The Easiest Target

Hostage

I'm not supposed to hate as a Muslim. I'm supposed to be forgiving and leave everything to Allah. But Azan? He has to be some sort of divine exception. This guy's worse than Pharaoh.

Azan is the only person I've ever hated. Like truly hated. You can hate people but not really care because you see them once in a blue moon. Azan is not one of those people. My problems were nothing major before I met him.

Now? Now?

Let's just say I haven't been bullied since middle school. Much. Now I'm the Yemeni slut dressed in rags. I already have cousins in school that literally go the long way around the halls to avoid seeing me so they won't have to say salam to me and pretend to care. Now they have their parents' permission to stay the hell away from me.

I'm okay with that. I don't need haters in my life anyway.

News of Chandler going to jail spreads faster than the rumor about me and Toki supposedly in a relationship. Still, I hesitate every time I go into my English class. Everything always gets silent when I walk in. The new substitute is a stern-looking man who likes to glare at me so I wait outside until the bell rings.

Kate slows to a stop in front of me, coming to school for the first time in two weeks. Tears sear my eyes, the tip of my nose stinging with indignation: she used me as bait for Chandler because I'm ugly. I'm starting to genuinely hate good-looking people. From what I've experienced, they're superficial assholes that only look out for themselves. Like they're not going to frikin wrinkle and grow old one day, too.

"Are your burns okay?" My chest shrivels up small. Her eyes glance away, like she doesn't know if she should've said that or not. "Azan ... showed up at the hospital to ask Dad for some ointment for burns you got. I was just ...."

"Burns he gave me," I clarify, my voice breaking.

She rolls her eyes to me: she doesn't believe me. She walks past me without saying a word. I rub the tears from my eyes and head in. Halfway through class, she passes me a note. I hold it. I watch the back of her head, anger and hatred swelling in me towards her. Is she going to bully me now, too? I don't need this. I don't need to be part of this. She stands when class is finished, watching me get up.

"You didn't open my note," she says.

I wave it in front of my face on my way out and toss it in the trash.

I decide not to go to my next class. It'll be my first time intentionally skipping. I go to the computer lab. Another girl taught me how to get past the security on the computers so long as I stay quiet on the matter. It's how I've been able to grow a following and posting my art to different platforms. I take pictures and videos on my mom's phone, send them to my email and delete them before she complains.

The fact of the matter is I don't have a phone and I don't want a phone. Getting one will just be another way my mom can give me more responsibilities and intrude on my life even more than she already has. I don't need that. I don't want that. It's not worth the headache.

As soon as I log onto my accounts, comments and likes flood the screen and it makes me smile a bit for once. At least I know I have a talent for something. At least I know some people out there appreciate something I do.

I skim the messages and my eye catches the one person who's been messaging me from the first picture I ever posted. Banhatjural. I call her Banat, which is girls in Arabic for short. I don't know a thing about her — if she even is a her. But she's always there lifting me up, encouraging me, and letting me know she loves my work. I open her messages and tears glaze my eyes: