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  “Are there questions?” Evans asks.

  ZamZam, one of the Somali girls invited to the meeting, raises her hand. Rodney wants to question her, though: Do you know the girl that I helped? But he says nothing. Instead, he’s focusing on his knock-off Chucks, trying not to look at Aaliyah. Not her model pretty face, not her hand intertwined with Antonio’s ugly hand. After Aliyah dumped him, Antonio pounced on her quicker than he ever did any fumble. Defensive end on the field, but an offensive jerk in Rodney’s eyes.

  “So let me introduce the two community leaders who will actually lead the effort to help us heal,” Principal Evans says. “This is Reverend Elijah Cook from the Bethel AME Church and Shaykh Abdi Abdallah from the Imaam Shaafici Mosque. With them, we will basically . . .”

  Rodney shuts out the rest of the meeting; he doesn’t want to be there. He has other things to do after school, namely a meeting with his probation officer, Mr. Burton. Burton has been buzzing Rodney’s phone all day, no doubt to remind him of their meeting.

  “What’s going on, all?” Marquese shouts as he throws open the door of the media center, quite uninvited. Principal Evans summons one of the guards toward the door. “You meeting without me?”

  “Marquese, you were not invited to this meeting, but—”

  “You invite him but not me?” Marquese points at Farhan, who sits in the chair nearest Evans. “Rodney, you don’t want to be sitting down with them.”

  Rodney looks at his best friend, then back at the principal. Farhan stares him down.

  “Rodney was invited to this meeting, you were not. You need to leave!” Evans directs the one of the security officers to remove Marquese, who loudly protests the entire way. During the commotion, Rodney peeks at his phone, heavy with missed messages and texts. He wonders if somebody died.

  After Marquese leaves, the holy men talk about healing, but Rodney thinks it’s all rote, kind of like the stuff his PO says. Stuff Burton’s got to say, but deep down probably he doesn’t really believe. Burton, like some other POs Rodney’s had, used to be in “the game” but got out and is now on the other side. It seems to Rodney, though, that Burton’s more interested in telling war stories than anything else.

  “So, basically, we’ll meet until we get this resolved,” Evans says. Rodney steals another glance at his phone, thinking that if it had a weather app, he’d look to see if hell was freezing over anytime soon.

  Rodney gets up to leave with everyone else, but Principal Evans calls him to the front.

  “Rodney, I want to thank you—” Evans starts.

  “Why me?” Rodney asks aloud what he’d been thinking since he got asked to the meeting.

  “Because you set an example protecting those girls.” Evans sounds proud, like she did something.

  “How do you know about that?”

  She shakes her head, surprised. She pulls her out her crappy old phone and shows him a video posted on YouTube of him protecting the girl during the riot. “The district is trying to get these videos of the incident pulled down, but I guess it has literally—what is it you all say—gone viral.”

  “Who is the girl?” Rodney asks, trying to appear all calm and casual.

  “I know the girl in the glasses is Ayaan Farrah,” Evans says. “I can’t see the other girl’s face. I invited Ayaan to the meeting, but she declined. I’m sure that girl will find you—”

  Rodney bolts from the room thinking, not if I find her first.

  6

  JAWAHIR

  “Why would I want to go to some stupid meeting?” Ayaan asks Jawahir just before the start of first period the next morning. Because I bet he was invited, Jawahir thinks to herself, but says nothing.

  “Farhan said he’d handle things for us,” Ayaan continues. “But I think it’s a bad idea for him to be sitting around with all those thugs.”

  “That’s not a very nice thing to say,” Jawahir counters as the second bell rings. A wave of students hurries through the door and takes their usual seats. Some of the Somali kids Jawahir and Ayaan know fill the seats around them. Jawahir notices that the African American kids are sitting together on the opposite side of the room.

  It takes five minutes for Mr. Grayson to get the class quiet and another ten to explain the lab assignment. He ends with an announcement that he’s assigned new lab partners. There are audible groans as he starts to read off the names. He’s mixing it up—no way Jawahir will get to stay with Ayaan.

