hand. “I’m Naomi, the best thing that’s ever happened to Hayden.” Her eyes hold a joking nature and she makes Sayeeda and I laugh amusedly with her sass.

            “Nice to meet you, Naomi.” I say. She smiles and nods, her expression then becoming a serious one.

            “Listen up homegirl, your parents said no once. Their no isn’t because they don’t want you to do it. They just don’t understand why. So you’re gonna have to show them why, okay?” I have to admit, I haven’t ever met anyone so forward with her advice.

            Hayden comes over and wraps his hands around her shoulders. “Naomi, are you giving people advice again?” His blue eyes are amused but he attempts to be serious.

            “Yeah I am,” she shoots back, “and from the looks of it she could really use my advice.”

            “I could,” I admit with a smile. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

            “It’ll all work out for you,” she says, “insha-Allah?” Her eyebrows crinkle as she hesitantly pronounces the Arabic word. “Is that how you say it?”

            Sayeeda and I can’t control our surprised expressions. “Uh, yeah it is. How did you know?” My cousin asks.

            Naomi squeals happily. “Yay! Sorry, I’m just proud I got the right word in the right context and I said it the right way.” She grins, flashing a gorgeous smile of pearly whites. “Some of my best friends from back home are Muslim. Farah, Noha, and Maysa.”

            “No wonder you know.” I respond back. We chat on for a little bit more until Hayden says that they have to go. Naomi waves goodbye and then hugs both me and Sayeeda, her warm embrace surprising both of us.

            After they leave, Sayeeda turns her gaze back on me. “I suggest you do it.”

            “What?”

            She pops a piece of lettuce in her mouth. “Follow her advice. She knows what she’s talking about.”

            The following Saturday, I’m just straight chillin’ at home. I have a few college applications to do, which I can do in peace because everyone is out of the house. My parents and all three of my brothers have gone to some pumpkin patch because Juwariyah’s twin boys want to carve some pumpkins and make pumpkin pie from scratch (little boys have high ambitions for their age). My entire family went, including my brother-in-law, and for the first time in a long time, I get to hear the sound of silence.

            After I fill some college applications out for the state universities and submit them, I remember I have to send my scores to some colleges. When I get to the payment information, I remember that Harun was filling out applications yesterday in his room so he has Dad’s credit card. After I call my Dad and ask him if I can use his card, I hang up to walk into Harun’s room. Before I lock my phone, I feel the familiar vibration of a text coming in.

            Beautiful dress you wore yesterday. Black suits you. God, it’s The Creep again. After I told him that I wouldn’t give him a chance, even after the rose incident, he stopped texting for a week or two. I choose to ignore the text until I see another one. Dinner with me next week? It’ll take your mind off what’s going on with your brother.

            The second I read that sentence, I hold back a scream of frustration, of dread, of sheer creeped-outness, if that’s even a word. Don’t bring my brother into this, I respond back. As I head to my room instead, my mind races at all the people who would know if Harun was acting—oh my God. My eyes widen in a murderous rage at the thought of him. Hamza. There is no way it can’t be Hamza. After the comment he made…what did he say again? “You don’t even know where your twin brother has been sneaking off too.”

            And the rose. The rose must have been from him too. When I enter my room, I nearly tear it apart in impatience trying to find the damned card that the quatrain from Shakespeare was on. I finally find it on my dresser, the paper as heavy and elegant as ever. My heart is racing beyond belief and I can’t even begin to articulate just how pissed I am at this boy.

            He knew. The thought flits into my mind. Hamza knew I loved this line from Shakespeare. We read it in sixth and seventh grade and the second time around, he was Romeo. I was Juliet. He would know that it’s my favorite line because we did the project on it together afterwards. He is such a-a—God, I don’t even know. Why would he do all this?

            I try to think back on the day we read that play. He and I got into the fight, got sent to the principal’s office, Juwariyah picked me up, took me to the print shop where I met Rhys for the first ti—

            Glancing down, my hold on the cardstock paper tightens. Print shop…print sh—wait, this paper that came with the rose was printed somewhere on special paper. Could it have been done at Rhys’ print shop?

