I thought of something Mrs. DLP once told me, back in seventh grade. “You can’t control other people’s garbage. You can only keep your side of the street clean.” Funny: I’d been complaining about some idiotic boys at school after I’d overheard them whispering that EDS was contagious and that I should be quarantined. The stuff of classic middle-school rumors: completely outrageous. It made me laugh now…not so much then, though. But Mrs. DLP was right. People would think and say what they wanted to think and say. All I could do was show that my faith, like my EDS, was nothing to fear.
When I reached the end of our front walk, Mariam’s front door (ugh, the Turners’ front door) flew open. Mrs. Turner exited the house with her dog in tow, then cut across the lawn—heading in the same direction as my bus. She looked dressed for morning exercise, in an orange tracksuit that was probably stylish in 1977. Don’t be mean, I chastised myself. Right. I would resist the urge to wallow in resentment and self-pity, even though a tiny voice in my head kept telling me that Mariam should have been walking across that lawn. Instead I waved and smiled and kept to the game plan.
“Good morning, Mrs. Turner!” I called.
She held the leash tight and took in a deep breath, as if she, too, were mustering a game face for the day. “Salma! Hello…” Then she paused. “Are you holding up all right? Sunday was so—”
“Catastrophically awful?” I finished.
Mrs. Turner nodded and exhaled, offering a sad smile. “That’s the right way to put it. The weekend went by in one big blur. I never did catch your last name.”
“Oh. It’s Bakkioui.”
“I’m sorry. Bakk…” She blinked and shook her head. “I’ve never been good with foreign names. One more time, sweetie.”
I ignored the word foreign because it was an honest request. (And yes, in spite of the fact that when it came to Mason Terrace, she was the foreigner.) Besides, I’d rather have her ask for a quick tutorial than have her mangle it for the next ten years. “Bak-ee-we,” I said. “Rhymes with kiwi.”
“Bak-ee-we. Right. Not so bad, is it?”
“Nope, it’s really not.”
Drexler’s tail began to wag. He was looking at me, his tongue hanging out, eyes soft.
“Looks like you made a friend,” she murmured. “You can pet him if you’d like. Don’t let his size fool you. He’s just a big baby.”
I stepped across the lawn and bent down beside him, stroking the top of his head. He panted in my face, his wet nose nuzzling mine for a second. I giggled and stood, and then froze for a second, struck by Mrs. Turner’s makeup. Wow. Maybe it was the bright morning sunlight, or maybe it was because I was standing so close to her…but she had on a lot of concealer and eyeshadow. Slathered on and overdone. Sort of begging to be noticed. But maybe that was her style. I reminded myself not to judge, because being a judgy douchebag was definitely not in the spirit of Ramadan, but she caught me staring and—crap. I’d made her self-conscious. She pulled her bangs over her face.
“Well, better be off,” she said with phony cheer, turning away. “Drexler loves his walks.” With her free hand, she tapped a Fitbit and headed toward the sidewalk. “So do I. Keeps us both in shape. Every morning and every night. Just you and me, ain’t that right, buddy?”
My heart sank. I scrambled for a comeback. “Love your tracksuit, Mrs. Turner!” I called.
“Kate!” she corrected over her shoulder. She laughed and waved. “Thank you, Salma!”
I watched her disappear around the bend. Not the smoothest recovery. Not the truth, either. But at least it was a lie that kept my side of the street clean.
* * *
—
A few minutes later, with my mood somewhat improved and my body more or less awake, I reached the bus stop. The usual crew of neighbors and schoolmates awaited, specifically: Jorge Cruz, Aaron Sheppard, Michelle Mayor, and Ava Brown. I stress neighbors and schoolmates—not friends, not in the same orbit as Vanessa Richman or Lisa de la Pena, perhaps not even in the same galaxy.
Still, love isn’t radical if applied only to friends.
I beamed my pearly whites at them…for a moment, and then a few more moments. The wait became uncomfortable. Then excruciating. My smile vanished, unreturned. I got a glare from Michelle Mayor. She whispered something to Ava Brown. Assholes, I said to myself, even though I knew I shouldn’t take it personally. But how could I not? Sure, there was a possibility it had nothing to do with me. The weather was dreary. It was Monday. So really: no offense.
The bus pulled up and the doors opened. We piled on. I scanned the crowd for a friendly face, only allowing myself to breathe when I spotted Kerry in the rear, an empty seat beside her. Usually I liked to sit up front by myself and zone out to music, but today I could use the company.
She lowered her eyes, clearly trying not to see me.
Perfect, I thought. But then she furrowed her brow and looked back up with a smile. Phew. A friend of a friend is a friend indeed, I thought, not caring how corny it was. I sat down beside her and began to feel whole again. But just as the bus started up, someone, somewhere, broke the silence with a single harshly whispered word.
“Mooslims.”
I slipped my hoodie over my head.
In that moment, I considered bolting. Not to escape, but to tell the All Souls Church that I finally understood their message. An act of love isn’t radical. Acts of love happen all the time—in jokes about burnt toast and in promises to write songs and in shouted goodbyes to see therapists. To love radically? That was the ability to love anyone. No matter the circumstances. No matter the faith in question.
* * *
—
First period, Pre-Calc (a class I utterly despise) has an added grump-inducing bonus. Michelle Mayor from the bus stop sits next to me. It used to be Vanessa’s seat, but Mr. Davis forbade us from sitting next to each other after repeated reprimands to stop socializing. Now she sits in the back.
Michelle is a newcomer; she moved to Arlington last year. She flips her dyed blond hair with the practiced regularity of a religious devotion. Same with the stink-eye she gives me. She used to give it to Mariam, too…until, well, now. Mariam and I theorize that her wrestler boyfriend, Chris, might have been the very first person on planet Earth to coin the term “Mooslims.” But I’ve heard him burp more than I’ve heard him speak actual words in any language, so we could be wrong.
Mr. Davis was organizing his desk, waiting for the rest of the class to shuffle in.
As I thumbed around my bag, searching for a pencil, Michelle started to sling her backpack off her shoulders. But then she stopped. Dramatically. She froze, her posture perfectly straight, to draw attention to herself. Instead of sitting, she marched toward Mr. Davis.