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  “Are you okay?” I ask when she pulls away.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” she says, biting the inside of her cheek.

  “We’re going to be okay, Nuri,” I say, hoping I sound more confident than I feel.

  I wish I had answers to all of the questions she probably has, but those same questions are running through my head. I go over to the living room and turn on the news. Nuri sits down on the couch, her focus locked on the reporter.

  “I’m going to go change real quick, but I’ll be right back.”

  Nuri nods, and I head to the kitchen to get some water. A flash of pink catches my eye, and I go over to the counter where Mom’s figurine of Black Jesus and Dad’s Quran sit to see the somewhat-cheesy daily motivational note she left Nuri and me for today that says: It doesn’t matter what’s been written in your story so far, it’s how you fill the remainder of the pages that counts. I choke out a gasp, my eyes suddenly burning with tears fighting to fall.

  Please, Allah. Please let her be okay.

  I head upstairs to my room, almost tripping over Nuri’s lacrosse stick in the middle of the hallway. I gently kick it into her room before heading into mine. I plug in my phone and turn it facedown. That way, I can hear if Mom calls or texts without getting sucked into doomscrolling. I set my ballet bag next to my desk and look up at the poster of Misty Copeland that hangs above my bed, but it doesn’t give me the sense of calm that it usually does.

  I pace back and forth across the room, adrenaline and anxiety pushing me forward. Mom has to come home. She just has to. I don’t want to have to live in a reality where she doesn’t come back. I close my eyes and say another prayer. I didn’t realize how much I’ve taken for granted the privilege of simply being able to come home safely.

  I open my planner and stare at it blankly, the items on today’s to-do list all blending together. Terrible things happen all the time, but I’ve never once thought that anyone I loved would ever be affected. I guess I’ve always thought of my family as being in an untouchable bubble. But I guess I now know that no amount of planning or trying to maintain control can keep anyone, including myself and those I love, untouchable.

  I close my planner and put it in my drawer. No amount of planning could’ve prepared me for this, and for once a detailed to-do list can’t help me. My eyes travel across my desk and land on a framed photo of Mom and me that was taken at my first ballet recital. All of the panic and fear that’s been suppressed so that Nuri can’t see it rises to the surface, and my eyes sting with tears. I press my palms to my eyes, but the tears slip down my cheeks. I heave in gulps of air and try to steady myself against the wave of emotions.

  “I’ve got to be strong for Nuri,” I say over and over in my head as I change out of my leotard and tights and throw on a T-shirt and some sweats. Grabbing my phone, I head back downstairs. Dad pulls Nuri and me close as I sit down on the couch next to them. My leg bounces and my thoughts pirouette, but I force myself to focus on the news.

  “The police believe that the suspect was an individual named Hakeem Waters who died at the scene,” the newscaster reports.

  A faint click of the lock sliding cuts through the newscaster’s voice, and Nuri and I jump up. We follow Dad to the front of the house, my heart beating so loud I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. Please, Allah, let it be her.

  “Mom!” I yell, launching myself at her as she closes the door behind her. “You’re home!”

  I feel Nuri wrap her arms around us and then Dad, and I pull away a bit when I feel tears sliding down my cheeks. I loosen my arms from around her, but I keep one hand on her arm to remind myself that she’s here. And she’s safe. And she’s breathing.

  “I’m okay, girls. Everything’s fine. It took the police a while to search my building, but it was necessary. I’m sorry that my calls and texts didn’t go through. Cellular service is still spotty. But I’m here and I’m safe.”

  I take deep breaths, my heartbeat slowly steadying. I curl my fingers into fists, my nails digging into my palms. It’s okay. She’s okay. I repeat that over and over in my head, trying to get my body to stop shaking.

  Mom kisses us each on the forehead. “Why don’t we all sleep in the living room together tonight?”

  She’s here. She’s here. She’s here.