            Flinging my door open, I speed walk to Harun’s room, where I was going anyway to get the credit card. The red Visa is by the picture of Juwariyah, Jamal, and Harun, the framed in cherry red painted wood. There’s a border around the picture, and my eyes are drawn to the heavy, thick paper with the message from Juwariyah and Jamal at the bottom. I saw this picture just a few weeks ago but now, I see something I hadn’t seen before.

            The paper that’s around the frame, the cardstock border, it’s the same material as the note I’m holding in my hand. As my eyes register the four sides encasing the cream paper, some realization begins to assemble in my head before I can even consciously identify it. Slowly, the pieces of the puzzle shift from all the different components of my brain, of my life, and join together.

            It all comes in bursts of memories and thoughts. Card that came with the rose is the same paper as Harun’s picture that Juwariyah and Jamal gave him. Where could these two pieces of paper come from? Professional printer’s. Who is a prof—

            Rhys. It has to be Rhys. Juwariyah got her wedding invitations done from Rhys’ family’s print shop. Jamal’s sister Razzia had her wedding invitations printed there. I was there with Juwariyah when she picked them up for Razzia. That was the day Hamza and I got into that fight and my sister had to pick me up from school. The day Hamza and I read that scene from Romeo and Juliet, the same scene that had the quatrain that’s printed on the card that I’m holding as my fingers shake and my body tremors with the realization of what this is all about.

            My mind blanks out. I work in sets of actions, my life suddenly reduced to disjointed pieces of reality messily strung together. My phone, which I had flung on my bed, is what my mind zeroes in on the minute I fling my door open. I scroll and scroll, the words melting into one another as they zip past until I find it, find his name.

            “Pick up, damn it,” I mutter, tapping my right foot against the carpet at a dizzying speed, one that shakes my body so hard and so often that my temples begin to throb. But I can’t stop. Each ring is agony. He finally answers.

            “Eiliyah?” A question, an unspoken inquiry about why I’m calling him when I so rarely do.

            “Are you at the shop?”

            “Wh-I mean—”

            “Are you at the print shop?”

            “No, but I have to go there in a bit. Is there any reason….”

            “Yeah, can you be there? I have a question. I want to come by and talk to you specifically.”

            My voice is liquid indifference, poured carefully over every word I utter. His silence indicates that he has recognized it in my voice. “Okay. I’ll be there by five.” It’s 4:35 now.

            “Okay. Thanks, Rhys.”

            “No problem. Bye, Eiliyah.” I don’t respond. I hang up. My brain is racing too fast, yet not fast enough. I slide my body down the side of my bed, arms wrapped around my knees, staring straight ahead at the light blue wall in front of me, staring so long my eyes burn, a twin to the fury inside my chest.

            Hamza. The-the-the asshole. My disgust and agitation welcome the foreign word into my mind, testing it out. It’s the only accurate representation of my opinion right now. The mind games. Each day this year, then the conversation. Same as The Creep. The quatrain, the single red rose, just like I like them. Well played, Hamza, well played. Why, though? Not that I fell for the feigned romance for a minute, but why the hell would he choose me to do this to? How elaborate does someone have to make a plan to pull all this off?

            He hates me, I think bitterly, hating the person I once was because it was she who treated Hamza the way she did, earning his hatred. My wrists feel heavy, not because the paper is heavy, but because I feel so weighed down, so bonded to my past and the person I was. The naïve, petty, superficial girl, shell of an actual human being, who I used to be.

            And no matter what the hell I do to try to make amends, he will always see me as the same person. Will Omar too? Will everyone who I knew in the past? Is there really no room for growing and evolving?

            I rest my head on the edge of my bed. My wall clock ticks on, unaffected by the tumultuous events of my life, because time is not one to wait. As I attempt to muster the energy to get up and drive to the print shop, one cool, thin, wet trickle escapes down my cheek. It’s the only one I allow, a small message to the world that vulnerability still inhibits my soul.

            I finally gather myself, standing up and leaving my room with Harun’s photo frame and my note, a black cardigan drawn over my shoulders, my fingers wrapped around my keys so tightly I can feel the pain of the hard metal digging against my skin.

            Mechanically, I drive to Johansen’s Printers, parking in a faraway spot without caring about the light drizzle. When I swing open the door, my arms enveloping my body tightly to keep the note and the frame from getting wet, Rhys glances up at me, at the droplets framing the sides of my face, at the wisps of black curls arranged randomly by my temples.

