Battered, With Love

Chapter 4 -- A Book Written With Invisible Ink

Hey everyone! New part. This is a flashback of when Hamza first realized that Harun and Eiliyah are siblings and that Harun is deaf. Enjoy and VOTE AND COMMENT if you feel this story deserves it.

"Isn't it amazing that God had men and women think differently? I mean, even our brains work differently. That's amazing." -- Ash, while musing in Psychology class

           Harun and I didn’t go to the same middle school until the middle of eighth grade. He went to a special school for the deaf and hard of hearing, but he finally convinced our parents to let him go to the regular middle school so he could have a regular middle school experience. That was partially true. He also came for me, because I told him all that had happened the past two years.

            Like I said, Harun and I have had all our classes together for as long as we’ve gone to the same school. I don’t mind, and neither does he. We actually prefer that, because we understand each other in a way that no one else can; words aren’t needed in our world.

            In eighth grade, I was a peer tutor for the special needs kids at our school. I was inspired by my nephew, Musa, who has autism. The period I had peer tutoring, the kids had gym, so we assisted them during their gym class. There were regular gym classes taking place, and Hamza and all the “popular” kids (my school was mostly white prep) had it that period.

            Harun technically wasn’t supposed to be a peer tutor, especially so late in the year, but my parents pulled a couple of strings. The school was more than thrilled to have Harun, actually. He knew American Sign Language so well he could fluently communicate with the nonverbal students.

            We head into the gym together. All the “normal” kids stare as we walk in. Little Cody nearly runs off. I grab him by the collar. “Cody, you can’t just run off like that!” I explain patiently. He smiles up at me, and I can swear that he did it just to stir up trouble. “Jokester.” I say, grinning.

            I may act like an “Ice Queen” like Hamza says I am, but I’m a pushover, and I know it.

            “Why is that boy staring at you?” Harun signs to me quickly. Letting go of Cody but still keeping a watchful eye on him, I inconspicuously glance to where Harun is gesturing with his eyes.

            Hamza is looking at us passing by with an unreadable expression on his face. I ignore him and we seat the kids in a circle. Then, the other peer tutors and Harun and I take a seat on the bleachers. “I don’t know why he’s staring.” I sign back to Harun, frowning.

            Why would he stare? God, I hate it when people stare at “disabled” people. Seriously? They’re no different than anybody else.

            “Maybe he likes you.” Harun teases.

            My expression turns horrific. Hamza? Ew. Never. I glance over at him. His skinny legs and his bony knees stick out of his baggy navy blue shorts. An oversized white t-shirt makes his small frame look even smaller. He still has those huge, thick, rectangular glasses that emphasize his oversized eyes and how they don’t fit his face.

            There’s no way that Harun was right about that one. Hamza, like me? Yeah right. We’re talking about the same boy who thinks that Megan Fox is the ideal woman. Ok, forget about Megan Fox. She doesn’t count.

            But Hamza is the same guy that told me in multiple times that he didn’t like brown (Pakistani, Indian, and Bengali) girls at this age because “they’re not hot”. He likes girls like Carmen-Sofia Montez, girls with milky white skin and wavy black hair and huge, hazel colored eyes.  I’m not one to compare myself to other girls but I do know what I have and what I don’t have.