  ZAKAT

  LULLWOOD, GEORGIA

  There’s something magical about the way art transforms chaos without apology. On the canvas, there’s no room to put anyone else’s wants before my own and there’s no one to please but myself. I adjust my grip on the short stick of charcoal, the tips of my fingers stained black. Light classical music floats in the background, filling the art studio with airiness. No one is ever up in this part of the school this late in the afternoon while school is in, and I loosen my shoulders and focus on the strip of charcoal paper. Next week, when afternoon and evening summer classes start up, people will start to stream into the building. But for now, as people celebrate the end of the school year, I have the art studio all to myself.

  I take in the silence of the first few days of summer. During the school year, chatter and laughter would be bouncing off the walls. Lullwood Islamic School for Girls is a haven that I’ve had the privilege of attending since kindergarten. But as a rising senior, it’s beginning to dawn on me that staying in a haven for too long can turn it into a bubble.

  I turn my easel a bit so that it fits exactly in the circle that marks my spot. During the art class that ran on the weekends during the school year, the art teacher let us trace a circle around the bottom of the legs of the easel and write our name on the smooth floor to mark our spots in order to make sure each individual’s view toward an object didn’t change during a project. I remember how thrilling it was to write in Sharpie on the floor, to make a mark, even in such a small way. Though the mark will fade once the floors are scrubbed before school restarts.

  My phone buzzes, and I jump, causing the charcoal to streak the paper. I wipe my fingers on my jeans, leaving gray smudges on my thighs, and see five missed calls from Mama.

  Shoot.

  “Mama?” I ask, answering.

  “Zakat, you need to come to the masjid now,” Mama says through the phone.

  “Alright. Is everything okay?”

  Mama pauses. “I’ll tell you when you get here. Please hurry. Love you.”

  “Love you too, Mama. I’m on my way now.”

  She hangs up, and I unclip the charcoal paper from the easel and slip it into the tan art portfolio that’s inside of my tote bag. I wash my hands, most of the charcoal coming off my fingers, and slide my tote bag over my shoulder. The weirdness of the conversation sticks to me like the residue of the charcoal stick, and I try to shake it off. Mama’s one of those people who loves texting and adding the perfect GIF to a message. She only calls me if she’s worried or it’s an emergency, and I can’t imagine what would be so big that she could only say it in person.

  I slip my phone into my pocket and sprint down the hall, my feet sinking into the soft blue carpet. Quranic verses are painted in Arabic and translated into English across the walls in metallic colors. Quotes from powerful Muslim women are taped to every classroom door. The hall smells of lemon, and I wave at one of the cleaning staff members.

  A gust of warm air ruffles the ends of my hijab as I step outside. Hopping onto my bike, I pedal in the direction of the masjid. The sun shines bright overhead, wispy cotton-candy-pink clouds lining the sky as it slowly sets. I ride down the smooth gravel path that winds through the woods that give the city its name. Thick, tall pine trees line the sides of the path, and I swerve around fallen pine cones. The air smells like a newly lit scented holiday candle. This ride has been committed to memory better than my times tables. I love Lullwood with all my heart; it’s helped to mold who I am and shape who I want to be. The town has been a shoulder to cry on and the giver of the best hugs. But I’m exc
ited to graduate and expand my horizons. Still, being able to feel completely safe biking through the Atlanta suburbs as a Black hijabi is something that Lullwood has given me and something that I’ll always treasure.

  The masjid comes into view, and I skid to a stop. A chain-link fence is wrapped around its perimeter, and it reminds me of the kind of barrier that I’ve seen at playgrounds. The posts of the fence are connected to portable stands held down with sandbags, which gives me a little relief. If the posts aren’t drilled into the ground, then the barrier is probably temporary. The silver fence contrasts against the smooth, marble stone that shines under the sunlight. In all my years living in Lullwood, there’s never been a fence around the masjid before. I ride through the open gate that’s connected to the front of the fence, and I can’t help but wonder why the railing has been put up.