            He stands up straighter, soaks in the sight of me. “Hey,” his voice is as warm as his features, as his chocolate brown hair that’s tousled and skewed in different directions.

            “Hey,” I murmur back, dropping my gaze, eyeing the toe of my combat boots that I put on so quickly I forgot to tie the laces.

            “Want to come in the back?” He asks.

            “Yeah.” The black laces trail along with each step I take. The back is nice. I’ve been here a couple of times. There’s a larger room with all the machines but then there’s a separate sitting area. I take a seat, and he follows my lead. With barely responsive fingers, I tie my laces quickly, the note and the frame in my lap.

            “What’s your question?” He asks after watching me for a minute.

            Now or never. I place the frame and the note on the table in front of him. “Rhys—”

            His expression shifts as he recognizes the two. “Eiliyah, I—”

            “Did Juwariyah and Jamal get the border on this done here?”

            “May I?” He takes the frame and observes it, then pops the back cover off and feels the paper. “Yeah,” he says as the thickness shifts between his fingers.

            “And is this the same paper as this?” I slide the note towards him, facedown. I watch as he turns the paper over, his grey eyes moving across the paper from left to right. His face shifts. Confusion to understanding.

            “Eiliyah, I,” he starts.

            I nod. So Hamza did enlist Rhys’ print shop for whatever crap he was trying to pull. It must not have been Rhys who did the printing, or he didn’t know who it was for. Rhys and I don’t have any classes together. Hamza could have just come in or had Hidayah—

            “Eiliyah, I’m sorry.” He confesses.

            He snaps me out of my thought process. “Wait, sorry? For what? It’s not your fault Hamza—”

            “From the first time you walked in,” he blurts out at the same time I respond. He silences me, hot boiling water on a stove that’s just been turned off, simmering to a halt. I can barely form a response, a protest.

            “The first time I what?”

            “The first time you walked in, you had that Miami Heat jersey on, and I liked you.” Oh. My. G—“Your sister came by for some wedding invitations for her sister-in-law, remember that?” I lose the ability to nod. He continues on. “I thought you were pretty, but we went to different schools, I’d never seen you before, I didn’t think anything of that.

            “Then, the first day of high school. Or not the first day. But definitely the first time I talked to Harun and you were there and you recognized me. I’ve liked you since then, Eiliyah, and I’m sorry if the rose was disrespectful to you in any way because I know you don’t date for religious reasons. Funny thing is, your devotion to your way of life kinda got me at first. I’d never seen anyone so…so into what they loved and I think that was the first time I wondered whether you’d be the same kind of devoted to a guy you were in a relationship with.” He’s rambling now.

            “Rhys—” My voice breaks. My cheeks are burning, not out of coyness or flattery, but because this is wrong, so so wrong, so different from how things are supposed to be going right now.

            “Hear me out before you say anything.” His pained grey eyes go to his khakis; he clenches the material with his left hand and pounds his thigh with his right as he attempts to mask his emotions. “So for all of high school, I liked you. The more I got to know you, the more I understood about Islam and how set you are on doing things the right way when it comes to love and relationships. I even asked you about the rules of dating in your religion, remember?

            “I asked you if you could marry a non-Muslim man and you said no. And you explained that you want someone who has the same beliefs as you because your views on the world would bond you to him. And I got that you and I couldn’t happen. We’re different religions. Converting to another religion for someone is wrong too, because it’s not the real deal, it’s just something to make it okay technically, but not really. So help me, God, because I like you but I know we have no future yet I can’t get rid of whatever I’m feeling.” His voice breaks at the end but he still doesn’t look at me. His side profile is sharp lines and slopes. He’s handsome. There’s no doubt about it. Rhys is handsome, but I don’t feel for him that way and he and I come from different worlds. We’re two different people who in this moment may somewhat work but our futures are so different that it’s not…it’s just not there.

            “You’re an amazing woman, Eiliyah. Better than any girl our age, any girl who we go to school with. Everything from the way you talk to Harun or your little nephews or a freshman or anyone you meet to your sense of humor and your drive, it’s just—it’s commendable and that’s why I have those feelings for you. And I get that you may have them back or may not. I’m hoping it’s not because it would make it easier for me—”

            “Rhys, I never knew you felt that way.”