  At the announcement of her lab partner, Jawahir reluctantly takes the seat next to Roshanda at the lab table. Roshanda is wearing designer clothes and lots of jewelry. Jawahir self-consciously touches her plain-colored hijab and starts counting down the minutes to the end of class.

  Roshanda is texting instead of listening to the assignment, so Jawahir takes notes. She does 80 percent of the work but gets only 50 percent of the credit. It reminds her of her own household, with her mom working two jobs and raising her and her younger brothers.

  “Is that you?” Roshanda asks, shoving her phone in Jawahir’s face. It’s the video of the brawl. “Who is that brother helping you?” Roshanda asks.

  I’d love to know, Jawahir thinks. Jawahir asks for Roshanda to play the video again as she wonders, Is love at first sight a chemical reaction?

  “Put that away Roshanda,” Mr. Grayson snaps at her, like he does every day. She complies until the moment that he’s out of sight, then she pulls it out again and shows Jawahir the video for a third time.

  “You don’t know him either?” Jawahir whispers. Hopes.

  “Why, you think we’re all related or something? Or maybe we all just look alike to you.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I wanted to thank him, that’s all.” Jawahir realizes she could record in her lab notebook that today she had her longest conversation ever with Roshanda.

  “You’d better hurry up, then, ’cause some brothers don’t think what he did was cool at all.”

  “Where would I find him?” Jawahir asks, even softer.

  “For serious?” Roshanda laughs, earning a scowl from the teacher. Mr. Grayson motions for her to close up her phone. Roshanda smiles, puts her phone face-up on the table.

  “Yes.”

  “I heard he’s a junior, so all depends what group he’s with,” Roshanda says, then explains where various groups congregate. Since Jawahir’s father forbade her to reenter the cafeteria for fear of her safety if another riot breaks out, Jawahir can’t visit the place she’d met the mystery man. Roshanda ends talking about the “nerds and nice boys” hanging out in the media center at lunch and after school.

  He’s got to be one of those, Jawahir thinks. She finishes the lab while Roshanda texts.

  “But if I was you, I wouldn’t be hanging around even nice boys. Best you stay with your kind, and we stay with ours. Know what I’m saying?” Jawahir cannot imagine a person in the universe more different from her father than Roshanda Tate, so how is it, she wonders, that they could think so much alike?

  “Thanks for the advice,” Jawahir says, trying to hide the ill-fitting sarcasm in her voice.

  “It isn’t advice,” Roshanda laughs too loud, and then stares down Jawahir. “It is a warning.”

  7

  RODNEY

  “Rodney, I don’t want to talk with you no more about this,” Aaliyah says. Rodney waited until the end of the school day when he knew Antonio would head straight to football practice. He’s got Aaliyah cornered near her locker. No one else is around. “I told you everything in that letter.”

  “That was cold, breaking up with me in a letter when I was inside,” Rodney says.

  “It was only a matter of time.”

  “Before we broke up?”

  “No, before you got popped.” She pushes Rodney hard in the chest, but he doesn’t flinch.

  “First off, I ain’t like that no more.” Rodney leans in, his face against hers. “And second, you used to like that about me. You didn’t think nothing about it when I was buying you all
kinds of—”

  “Just a bunch of boys thinking they’re men,” Aaliyah mumbles. “I got no time for it now.”

  “And somehow Antonio is—”

  “You ain’t listening! This ain’t about him, and it ain’t even about you.” Aaliyah begins to tear up. Rodney wonders if she’s faking. “This is about the person I want to be, who I want to be with. It ain’t you.”

  “I told you, I’ve changed. Ask around.”

  “Well, I saw that thing with the Somali chick, but one good deed don’t—”

  “It’s not just one good deed, it’s who I am.”

  Aaliyah laughs, not in a tone suggesting something’s funny, but something’s stupid. “You know why brothers like you and Marquese do all that thug nonsense?”

  Rodney stares at Aaliyah. He thinks it’s wrong that she won’t believe that he’s changed. “Same reason fish swim. It’s what they do.”

  Rodney’s been punched, kicked, and even shot, but these words hurt worse. He drops his arms, backs up, and lets Aaliyah free.

