Every day it seemed like she and I were teetering on the edge of something—something that wasn’t necessarily good—and it made me nervous. I often felt like I was walking on eggshells around Zahra, never certain what I might do to upset her, never certain what kind of emotional turbulence she might introduce to my day. It made everything feel like an ordeal.
I didn’t know how to fix it.
I didn’t know how to say something about the tension between us without sounding accusatory. Worse, I worried she might leverage any perceived slight into an excuse to shut me out. There was a great deal of history between us—layers and layers of sediment I dearly treasured—and I didn’t want to lose what we had. I wanted only for us to evolve backward, into the versions of ourselves that never caught fire when we collided.
I cried out.
Someone had slammed into me, knocking the air from my lungs and the thoughts from my head. The stranger muttered an insincere Sorry before shoving past, and I shook my head, deciding then to stop fighting the tide. I needed to drop off some books at my locker before I joined Zahra in our usual spot, but it felt like the whole school had a similar idea. We were all of us heading to the locker bays.
I was still moving at a glacial pace when I became aware of a gentle pressure at the base of my spine. I felt the heat of his hand even through the hoodie, his fingers grazing my waist as they drew away. The simple contact struck a match against my skin.
“Hey,” he said, but he wasn’t looking at me. He was smiling into the crowd, watching where he was going.
“Hi.” I could no longer remember feeling cold.
Ali glanced in my direction. His hand had abandoned me but he leaned in when he said—without meeting my eyes—
“Are you wearing my hoodie?”
I nearly stopped in place. Twin gusts (pleasure, mortification) blew through me, and then, dominating all else—
Panic.
Eventually, the bottleneck broke. We’d arrived at my locker. I dropped my backpack to the floor, spun around to face him, felt the metal frame press against my shoulder blades. Ali was staring at me with the strangest look on his face, something close to delight.
“I didn’t know this was yours,” I said quietly. “My mom found it in her car.”
He touched one of the bright-blue drawstrings, wound it around his finger.
“Yeah,” he said, meeting my gaze. “This is mine.”
A wash of heat colored my cheeks and I closed my eyes as if it made any difference, as if I could stop us both from seeing it.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know.”
“Hey, don’t apologize, I don’t—”
Carefully, without disturbing my scarf, I pulled the hoodie over my head and handed it to him, practically shoved it at him.
“Shadi.” He frowned, tried to give it back. “I don’t care if you wear it. You can have it.”
I was shaking my head. I didn’t know how to say even a little bit without saying everything. “I can’t.”
“Shadi. Come on.”
I turned around, turned the combination on my locker. Wordlessly, I unzipped my backpack, swapped out my books.
Ali moved closer, bent his head over my shoulder. “Keep it,” he said, his breath touching my cheek. “I want you to keep it.”
I felt my body tense with a familiar ache, a familiar fear. I couldn’t move.
“Hey.”
I straightened at the sound of Zahra’s voice.
“Hi,” I said, forcing myself to speak. My heart was now racing for entirely new reasons.
Zahra stepped closer. “What are you guys doing?” Then, to me, with an approximation of a laugh: “Why did you just give my brother your sweater?”
“Oh. My mom actually found it in her car this morning.”
Zahra frowned. My answer was not an answer.
“I, um, thought it belonged to Mehdi,” I amended. “But it belongs to Ali. I was just giving it back to him.”
Zahra looked at Ali—whose face had shuttered closed. He glanced at me before he shoved a hand through his hair, balled the sweatshirt under his arm.
“I’ll see you later,” he said to no one, and disappeared into the crowd.
Zahra and I stood in silence, watching him go. My heart would not cease racing. I felt as if I were standing, in real time, in front of a ticking bomb.
Boom.
“What the fuck, Shadi?”
I tried to explain: “I didn’t know it was his. I was running late and I’d forgotten my jacket and—”
“Bullshit.”
“Zahra.” My heart was pounding. “I’m not lying.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“What? Doing what?”
“This, Shadi, this. Hooking up with my brother.”
“Hooking up with . . .” I blinked, my head was spinning. “I’m not . . .”
“Was that what you were doing last night? Were you out with my brother?”
I was shaking my head, certain this was some kind of nightmare. “I was doing my physics homework.”
“God, you’re unbelievable,” she said. “Fucking unbelievable.”
A few heads turned for the second time, passersby always surprised to hear a girl in hijab swearing loudly in the hall.
I lowered my voice a few octaves in an effort to compensate. “There is literally nothing going on between me and Ali. I swear to God. I swear on my life.”
Zahra was still livid, her jaw tensed as she stared at me. But she’d at least stopped yelling, which gave me hope.
“I swear,” I said, trying again. “I had no idea the hoodie was his. It was a crazy morning, and I was rushing around so much I forgot to grab my jacket, and my mom found his sweatshirt in her car. Ali must’ve forgotten it at some point. We all thought it was Mehdi’s.”
Zahra looked at me for a long time, and though I was the one holding my breath, she was the one who finally exhaled.
Slowly—very slowly—the tension left her body.
When her anger broke, she looked suddenly close to tears. “You’re really not hooking up with my brother?”
“Zahra, come on. Can you even imagine? Listen to yourself.”
“I know. I know.” She sniffed, wiped her eyes. “Ugh, I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m sorry. He’d never even be interested in someone like you.”
“Exactly.” What?
“I mean, no offense or anything.” She shot me a look. “But you’re definitely not his type.”
I tried to smile. “I’m no one’s type. Most people take one look at me and run screaming in the opposite direction.”
She laughed.
I was only half kidding.
Suddenly, Zahra dropped her face in her hands. “I’m sorry. I’m just—” She sighed. Shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey,” I said, squeezing her shoulder. “Can we just forget this whole thing? Please? Let’s get some lunch.”
She took a deep breath. Let it go.
We left.
I only realized later that she’d never answered my question.
December
2003