Hijabi Style: The Surprisingly Average Life Of A Teenage Muslim Girl

Release And Melancholy

People always encourage others to get things off their chests. But the ways we do that may be different than they expect. Sometimes talking isn't enough to remove and release your feelings. Sometimes you just need something a little stronger.

I hadn't spoken to anyone all week. I avoid Tessa's phone calls and eat lunch in the stairwell. I dodge Hamzah in the halls and make Ummi write a letter to my home room teacher, excusing my absences. I don't want to come within any close distance of Kennedy, and I know Tessa will suffocate me with sympathy about the whole thing.

I'm not sure what Hamzah's take on it was. On one hand, he seemed to think a fight was perfectly normal, though at Caldwell they almost never happened.

My traumatic ordeal last year and Kennedy's fight were the only acts of violence we'd seen. Yet on the other hand, he did try to get Kennedy and I to stop arguing. It's probably best to be on the safe side and avoid him too.

And Kennedy. God, I feel awful. I am grateful to him for so much, and I just made him feel like crap about it. Because of some dude who could be swayed to other girls without hesitation. An idiot that I had the misfortune of being in love with.

But not so much anymore. He wasn't the charming guy who'd painted a portrait of me anymore. If the real Major always behaved the way he did with Rochelle, I didn't want any part of him. Reflecting on what Kennedy said had really opened my eyes- and closed my heart. I'm gradually making strides to being over Major for good.

Still, Kennedy had no right to wish I was dead. Who even says something like that? And to think he was a friend. It's just all so confusing. Ultimately, I think it is best to leave it all alone for a while. Friends, that is.

Besides, I'm worried about something else. Major had heard what happened firsthand. I don't want him approaching me, especially because today is Thursday. I had begged Ummi this morning to write me a note, excusing me from art class, but she dismissed my pleas and suggested that I refrain from my "nonsense". So in other words, I don't have a choice.

Art class is a blur as I focus on the assignment at hand- dimension drawing. I don't make eye contact with anyone, and even Hop knows to leave me alone. If only Major was that smart.

"Hi, Yasmeen."

I don't answer. But instead of walking away, he lingers, awaiting a response.

"So, are you just going to ignore me?"

I still don't answer. I know that if I do say anything to him, it will be hurtful, and I don't want to feel guilty about my words later.

I just hate how quickly he forgot about me and went for Rochelle, after declaring his "love" and painting a picture of me. And though it was my idea, it made me see that his love wasn't true. He hadn't fought for me.

So I don't answer. But then, "Don't be such a bitch."

And wallahi- I swear to Allah- I forget everything I was just thinking, and I just react. Before I know it, my hand collides with his face. His cheek reddens and I regret nothing.

He looks at me with a mix of rage and disgust, and I feel Hop's arm pull me out of the classroom. My head is pounding so loud that I barely hear Hop's advice that I take a walk for a few minutes, because he knows I am not having a good day. He hands me my backpack and coat.

I turn to walk away. And for the first time in a while, I feel sure about my actions. That slap gave me a chance to release the root of my anger- my jealousy of Rochelle and heartbreak caused by Major. For once, I am the victor. Lost in my thoughts, I don't see a student walking towards me until I bump into them. I look up to apologize.

"Shit." I mutter, seeing that it is Hamzah.

"What a little pocket of sunshine you are." he replies.

"If you're going to lecture me about Kennedy, it's best you save your breath."

"That's not my business."

His answer takes me by surprise. "Oh." I sigh.

"Are you okay?"

I carefully consider that question and give him a genuine smile. "I am... amazing. I slapped a guy." I proclaim.

"Is that right?"

"Yes. It was so invigorating. Like something I needed to do."

"Trust me, I get it." he half-smiles at me.

We sit on the floor by the lockers, in the same spot where Major had told me he loved me just a few weeks earlier.

"So why aren't you in class?" I ask him.

"Because I'm leaving early."

"Why? Where are you going?"

"To see my mother."

I'm silent, and can't think of anything to say in response. I want to be there for him but I just can't relate.

"Do you want to come?"

"I can't," I answer with eyes downcast. "I've never skipped before."

"Please." he says simply, but his eyes plead with me. I agree.

We walk over to the cemetery, which isn't too far from school. As we walk, Hamzah's demeanor changes. His jaw is clenched and he bunches his hands into fists. He doesn't bother talking, and I respect that.

I feel incredibly out of place as Hamzah walks up to a tombstone on the far end of the burial-ground. As he stands, I can feel the personal connection. He gazes longingly at the patch of ground, and sprinkles flower petals from a velvet pouch over it. He then kneels and kisses the tombstone. My heart sinks.

Hamzah comes over and takes my hand, leading me to his mother's grave. The name in the stone reads Angelica Webster in English, and Farida Hamzah in Arabic.

"She converted to Islam and changed her name. This is her hometown, and missing her was the reason we moved back here." Hamzah explains.

I nod and say a du'a, or prayer, for her. She must have been an amazingly kind woman, to raise a son as sensitive and as kind as Hamzah. I begin to cry, thanking Allah for my life, and for my family.

"Yasmeen." Hamzah calls in a stern tone.

I look over at him, tears still running down my cheeks.

"What did Kennedy mean when he said he wished he'd left you the way he found you?"

So I tell him the story of how Kennedy saved my life. It could have easily been me in this grave. All thanks to Allah, I am not.

"Wallahi, I will never leave you like that." Hamzah says, fiercely.

And we stand there, gazing at his mother's grave, praying and crying while still holding hands. I squeeze his hand gently and respond in a voice barely above a whisper.

"I know."