  Rodney stands tall, even though he feels like he just picked himself off the floor. He gathers his books and heads for the media center to study. He’s got a future too, one without Aaliyah. Now that he’s seen who she really is and what she really thinks, Rodney feels like a dark cloud just lifted from his sky.

  8

  JAWAHIR

  “That’s him,” Jawahir whispers to Ayaan when she sees the young man walk into the library. Her body feels like it’s short-circuiting, every sense overloading with new sensations. “That’s him. That’s the boy—”

  “Sit down, girl!” Ayaan grabs her hand as Jawahir starts to stand and pulls her down. Ayaan sighs. “Jawahir, I see that look in your eyes. Don’t do it. What is wrong with you? If your dad—”

  “I just want—” Jawahir stops, stumbling over the unfamiliar word want. In her house, you did what you were told and what was needed. “Want” was as foreign and forbidden as pork or alcohol.

  “Not just your dad,” Ayaan says. “If Farhan or his friends see you even talk to him, they’ll—”

  Jawahir nods in agreement, smiles at her cousin politely, and frees herself from her grip. She walks quickly toward the door. Ayaan yells at her in Somali. Jawahir turns to see that the other girls at her table, and the boys at the adjoining tables, are staring at her. Some start texting.

  The commotion gets the boy’s attention. He stares at Jawahir, and a smile lights up his face. He starts toward her, walking and then almost running. “Fool, what are you doing?” someone yells from the door. Jawahir recognizes him from the video. He was the one fighting with Farhan on the table. Jawahir’s rescuer stops, turns and stares at the other boy, but says nothing.

  “I said, what are you doing?” the young man repeats. He’s blocking the door. The first shout gets the attention of the other students in the room. Now everyone is staring at Jawahir. Some of the African American girls start shouting, but it’s hard to hear because the Somali boys are shouting louder.

  “I’m free. Screw this,” the young man says. He reaches out his hand. Jawahir takes it. He drops his books on the floor and starts running toward the fire exit. Jawahir, hand in hand, follows. As he kicks the door open, a loud siren screams and lights flash. Jawahir lets go of his hand, and they sprint together toward the bus garage. The young man runs beside her. The sirens in the distance grow faint, and the sound of their breathing gets heavier as they reach the garage. “Let’s stop running,” he whispers.

  The boy leans against the garage. Jawahir stands on her toes to kiss him. She feels ten feet tall.

  9

  RODNEY

  “You are seriously messed up in the head,” Marquese tells Rodney, who is tired of listening but is trapped with him on the light rail. “I think inside CHS they shrunk your skull and brain along with it.”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Rodney finally says, shutting down the Marquese tirade. They are headed to the downtown library on a Saturday afternoon, Marquese to deal, Rodney to study. Not to study for school, but to study everything Rodney can about Jawahir, who plans to meet him there.

  “I’m not one to say anything against a brother getting a little something,” Marquese says. Rodney hates his tone; the idea of “getting a little something” seems vulgar even though not that long ago, that’s how he thought and spoke. But about Jawahir, it just seems wrong. “But with all the crap since the fight. You representing all of us, so you’re making us look bad falling for a Muslim.”

  “I can’t explain.” Rodney stares out the window as the train moves almost as slow as a city bus. He wants the train to move faster, but the only place the train picks up speed is out of the tunnel at the airport.

  “You watch yourself ’cause the word is out, and they’re just as pissed about that scene in the media center as us. Now, at the big library, first floor is neutral, we got the second, they got third. Be careful.”

  Rodney frowns at the idea of a library divided up like a war zone or like his neighborhood. Marquese keeps talking, and Rodney pretends to listen, but he’s thinking about Jawahir. They kissed before they knew each other’s names, which seemed right to Rodney. Names are labels, and to Rodney, he thinks the world has too many labels, tats, and flags. Symbols used for war, not love.

  Just before they split up in the library foyer, Marquese gives Rodney a fist bump. “Look, I’m just watching out for you. Times is tight now. You got to get your—”

  “I love her.”

  Marquese’s laughter bounces off the glass ceiling. “You just met her. You ain’t even—”

  “That’s how I know, Marquese,” Rodney explains. He’s talking slow, making sure that his friend understands every word. “I shouldn’t feel like this about some girl, some girl I don’t know, some girl that everybody tells me to stay away from, but I can’t. It’s not just that she’s beautiful, but she’s something innocent and I ain’t felt that way in a long time. This is real, not like Aaliyah who—”

  “You’re just rebounding from Aaliyah, that’s all.”

