Hey everyone! New part. This is a flashback of when Hamza first realized that Harun and Eiliyah are siblings and that Harun is deaf. Enjoy and VOTE AND COMMENT if you feel this story deserves it.

"Isn't it amazing that God had men and women think differently? I mean, even our brains work differently. That's amazing." -- Ash, while musing in Psychology class

           Harun and I didn’t go to the same middle school until the middle of eighth grade. He went to a special school for the deaf and hard of hearing, but he finally convinced our parents to let him go to the regular middle school so he could have a regular middle school experience. That was partially true. He also came for me, because I told him all that had happened the past two years.

            Like I said, Harun and I have had all our classes together for as long as we’ve gone to the same school. I don’t mind, and neither does he. We actually prefer that, because we understand each other in a way that no one else can; words aren’t needed in our world.

            In eighth grade, I was a peer tutor for the special needs kids at our school. I was inspired by my nephew, Musa, who has autism. The period I had peer tutoring, the kids had gym, so we assisted them during their gym class. There were regular gym classes taking place, and Hamza and all the “popular” kids (my school was mostly white prep) had it that period.

            Harun technically wasn’t supposed to be a peer tutor, especially so late in the year, but my parents pulled a couple of strings. The school was more than thrilled to have Harun, actually. He knew American Sign Language so well he could fluently communicate with the nonverbal students.

            We head into the gym together. All the “normal” kids stare as we walk in. Little Cody nearly runs off. I grab him by the collar. “Cody, you can’t just run off like that!” I explain patiently. He smiles up at me, and I can swear that he did it just to stir up trouble. “Jokester.” I say, grinning.

            I may act like an “Ice Queen” like Hamza says I am, but I’m a pushover, and I know it.

            “Why is that boy staring at you?” Harun signs to me quickly. Letting go of Cody but still keeping a watchful eye on him, I inconspicuously glance to where Harun is gesturing with his eyes.

            Hamza is looking at us passing by with an unreadable expression on his face. I ignore him and we seat the kids in a circle. Then, the other peer tutors and Harun and I take a seat on the bleachers. “I don’t know why he’s staring.” I sign back to Harun, frowning.

            Why would he stare? God, I hate it when people stare at “disabled” people. Seriously? They’re no different than anybody else.

            “Maybe he likes you.” Harun teases.

            My expression turns horrific. Hamza? Ew. Never. I glance over at him. His skinny legs and his bony knees stick out of his baggy navy blue shorts. An oversized white t-shirt makes his small frame look even smaller. He still has those huge, thick, rectangular glasses that emphasize his oversized eyes and how they don’t fit his face.

            There’s no way that Harun was right about that one. Hamza, like me? Yeah right. We’re talking about the same boy who thinks that Megan Fox is the ideal woman. Ok, forget about Megan Fox. She doesn’t count.

            But Hamza is the same guy that told me in multiple times that he didn’t like brown (Pakistani, Indian, and Bengali) girls at this age because “they’re not hot”. He likes girls like Carmen-Sofia Montez, girls with milky white skin and wavy black hair and huge, hazel colored eyes.  I’m not one to compare myself to other girls but I do know what I have and what I don’t have.

Don’t ask me how I know his type; I just do. That’s a story for a later day.

            “Well, it’s better if he doesn’t like you. I would have to hunt him down and kill him.” Harun signs. His expression is teasing.

            I grin in spite of how grossed out I am and shake my head. “I’m taller than him anyway.” I respond. It’s true. Hamza is a good five inches shorter than I am. I feel like a tall freak standing next to him.

            The gym coaches blow their whistles. Sighing, I gesture towards all the students getting up. Harun sees his and gets up as well. “Time to work?” He asks, signing. I nod. We walk over and get the students to get up and do their exercises.

            We had a set routine for gym. We would have the kids do exercises, jumping jacks and stuff like that, and then we would separate off from the regular classes and do whatever we were supposed to be doing. Sometimes, we would play games of dodgeball together. Dodgeball is where you separate the two teams and put them on opposing sides of the gym. Then, you use soft, foam balls to hit as many opposing players as you can. Whoever gets hit with the ball is then “out”. The point is to get as many players as you can out while not getting out yourself.

Anyway, the regular classes just couldn’t play as competitively with the kids if we were playing dodgeball together, because a lot of them were lacking in motor skills. Some had poor hand-eye coordination, so it took them longer to respond and throw back effectively.