            He laughs. “I did a damn good job of hiding it, huh?”

            “Yeah. So the rose—”

            “The rose was just…I just felt like I had to. Express my feelings somehow. I know you love single red roses and I found out you loved that quatrain and I thought it would be a nice gesture. Even if you didn’t feel the same way, I figured it would make your day.”

            It begins to make sense, but then it doesn’t. A disruption in the link, a weak point. “But then why would you pretend to be my secret admirer and text me about the rose and—”

            “What?” He meets my gaze, eyebrows furrowed in emotion. “Secret admirer? I never texted you from any number but my own.”

            “Then who is—” I simply take out my phone, click on the message thread, and hold my phone up. He reads quickly, over the messages about the rose, and with each word he comprehends his expression turns more and more murderous.

            “Zayd,” he hisses. “That fucking bastard.” His tone is so low and so seething I can barely hear him.

            “What?”

            “Zayd Khan.” Zayd, one of Hamza’s friends, Omar’s cousin. I had a slight thing for him freshman year.

            “Why would Zayd know?” I ask.

            “He and I are friends,” Rhys says vaguely. Now that I haven’t solved everything, my body grows more and more agitated with the rising questions and speculations.

            “Forget about it,” I say quickly, not wanting to upset him more. “I’ll get to the bottom of it. Zayd can’t get in the way of our friendship.”

            He turns his head in my direction, rests his eyes upon my own. “But will my feelings?”

            The note I was turning over in my hands stills mid turn. “Um…”

            He shuts his eyes, squeezing away the reality of the inevitable. “Do you have feelings for me?”

            How do you say something you know will hurt a person you love regardless of how you say it? My indecision, my prolonged silence, is the growing answer. “Oh, Rhys, I-I don’t have feelings for you like that, as more than just a friend, I mean.”

            You’d think I was the one being told my feelings weren’t mutual the way my heart clenches and breaks with every word. I love Rhys, I do. I love him beyond words, but just as a brother because he was that brother that Harun needed at a time when he was brotherless. I have to love him for that, and for a million other reasons. But it can’t. It can’t work. Not only for all the logical reasons, but because in my heart, it’s just…it’s just not there for him.

            “I suspected that.” He doesn’t say anything else. He tells me that I should go and I don’t know if it’s the obvious nature of his not wanting me here or how awful I feel despite my resolution never to pity others but my eyes start stinging with tears.

            When we approach the counter, Rhys’ dad is there helping a girl around my age with a poster, which looks like a school project. They both look up at us when we walk through the swinging door but turn back to whatever they were discussing. Rhys walks me to the door and I can’t help but feel like we didn’t end this yet, like there’s one more note left to this song or something and my ears are impatiently waiting to hear it.

            He leads me out to my car and I silently unlock it. Right before I get in, he speaks. “Eiliyah, I-I don’t think we should talk for a while,” he forces out. “I don’t…not that I don’t want to talk to you. And please don’t think I’m punishing you for not having feelings for me because I’m not, I’m not at all but right now…I need some time to get over…this.”

            “Okay,” I nod, smiling at him the best I can, trying in vain to pretend like I’m totally cool and understanding about this, that I didn’t just break an amazing guy’s heart, that I didn’t just get played by this idiot who’s been tormenting me since seventh grade.

            When I’m in the privacy and silence of my car, I feel the wetness on my cheeks and bite my lip hard so I don’t start sobbing. If Rhys looks out, he’ll be able to see me, especially if he’s at the left side of the counter. The door bells jingle and I see the same girl walk out of the shop trying to balance rolls of posters and another cardboard box in her hands. Without thinking, I get out and ask her if I can help by taking something out of her hands so she can unlock her car.

            She accepts my help with a smile and leads me to the back so she can load the stuff in her trunk. When I hand her the cardboard box, her eyes widen in recognition. “Eiliyah!”

            Do I know her? Crap, please no because my eyes are slightly red I’m sure and I’m three steps away from giving every water park a run for its money with my tears. “Yeah, that’s me. You are…?”

            “Andrea!” God, no. Not just someone I know, but someone I know from middle school. Someone who knows Hamza. The first time Hamza and I met, he was sitting in the row in between me and Andrea and we were throwing each other notes over him. She and I remained friends for most of middle school but we eventually drifted.