  “No, you’re not listening, Marquese. It’s not like that. It’s not a lie or a pose. This is real.”

  “Well, crap’s going to get real, so whatever you gotta do, do it, but don’t tell me. You hear me?”

  Rodney smiles and bumps Marquese’s fist. His thick knuckles are tough. Rodney remembers how small and soft Jawahir’s hands were. Rodney’s knees buckle with the memory of Jawahir’s lips.

  Marquese heads up the stairs to do business, while Rodney waits. Rodney wishes he could call Jawahir, but he knows her dad won’t let her have a phone. Or Instagram, anything. She’s doing nothing ordinary for a ninth-grade girl. It fits, he thinks, since she’s extraordinary in every way. He’ll have to wait until he sees her.

  Finally, he hears footsteps approaching from behind him and spins around to see Jawahir approaching. But Jawahir’s not alone. One of the tough Somali boys, Farhan, is with her. So is the mean girl Ayaan, who sneers at Rodney from a distance. Rodney’s ready to text Marquese for reenforcements.

  “Stay away from her, thug,” Farhan hisses like steam coming from the radiators in Rodney’s old house. “I hear you talk to her again, let alone touch her, you answer to all of us. She belongs to me.”

  Rodney’s hands dive into his pockets: phone in left ready to text; fist in right ready to fly.

  “I’m sorry,” Jawahir whispers as she passes by Rodney, following two steps behind Farhan, one behind Ayaan. Steps behind so neither see her toss a crumbled piece of paper behind her back. Rodney picks up the paper and smoothes it, reading words that fill his heart with joy. “Light rail station @ 2:00.”

  10

  JAWAHIR

  “Rodney, sit behind me,” Jawahir whispers to Rodney just before boarding the light rail. Groups of Somali and black teens also board the southbound train toward the airport. The sunlight shines on her face. She sits facing the Somali group, her back to Rodney. They stay silent until the t
rain starts moving. “Rodney, can you hear me?” Jawahir whispers. She puts a book in front of her face so no one can see her talking, not that anyone seems to be paying attention to her. She doesn’t recognize any of the kids on the train, but she wonders if their mad dash the other day, like the brawl, is all the rage online.

  “Why here? Is this really safe?” Rodney asks, softly.

  “No place is safe for us, not school, not the library, not our neighborhoods.”

  “I don’t know what I did,” Rodney says. “That girl Ayaan gave me a look like—”

  “My cousin doesn’t like you.”

  “You know why? ’Cause she’s jealous of you: of your beauty, of someone loving you like I do.”

  Jawahir notices her hands shaking. Did he really just say that he loved her? She wants to tell him the same, but even though meeting was her idea, now she’s scared: not of Rodney, but of herself and a flood of feelings crashing like waves on some island beach. She’s drowning in an ocean of emotion.

  “Jawahir, say something,” Rodney says, but Jawahir can’t connect her heart to her throat to her lips. “I wish I could turn around and look at you. Get lost in your eyes.”

  More young people climb on the train at the Downtown East stop. More noise to cover their voices. When the train starts again, Rodney whispers, “I looked up your name. It means jewel. And you are that, Jawahir, a jewel: precious, something rare and too beautiful for this world. I want you.”

  “If only it was so easy,” Jawahir whispers. “If we were some other place, some other time . . . I’d give up myself, my faith, my family for you. Is this crazy? Would you do the same for me?”

  “I would do anything.”

  “Our skin color is the same. Why doesn’t anyone else see that?” Jawahir unloads thoughts racing through her head. “And skin color shouldn’t even matter, it’s about blood. Your blood is red, my blood is red. It wouldn’t matter to me if your skin was green or purple, you’d still be you underneath.”

  Rodney starts to speak, but at the Franklin stop the train fills mainly with older Somali women and young kids. Jawahir sees the women clutch their children and purses when they walk past her, no doubt because the only seats left on the train are where Rodney and other young black men are seated.