            We’re playing dodgeball today. We had the kids spread out on one end of the gym. A few were guarding the pins. On the other side, a few of the jocks gathered around to play. They were the popular kids, the jocks, the supreme rulers of the school (notice the sarcasm?).

            The regular kids (by regular I mean the “normal” kids) had the option of either playing against the special needs children or to help the peer tutors with looking after and making sure each one was participating.

            Usually, none of the “normal” students helped, but today, a few came up to us and asked what we wanted them to do. My heart smiled when I saw some of the more popular boys and girls showing Down Syndrome kids like Cody how to hold and throw the ball so he hit his target.

            Hamza comes and stands next to me. Looking straight ahead, he says, “What do I do?”

            I’m shocked. “Um, see those boys over there? Their names are Cody, Lewis, and Matt. They’re always together, but they distract each other. Separate them out. Hand them each a ball, and show them how to throw it.”

            Nodding, he takes off to do just that. I busy myself helping Dante and Jenny with their throwing, but watch Hamza out of the corner of my eye. Though he’s a foot shorter than Matt, he holds his own and shows him how to throw powerfully. Matt hits a boy, Jeremy, so Jeremy is “out”. Matt whoops at this and begins dancing in celebration. Hamza looks taken aback, but grinning, he joins in.

            I feel my heart melt a little bit. I love it when people do this—treat special needs kids like they’re regular teenagers, because they are.

            My observation is interrupted by shouting. Glancing over, I see some boys are telling Harun to get out of the way. Of course, Harun can’t hear them. He stands there with his back turned to them.

            At the last minute, Hamza grabs Harun and pushes him out of the way.

            My heart leaped at that. I was just glad Harun was ok, even though Hamza accidentally flung him. For a guy as short and scrawny as he was, Hamza was pretty strong back in the day. He even beat me at arm wrestling once in eighth grade, before I made a conscious effort not to touch boys too much (it’s technically not allowed in Islam).

            I run over to where my brother is. “Are you ok?” I ask frantically, rapidly signing the correct signs.

            Grinning, he nods. “He’s strong.” He signs, gesturing to Hamza.

            Hamza himself is standing there, staring at both of us. “Wait, that’s your brother?”

            Harun nod. “Yes.”

            “How does he know what I said?” Hamza asks, bewildered.

            Before I can speak up, Harun does. “I can read lips.” He says.

            Ok, yes, Harun is deaf. But that doesn’t mean he can’t talk. He can, he just prefers not to, because he can’t regulate his volume. He knows what mouth movements to make, and sometimes, with people that don’t know he’s deaf, he uses them.

            Hamza’s face is red. His skin is a light tan, but I can still see the pink coloring his cheeks. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Anyway, I’ll see you.” He walks away abruptly.

            Harun raises an eyebrow at his retreating back. “What’s up with him?” He signs.

            “No idea.” I respond.

            After gym is over, Hamza and I end up exiting together. “Thanks.” I say quietly. I have to force the word out; it feels weird. Being civil is not part of my and Hamza’s relationship.

            “Whatever.”

            “No, I mean, thanks for everything. For working with the kids. And, for getting my brother out of the way. Obviously, he can’t hear.” I say the last part awkwardly.

            Hamza refuses to look at me. “Like I said, whatever. It’s not a big deal, so don’t make it seem like one.” With that, he jogs to off to meet up with his friends.

            Boys. Seriously. You try to make a truce with them, you try to be civil with them, and they throw it back in your face. What the hell was going on in his mind anyway? I mean, now he and Harun don’t really talk, not to my knowledge at least.

            But he would do things like that; show these signs of humanity. When boys like Krish and Omar make fun of Harun and purposefully call his name when his back is turned, Hamza will step in and be the one that gets them to stop.

            Oh, don’t get me wrong. He doesn’t do this when I’m around. These are all things I’ve heard from Harun. This is exactly what I mean.

            Hamza is a book that’s open but written in invisible ink; it takes special tools and skills to decipher what he really means.

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So whatcha think? This is actually based a lot on my life. This is actually one of my memories from eighth grade, altered to fit the context of this story.

Aye! Aye! Ok, do you guys think you can get this story to the top 100 in teen fiction? The highest I've gotten so far is 106. That is...only if you want to.

You reading this means a lot to me.

Have a wonderful day,

Ash ♥