            “Oh. Hi.” The lack of enthusiasm is so apparent that I open my mouth to apologize but she beats me to it.

            “You’ve certainly—how—you’re still the same old Eiliyah! Just older and skinnier.” She smiles at me but hearing those words, it’s like something drops inside my chest and I just can’t. I can’t even muster the energy to pretend, even though it’s one of my greatest skills.

            “I haven’t?”

            She laughs, grinning and shaking her head. “No, no you haven’t. You and Hamza are still getting into fights, right? I heard about it from a friend at school—Zeffrey, remember him? From the sound of it, you haven’t changed a bit!” Andrea goes to a different high school. How did she manage to hear about me and Hamza, even though we don’t (I think) fight anymore?

            “Uh, I don’t…no, I don’t think we do.” We talk a little bit more, kind of awkwardly, and then she leaves so I head back to my car, drive out as calmly as possible, and without any consultation with the rest of my conscience, park in a YMCA parking lot. And then I do something I haven’t done in a while. I cry. For a million things, not just how helpless I feel that I’m stuck to the image of me from when I was a kid. I cry for that, I cry for the bitchy person I once was, I cry for Harun, for breaking Rhys’ heart, for what Andrea said, for how sick I am, for how privileged I am to live in one of the richest countries in the world yet I’m still crying when a majority of the world only knows survival, not living, just everything. Just everything.

            After twenty minutes of self-pity and a packet of those travel-pack Kleenex tissues, I pull myself together and drive home. When I pull up into the driveway, I notice Juwariyah’s car in the driveway. Damn it, I think. They must be home.

            I have my keys in hand when I walk up to the front door, but it swings open before I can even insert the key into the keyhole. It’s Juwariyah who opens the door. I walk in wordlessly. “Where the hell WERE you?!!” She roars, making me jump. I’ve never heard her yell this loudly, her voice booming throughout the house and making my entire family appear in the living room which is right next to the front door.

            I break my silence. “What?” My head is already throbbing from the crying and the volume of her voice raises the pounding to a sickening level and speed. I shut my eyes and rub my temples in vain, dimly aware that my parents come out of the kitchen with Isa and Musa in their hands. My brothers must have been in the family room, because all three enter from the opposite side, Jamal next to them.

            “Is that all you can say? ‘What?’ We have been here for nearly forty minutes ATTEMPTING to contact you but you have not picked up any of our calls or responded to any of our texts and voicemails.” My sister’s entire body moves and her chest heaves with every breath she takes. Her hair is pulled back in a high ponytail, drawing attention to her dark brown eyes which are seething and lighting up with fury.

            “Juwariyah—” My dad starts, the peacemaker.

            “NO, Dad, please give me a moment to knock some sense into her! Maybe then she’d realize that she can’t go on pulling stuff like this. I am so sick of your attitude—”

            “I’ll take the kids,” Jamal interrupts quietly, taking Isa from my mom in his right arm and Musa from my dad in his left arm. He walks off towards Zubair and Zaid’s room, shushing Isa when he asks why mommy is mad.

            I wordlessly pull out my phone and show Juwariyah my call log. “I didn’t get any of them.”

            It does nothing to placate or soothe her anger. “Where were you? You just decided to disappear for nearly an hour? You left no note, nothing. When will you become more responsible?!”

            I really don’t want to fight with her. She and I always had a rocky relationship. I thought age would cure it, age would even things out for us. So I just quietly say, “I get it, Juwariyah. I was at the print shop, asking Rhys something.” With a nod of acknowledgement towards my parents and brothers, I make a move towards my bedroom.

            “Hold on, young lady,” she hisses, “you are not going to just walk away. You worry this entire family for nearly an hour, when God knows you’re alone and it’s raining outside, and all you can say is you get it? CAN YOU EVEN CONCEPTUALIZE THAT YOUR ACTIONS AFFECT OTHER PEOPLE?” She shouts so loudly that even Harun feels it. His eyes widen in surprise and Zaid puts his arm around him to hold him back as Zubair advances towards Juwariyah and puts his hand on her shoulder, which she shakes off. I can literally see the anger radiating off her body in the way her body shakes and her hands furl and unfurl.