  I park my bike and enter through the common door. The masjid used to have two separate entrances, as many masjids do. But a few years ago, high school students told the imam that the two entrances, and the two labels for gender attached to them, didn’t allow everyone to come into the masjid as they identified and alienated some Muslims from attending prayers. After the discussion, it was decided that the masjid would only have one common entrance and that a nonlabeled prayer room would also be added inside in addition to the men’s and women’s prayer rooms. That was one of the many moments when I’d felt so proud of my community.

  I walk inside the masjid and pause, taking a moment to appreciate its beauty. The masjid is pretty much my second home. The patterns of the tall archway and the golden accents on the red carpets are as familiar as the woods. I remove my sneakers, place them on the overflowing shoe rack, and start to head over to the common area that leads to the prayer hall, inhaling the familiar warm and sharp scent of incense. I squeeze my way through the crowd, dodging babies and bent elbows. The crowd moves slower this evening, and everyone seems more somber than usual.

  “Zakat!” Mama cries out when she sees me in the prayer hall. “I’m so glad you’re safe.”

  I let her pull me into a hug. “Why wouldn’t I be, Mama?”

  “There was a terrible attack in Washington, DC. Someone blew up a metro station. I know you’re here and Washington, DC, seems so far away, but I got worried.”

  I gasp as my panic spikes and a lump rises in my throat. I force myself to swallow and place a hand on Mama’s arm.

  “Well, I’m here, Mama. I’m okay.”

  While I try to calm her down, my thoughts start to spin and my stomach sinks. DC is a ways away from the Atlanta area, and Mama worries easily, but attacks like that bring trouble no matter the distance. Is this somehow connected to the gate that’s up?

  “Was the terrorist Muslim?” I ask, the sourness of the question stinging my tongue.

  Mama’s shoulders drop. “America is believing that he is. It’s his name.”

  I nod, unsurprised. My jaw clenches, and my palms start to sweat. Anger makes my heart beat faster, as if it’s preparing to outrun some source of danger. This isn’t the first time my community has been scathed when the nation is clutching at straws—almost always race and religion—desperate for an answer. It isn’t right, but it’s so common now I no longer feel sorrow. I only feel anger at the unfairness of it all. When I was little, I used to be hopeful that the world would change. That places with the qualities of Lullwood would become the norm. Now, I’m not sure if that’ll ever happen. I’m not even sure if that can happen.

  “What’s the news saying about us?”

  “Nothing that hasn’t been said before,” Mama says. “Why don’t you go make wudu. Prayers are going to start soon.”

  I press a quick kiss to her cheek. “Okay, I’ll meet you in the prayer room.”

  It’s okay, Mama, I want to add but I don’t. Baba says that after 9/11 and the ensuing rise of Islamophobia, Mama lost some of the brightness that she used to have. When these things happen, it’s like a shadow comes out from the closet and hangs over her. But if it’s easier for her to pretend like the shadow isn’t there, then I’ll pretend too.

  I head toward the ablution room, the voices around me low and solemn. The masjid usually feels full of warmth and light, but today sadness seems to haunt the spaces where joy usually resides. I can feel its weight pressing into me. Sometimes I wish I could wrap Lullwood in a bunch of Bubble Wrap and hide it from the rest of the world, and sometimes I wish I could pop all of the bubbles and hear the sound echo. Most times I wish for both at once. It’s a constant push and pull between wanting to stay protected by the haven that Lullwood provides and wanting to explore what lies beyond it.

  The sunlight streams in through the bulletproof windows, and some of the heaviness in my chest loosens as I step into the room. A small fountain sits in the middle of the room, with a small tublike ring around its base. Faucets are attached to the fountain, in front of each seat. Taking a seat at the fountain, I turn on the faucet in front of me and dip my feet into the water.

  “Bismillah.”

  I rub the water over my hands and face, splash water onto my arms and neck, and clean behind my ears. I rinse my mouth out last, and then I slip my socks back on. Even though this is a routine that I’ve done more times than I can count, I always try to use the steps as a way of re-centering. Almost like my own version of meditation.

