I concentrated on not blushing or acting like a middle schooler (failing) while he threw my stuff in the trunk. The next thing I knew, he was sweeping me off my feet—literally—and carrying me over to the car. When we were both inside, he handed me a fresh double latte with extra whipped cream. My favorite. I brought the warm cup close to my face. It was sugared kareem. It woke me up.
I reached forward with my left hand, interlacing my fingers with his. “Do you have any idea how perfectly your name fits you?”
“Not until you came along. What’s a prince without a princess?”
I blew him a string of kisses.
“That’s all I get?” he teased.
“Hey, we’re right in front of my house. Titi could be watching. Besides, wouldn’t that break your fast?” I gently responded.
As we pulled away, Amir flipped on the radio. Coldplay’s “Hymn for the Weekend” was playing. It couldn’t have been timelier. Maybe he’d arranged this, too. The ride was a blur, though I was very conscious of how he dropped me off all VIP-like right in front of the school.
I smiled as he sped off toward senior parking. And I kept smiling. All morning long, even at Michelle and Mr. Davis. My mom might have been angry, was right to be angry—and I was grateful for every scathing word of her note—but right now, today, she would have to harbor that indignant rage for the both of us. For better or worse, Amir had sent me into school loving radically.
* * *
—
Fourth period, I heard my name crackle over the loudspeaker: “Salma Bakkioui.”
It was Mrs. Owens, of course. Still, I winced. My name had never been among those called out during the school day. Plus, she always called me “Salma B.” Why the sudden change? It sounded so official, so…well, plain weird.
“Salma Bakkioui,” she repeated. “Please come to the principal’s office.”
I ignored the puzzled stares as I crutched out of the classroom as fast as I could, wondering why on God’s green earth I, of all people, was being called to the principal’s office. But then I relaxed. Mom’s note. I bet I’m getting an official apology. Now, that would be civil.
“Hi, Mrs. Owens,” I said, breathless from the hurry. “Um, you called my name?”
She lifted her head slowly. Her eyes seemed to scroll up to mine, then flash away, her perpetually bright smile pained. Honestly, she looked sick, as if she were battling a stomach flu. It occurred to me suddenly that I’d seen this nauseated expression of hers before: in eighth grade, right after the mass shooting in San Diego. And a few other times in years past…I’d never put two and two together—maybe I hadn’t wanted to, maybe I’d been too young and naïve—but now the reason was crystal clear: she couldn’t bear to be near me whenever there was news about atrocities committed in the name of Islam. How long would it take her to get over this latest one?
Actually, why did I even give a shit? I would be graduating soon. It was her problem, not mine. Principal Philip would make everything better.
“I’ll walk you in,” she mumbled. She stood and turned quickly, maybe to avoid my glare, and led me to the conference room next to Principal Philip’s office—where she closed the door behind me. No one was there. I sat and waited.
My phone buzzed with a text from Amir.
I heard your name. What’s up?
You know my mom. Tiger on the inside.
I bet she was so pissed off.
Still is. Complained too. Directly to Principal Philip. Can’t wait to see Michelle eat her words.
Take a picture for me?
Damn right I will.
I heard footsteps on the other side of the door.
Finally. Put on a smile, Salma, accept their apologies with grace.
The door creaked open.
Two police detectives entered. They wore matching dark suits—business suits, not cop uniforms—badges clipped to their breast pockets, American flag pins on their lapels. The first was tall and slender, but well built. He looked like someone who competed in triathlons. In the middle of his chin was a prominent dimple. The second was older, a bit disheveled, like he’d been staring at a computer screen for hours on end through his thick glasses. He didn’t greet me with a partial smile like the younger detective. Instead he grabbed a seat and pulled a notepad out of his pants pocket.
The door swung shut. I felt the room shrink and my temperature soar. I was expecting to feel relieved. Instead I felt ambushed. As we sat there in silence, I kept wondering why no one else had been invited to join us. Specifically Principal Philip. I’d been called to see him. Yet here I was, alone with two strangers. My thoughts raced into the past, scouring memories, chasing down any tension I’d missed between us. Nothing. None of the awkwardness I’d just experienced with Mrs. Owens.
Sure, Principal Philip had asked a few dumb questions about Islam over the years. And yes, he made no secret of his admiration for Robert E. Lee. Neither bothered me. Plenty of ancestors on my mother’s side admired Robert E. Lee, too. I remembered once, freshman year, Mariam grumbling about his insensitivity after a mass shooting in a church. He’d made a big stink at an assembly over changes at the Arlington House—Robert E. Lee’s nearby historic estate and Franklin’s go-to field trip destination (naturally)…something about how its curators had exploited a tragedy to “disrespect the General.” I could even picture the ugly sneer on his face as he’d said those words. Disrespect the General. But I couldn’t recall why. And right now, with law enforcement officials sitting directly across from me, it didn’t seem to matter much anyway.
The younger detective cleared his throat. “Thanks for taking the time out of your school day to come and talk to us. You’re under no obligation to stay, but we wanted to ask a few questions.”
“Um…okay?” My voice was shaking.
“This is just a routine check,” he said. “I’m Detective Tim McManus, but you can call me Detective Tim. We’re pleased to meet you…Salma, is it? Can I have your full name?”