Of course it was the point.
A lump began to lodge itself in my throat. I sniffed and concentrated on breathing, barely noticing the approaching footsteps until they pounded with urgency. I looked up. It was Vanessa—followed by Lisa, in gym shorts. In an instant they were crouched down beside me, out of breath and faces creased in concern. Vanessa handed me a bottle of water. I took a big sip, then wiped my face.
“Are you okay?” Lisa whispered. She gave me a cursory once-over, the way her mom did whenever I arrived in her office and wasn’t feeling right.
I shrugged, not wanting to cry in front of them.
They flashed an unreadable look at each other.
“You don’t look okay,” Vanessa murmured. “Let me take you to the nurse. Then you should go home.” She slung my bag over her shoulder, while Lisa pulled me up.
With my arms around both of their shoulders, I winced and forced myself to put one foot in front of the other, then drew a shaky breath. “Thanks. But…um…how…?”
I wasn’t sure how to ask the next question. But it didn’t make sense that Vanessa and Lisa were together right now. There were friendly, but they weren’t friends. There was no tension or negativity between them; they just had their own scenes. I happened to be the one tiny sliver of overlap in the Venn diagram of Vanessa Richman and Lisa de la Pena—in the same way that I was friendly with Kerry Morrison, but only hung out with her when Lisa was around. It would be weird if Kerry and I suddenly appeared out of nowhere, as if she were the Boots to my Dora.
“Instagram,” Vanessa said in the silence.
I stopped hobbling. “What?”
“Someone…,” Lisa began, then bit her lip. “Someone took a picture of you from the top of the stairs, like they knew it was going to happen. Like they were waiting for it. And they posted it. Immediately. I’d just changed into my gym clothes when I saw it.” She glanced at Vanessa.
“And I was coming down the hall, and she showed it to me,” Vanessa continued. “And so we both went to Ms. Wallace.”
“Get this,” Lisa chimed in, gently ushering us down the hall. “Ms. Wallace actually said—well, more like screamed in front of the whole class—‘What assholes!’ ” She and Vanessa exchanged a quick awkward smile. “She told us to go find you and see if you needed any help.”
“So that’s what we did,” Vanessa said, matching Lisa’s movements. “Rushed, actually.”
I nodded. We shambled toward the nurse’s office in silence, heads down, creating a wall between the world and us. Not that any wall was necessary; the halls were empty.
“You know what you need?” Vanessa whispered. “A snuggle with Thomas.”
Lisa smirked. “Is Thomas some sort of weird code name for Amir?” she asked.
Even I had to laugh at that. A tear fell from my cheek. “He’s my cat,” I breathed.
* * *
—
Vanessa was right, of course. A snuggle was just what I needed. A few hours later, I was in bed with our ancient Devon Rex.
Mom grew up with all kinds of pets, but Dad is allergic to animal dander. The story goes that she was willing to sacrifice pets to marry him. On their fifth anniversary he surprised her with the gift of a furless hypoallergenic kitten. So Thomas has been a Bakkioui longer than my sisters or me. It’s hard not to get jealous, unless we have him one-on-one.
As he padded over my stomach, rearranging himself for another nap, I almost felt normal. My leg was elevated on a throne of pillows. It had stopped throbbing. Injury-wise, I’d had plenty worse. Hopefully at my next PT appointment I’d get rid of my clunky metal brace and upgrade to a sleeve, something fancy like the Pro-Tec Gel 400. I already knew from the EDS blogs that it was super-sleek, lightweight, and supportive—and, most important, available in my favorite color: indigo blue. I also knew that it was expensive. I made the mistake of mentioning this fact to Dad, who snapped that insurance would pay for it, and that I had to “stop looking up prices online.”
Realizing that he was slightly hangry, Dad apologized and kissed me on the head. “You deserve a Ramadan treat.” After that, he left me in my room with Thomas. He’d settled; he started to purr. The sound grew and filled the room, loud and slow and rhythmic. I kissed his wet nose. Mom once told me that Sufis liken the purring of a cat to dhikr: divine remembrance. It’s a balm. It can heal. The Sufis were right, and Mom was right, and Vanessa was right. I was healing. But I wondered if I could heal in a place where I didn’t feel safe.
There was a knock on my door. “Salma?” Mom asked.
“Come in.”
She entered slowly, smiling at the sight of the cat and me. “Salma, about school tomorrow. I am happy to drive—”
“Can’t I stay home?” I interrupted.
She shook her head and sat on the edge of the bed. “You can walk just fine.”
“I’m not talking about that.”
“I know,” she said.
“Do you have any idea how—how…” I was about to say how messed up Franklin is. But I needed Mom to hear me, to know that I wasn’t being hysterical. “How Franklin can be so nasty?”
She swallowed. Then she stood, avoiding my eyes. “I do. But not everyone at Franklin is the same. It’s up to you to prove the nasty ones wrong.”
I scowled. Time for one of her go-to mantras. Salma, it is your senior year. Or Salma, please take your behavior seriously. Or my personal favorite: Salma, we don’t talk about money, but if you’re going to receive tuition benefits, then you’ll need to maintain a four-point GPA through graduation.
So I waited. She didn’t say a word, though. I should have been relieved. I wasn’t. I was angry. The longer I waited, the angrier I became. She reached for the door.
“How?” I shouted. It was loud enough to wake Thomas; he jumped off my stomach. “How do I prove them wrong?”
“Salma…” Mom drew a shaky breath. “Stand up for yourself and your culture.”
“My culture? It’s the same as theirs! It’s fucking Franklin High School!”
She blanched at the F-word. At least that was something. I wanted more, though. I wanted her to call me on it. I wanted her to yell back. To be not broken. Wasn’t I the one with the injury?
“Turn it around, Salma,” she said. “Turn it around.” She sniffed and shut the door behind her.
* * *
—