Holding Hands

Chapter 40

Back at home, I could barely focus on my reading. The soft covers of my bed were lulling me to sleep. I really should have chosen a better place to do the reading for my English assignment. At least it was easy work. Umi had assigned the book "Things Fall Apart" nearly two years ago in home school. Reading it again for this English class allowed me to enjoy the book now instead of analyzing every scene as I went along. It was a story I understood too well, being seen as the monster in your own home. The main character of Chinua Achebe's novel was a man who held a very important place in his community. He was known, respected, and loved by all. But as colonialists and missionaries gained a foothold in his land, he became the 'enemy' in his own home.

As a Muslim and an American, I understood that feeling of being an outsider too well. Being looked at as an enemy. I walked on egg shells in my own community. I had definitely been sheltered due to my homeschool upbringing, but I also knew that Samira was right. The mere fact that I wore the hijab made me a target for extremists in my own city. Not Muslim extremists or Islamists. Whatever that made up term meant. I'd never met one of those. Only seen them on Fox news and in the papers. But I'd been witness to white American extremists. Mostly men who thought this land, stolen from native Americans, belonged to them. In their eyes, there was no room for anyone else. Those were the extremists that I knew. Those privileged white people who called the cops on black kids just for walking home from school and laughing too loud. Those Karen's and Kelly's who reported a black family BBQ to the cops. Those men who called black people nigger and then laughed. Those men who took pleasure in assaulting women.

I didn't want to think about that though. My skin warmed as I remembered Brandon's sly smile. I turned over on my back and my soft bed groaned beneath me. I barely registered as the book slipped from my hands and sleep began to take over my body. My eyes were heavy and closing fast. Just as they shut, an image of Brandon's face floated before my eyes. He had creamy milk chocolate skin and a sense of mischief hidden behind his piercings dark eyes. He was tall and athletic. The T-shirt he was wearing did nothing to hide his muscular biceps. I imagined what else was beneath it. Were tight washboard abs chiseled onto his perfectly toned body? Brandon was exactly the kind of guy that sent my heart racing. He was mad cool, extra hot, and had that super swag that could make any girl fall head over heels. And he smelled so good. I had to keep tight control over myself so that I wouldn't take a deep breath of him. And that smile! Ya Allah!

"Oh Hakeem, why can't you be more like Brandon?" I lamented. "Why oh why?!" I gave myself over to a silent tantrum, punching the bed on either side of my body. A soft knock on the door quickly jolted me back to reality.

"Come in." I called out feebly.

"Is everything OK honey?" Umi came in holding her hand over the receiver of the house phone. She looked concerned that at my hands balled up into fists at my sides.

"Yes, I'm OK." I forced my voice to sound light and  cheerful and opened my clenched fists.

"Good. You've got a phone call." Umi handed over the phone with a huge grin on her face. I propped myself onto one elbow and took the receiver from her hand. She exited the room, gently closing my bedroom door as I put the phone to my ear.

"Yes, hello?" I put on my professional voice to answer the phone. It was too easy to slip into office mode any time I answered the phone. I could never relax until I knew who was on the other line. If it was a friend or family, thankfully, I wouldn't have to code switch and talk like I was in a business meeting.

"As salamu alaikum." A deep male voice responded. "How are you?"