  Heading out of the ablution room, I follow everyone down to the prayer hall. Usually everyone’s laughing and chatting and gossiping, but today I can only hear a few whispers as I move with everyone. It hurts to see Lullwood without its usual brightness, and I can’t help but wonder if everywhere else feels as dull as it feels here in this moment. If other places are hurting, yet preparing for the inevitable, like we are.

  I wave quickly at Baba before he enters the men’s prayer room. He’s easy to spot because he’s one of only five Black Muslims in Lullwood, one of them being myself. Because I’ve grown up here, I’ve never had to experience living in a place where I’m the religious minority. Most days I don’t notice that I’m the only Black student in class because I’ve always been in the religious majority, and that’s what’s always been the main source of connection in Lullwood. But sometimes that comes at the expense of erasing or minimizing my Blackness because Black Muslims are often overlooked, not only in Lullwood but also the Ummah.

  I congregate with the rest of the teens toward the back of the room, all other female-identifying members in front of us. The comforting feeling of home wraps around me as I lay out my prayer rug.

  “Make the rows straight and do not differ, lest your hearts differ,” the imam says, beginning the prayer service.

  Calmness and peace wash over me, and before I know it, voices begin to float through the room signaling that the prayers are over. I fold up my prayer rug and head out to find Baba and Mama. Unease creeps back in at the relative quiet of the hall, and no one bumps into me and starts to chat like usual. It’s like we’re all stuck in our own bubbles created by our worries about the aftermath of an action none of us are involved in but we’re all connected to because of our faith.

  It’s terrifying.

  I pull my jean jacket tighter around me as I walk through the parking lot over to where Mama and Auntie Sara, a family friend, are talking. I squint, trying to see a few stars among the hazy clouds.

  “I know her heart is set on going there, but safety should be the number one—” Auntie Sara pauses as I wrap an arm around Mama.

  “Zakat, my darling, how’s your summer been going?” Auntie Sara asks.

  I give her a warm smile. “Well, we got out a few days ago.”

  “And you’re thinking about college, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then I should also tell you what I was about to share with your mother. Safety should be a top priority in any decision, especially one about where you’re going to spend the next four years of your life.” She p
auses. “I know your heart is set on Howard University, but I think you should give Spelman College another chance. My daughter loves it there. You could talk to her about it. I know you’re very into art, but I hope you’re considering more solid career options as well.”

  “Thank you, I’ll keep it in mind.”

  I’ll keep it mind. I’ll keep it in mind. I’ll keep it in mind. I’ve already said those words so much, and I feel like I’m going to be saying them a lot more this summer so I should go ahead and make it the tagline of the next three months. I can’t risk disappointing Baba and Mama, not when my only job is to make them proud. Plus, I know we’re all worried about the financial aspect of college, and the last thing I want to do is send them into debt. I want nothing more than to make them happy, but I really want to be happy too.

  “Ready to go?” Baba asks Mama and me, and we both nod.

  “I’ve already put your bike in the trunk, so don’t worry about it.”

  “Thanks, Baba.”

  When I was five, Baba purchased a shiny new minivan. I think it was because they planned for me to have siblings, but Mama had a difficult childbirth with me and I don’t think she wanted to go through that pain again. I know she loves me, but sometimes I wonder if maybe I slowed down and spent more time with her like I used to when I was little, then maybe the minivan wouldn’t feel as big. And maybe I wouldn’t feel the pressure to fill up the entire minivan.

  “Auntie is right,” Mama says, breaking the silence as Baba drives. “I can’t stop thinking about the attack and how easily you could’ve been hurt if you went to college in DC.”

  I don’t say anything because any response I give will only be adding gasoline to an already blazing fire, and Baba and Mama don’t deserve to get burned. I look out the windows trying to make out the tops of the trees in the dark.