Tread

June 10

Tomorrow comes and goes with no word from Leo. It's not until six o'clock the following night that I start to get antsy.

"Rai," Em punches my shoulder as she shoots me a dirty look, "Stop staring at your freaking phone and try to socialize."

We're out at a Greek restaurant having one of our mandatory program dinners. We've had one other since we've been in Dublin and they are beyond painful. It's all polite inquiries from Lilianna and Omar about our writing and how we're enjoying Ireland and canned answers that omit the night clubs and constant drinking.

"So, Rai, how's your book coming?" Lilianna asks around a mouthful of jasmine rice.

I covertly slide my phone to Em, hoping she'll understand that I'm addicted to the piece of technology and in desperate need of a sponsor. Girl has my back and slips it into her purse.

"Great. Except for the writers' block. I'm stuck on this one scene where my character Angeliq—I told you about her, right?—is going to this funeral-party-thing. Not sure how to construct the party."

"Because it's science fiction?"

"Mixed with mythology and culture norms. Still working out what a funeral looks like in the world I created."

"Hmm. Have you read the Kill Kaiden on Braeburn or Ashley Paige series? Both do a great job of creating their own world and mythos. Might be a good study guide."

"They're on my list," I say as I use my spoon to cut a large piece of lamb.

Lilianna makes a sound of agreement before moving onto the next student. Not a second later I'm thinking about Leo and why he hasn't called or texted me, and what's wrong with me and what's wrong with him.

"So, poetry?" I force the words out and direct them at Em. "You write it."

"I do." She smirks. "Thank you for noticing after a year."

"Dude." I punch her arm. "How's it going? You're submitting to mags and contests right?"

"Yeah. Lots of time, energy, blood and sweat. You know the deal. But two places have already accepted me."

"That's amazing, Em!"

"With conditions." Her lips twist wryly as she rolls her eyes and says, "They want me to change them a little."

"I see. Are you struggling with literary integrity?"

"Yes and no. They're paying me, and you know I can always use more money, but I feel like if I change my work I'll be changing myself to fit someone else's mold."

"Probably wouldn't have to if you wrote that White man-pain bullshit."

"Right!" she lowers her voice, and makes a frown. "My life is just so hard. My girlfriend dumped me and then I saw her favorite flower. Reminded me of this time she gave me a blow job. Now I'll never have that again. Let me just go kill myself." Her voice changes back to normal and she makes a popping sound, "And just like that you have a New York Times' Bestseller and winner of a fucking million awards."

We laugh and commiserate about how difficult it is to be women writers. For a second, I'm not thinking about anything but the difficulty of getting my stuff read, let alone published because my full name is Raiqah Muhammad Hussein. With a Moroccan father and white American mother, I'm interesting but not all that marketable for the masses.

The meal transitions from entree to dessert, all syrupy pastries that remind me of home. I'm struck by acute homesickness and fight off tears as I think of my father layering phyllo dough, crushing nuts, and mixing rose water with sugar. Ali Muhammad Hussein might be a lying, cheating bastard, but he is one hell of a baker.