            “Juwariyah, I think that’s enough. Eiliyah, it was irresponsible of you—”

            My sister’s shouted question is what makes me turn around. I raise my gaze from the floor to my parents, sister, and brothers who are all staring at me expectantly. “You know what? I am so sick of this.” My tone is so deathly silent and calm I know I make everyone in the room freeze. “Clearly I’m a selfish, self-absorbed asshole”—my mom gasps—“and Juwariyah, you’re right!” My voice rises in fake enthusiasm and appreciation, and I laugh at how the description would be something Hamza and everyone who knew me back then would agree with. “I’m not responsible. You’re right, I’m wrong. Just like it’s always been. You raised me, you sacrificed your childhood to raise me—”

            “Don’t!” She shouts. My mom, who was previously making her way towards me, freezes at the shout. “Don’t you fucking dare mock the fact that I gave up my childhood for you and Harun and this family. I would do it again in a heartbeat but don’t you dare pretend like you know anything about what it’s like—”

            “AND THAT’S JUST IT, JUWARIYAH, I DO KNOW!” I bellow, so fed up with her and my life. “YOU GAVE UP YOUR CHILDHOOD BUT HELL, AT LEAST YOU HAD ONE! What about me? I was FIVE! I had to deal with the guilt of being the one who didn’t lose my hearing! Harun and I got lumped together! I spent my entire life translating for him. I would do it all again in a heartbeat but don’t you dare pretend like that wasn’t worth something!”

            Zaid is translating for Harun as quickly as he can and each sign upsets my twin more and more. His face turns red, splotches all over his face. “Girls! Stop it!” My dad shouts, trying to get us to stop. Zubair speaks to Juwariyah quietly, trying to get her to stay calm.

            She ignores him. Her eyes blaze as she says, “Oh boo hoo, Eiliyah. You didn’t lose your hearing. Stop acting like the wounded one.”

            “And that’s just it. I’m not the wounded one but you have always favored Harun over me. And I don’t mind that, because it’s well-deserved. But you never stopped to think for a minute that I’m a person with my own struggles going on, even if it’s not deafness.” My tone grows so quiet that everyone strains to listen.

            “Even today, when I came home, you didn’t ask me how I was, why my eyes are red, why I have a headache when it’s all so apparent.” I know by the expression on their faces that they just noticed the signs of my crying. “It’s always about how I’m being selfish, about how I’m letting down those around me. If you had just taken a second to realize, Juwariyah, that I used to be like that but I’m not anymore, you’d see that all four years of high school, I have been with Harun whenever he needed me. And I never complained because he’s not a burden to me. But whatever you guys have asked of me, I have done. And it sucks that my own family didn’t realize it when they’re the people who are supposed to know me the most.”

            I’ve never been so straightforward or vocal with my feelings. Juwariyah stares at me, stunned, just like the rest of my family, their startled, shocked faces copies of each other. “You know, today this girl I knew in middle school saw me and said I was the same person from middle school. Guess that makes me someone who can’t ‘conceptualize how my actions affect other people.’ You seem to think the same, so I guess it must be true, right?”

            I can see Zaid is moving to say something, but I cut him off. “And for the last three years, I’ve wanted to go out of state for college. Harun and I don’t want to go to the same college and I didn’t say anything until I knew he felt the same way.” I vaguely see Zaid relating all this to Harun and he freezes, stares at me with wide eyes but I can’t stop.

            “And even now, even though I can’t ‘conceptualize how my actions affect other people’ I’ve been filling out applications to all the colleges you all want me to go to.”

            “Eiliyah,” my mom starts. I don’t acknowledge her. My eyes are on Juwariyah, who is staring me down.

            “So because it’s so important to you, Juwariyah, yes, you’re right and I’m wrong.” My tone is still quiet and deathly calm. “I’m an inconsiderate jerk and rest assured, because a lot of people think that.”

Without breaking my gaze from her, I slow clap, each contact of my hands ringing flinchingly louder and louder in the dead silence of the room. “Here’s to you and the rest of this family. Thank you for your extreme perceptiveness.” With that, I turn and walk towards my room, leaving them all in silence.

            As I shut my door, I don’t know if what I’ve done is right or okay, but I ask Allah for forgiveness for losing my temper and I pray to Him that this is something that can blow over.

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