The last "memory" was the eighth grade field trip to St. Augustine. Last chapter was about Eiliyah going over to Hamza's house and finding out more about the family, along with speaking up about her desires for her future.
"The beauty of life is that it's spontaneous and unpredictable, yet those are the very same characteristics which strike fear in our hearts. It's up to you to decide which angle to take." -- Ash
Juwariyah met Hamza once and only once. Well, Hamza’s family did come to Juwariyah’s wedding but there were so many people there that I highly doubt they actually met or that Juwariyah knew he was even there. His parents knew my parents and that was about it. But they met face-to-face a few months after her wedding, when I was twelve.
She and Hamza met under non-ideal circumstances. To more specific, they met in the waiting room outside of our middle school’s clinic when she walked in, out of breath, only to witness her little sister (me) sitting cross legged on a chair with a scowling, scrawny, twelve-year-old Hamza with an ice pack pressed up against his tan cheek.
“What the hell,” she breaths out, “did you do, Eiliyah?” Mrs. Victoria, the poker-faced receptionist for the school nurse as well as the guidance counselors glances up at her with dull eyes lined with crinkled skin, like a present opened and repackaged too many times. Juwariyah’s hair is all wispy and windblown, but it looks beautiful, like it always does. It’s just as sleek with the delicate waves at the bottom. Her hand is on her pregnant stomach, her wedding ring gleaming under the stark white lights.
“Resolved a problem.” I consciously and defiantly cross my arms over my chest, covering the front of my Miami Heat jersey in the process. Hamza growls next to me. I can practically feel the temperature of the ice pack radiating and cooling my hot skin, still slightly warm from getting so pissed off.
“By what? Punching a guy in the face?” Juwariyah asks with exasperation and bewilderment. “Are you okay?” She trails off at the end, waiting for Hamza to supply her with his name.
“His name is Hamza.” I grunt out. “Also known as The Asshole,” I mutter under my breath. Mrs. Victoria must have overheard, because she starts cracking up, her bosom heaving up and down to the rhythm of her chest. I crack a grin. Nice to know someone around here has a sense of humor.
“Eiliyah,” Juwariyah says dryly, “you have about five minutes to explain to me why the hell your principal called Mom, who in turn called me, to come here. What the hell were you thinking charging at this kid like that?!” I sigh. I’m screwed for sure. “Hamza, if you don’t mind, may I hear your side of the story after I hear hers?”
Okay, wait. Is it just me or does Hamza look a little dazed, and not because I royally kicked his ass fifteen minutes ago in the middle of English class? I want to smack myself when I hear him reply with an “Uh, yeah, that’s cool. I remember you by the way. I was at your wedding.” He finishes it off with a cheesy grin and I resist the urge to voice my disgust. He thinks my sister’s pretty. A lot of boys do.
“Really?” Juwariyah’s face lights up. “Were you wearing a red shirt?”
The look of surprise on Hamza’s face mirrors my own, even though I shouldn’t really be surprised. Juwariyah has the talent of remembering little details about people, and she unintentionally uses it in a way that makes people automatically like her.
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Battered, With Love
Teen FictionThe story of two people with a love-hate relationship, brought together by a book.
