Holding Hands

Chapter 42

"I..." I didn't know how to respond to the sincerity in Hakeem's voice. What should I say to a suggestion like that? Maybe that's what I should say. Tell him that I didn't know what to say.

"I don't know what to say." I responded honestly.

"I'll talk to your dad about it then." Hakeem said firmly.

Abu cleared his throat again signaling the end of our call before Hakeem could continue.

Even though I hadn't said much, I did feel like I'd made some serious headway. I couldn't wait to call Laila with all the details. When Hakeem called again, I was gonna be ready for him. I could do this. I could talk to a boy. All I needed was a little practice. Everything was working out perfectly.

Chapter 8

Entrapment

The weekend couldn't come soon enough. Hakeem and I had spoken on the phone three times during the week and each time it became easier. Even with Abu listening in the background, I often forgot he was there. My words seemed to flow and my thoughts were less inhibited. I found myself smiling and relaxing into our conversations. I was actually looking forward to Hakeem's calls. We talked about everything; school, growing up as the eldest siblings, our goals, and even poetry. I even picked on Hakeem about his poem from our dinner meeting.

"I liked it, but I must admit. It was a little corny." I reluctantly confessed.

"Me? Corny? No way. I don't have a corny bone in my body," Hakeem countered playfully.

"Well the poem itself wasn't corny, but you raised your hand before you spoke." I recalled letting out a giggle.

"What can I say, I'm just respectful like that."

"That was too respectful."

"Nah, we gotta give our parents their due respect."

"You're right." Malika conceded. "But does this mean you're gonna raise your hand every time you need to say something?"

The line went silent.

"Hakeem?" Malika palmed her forehead. "Is your hand raised right now?" I asked, giggling.

"Yes. And I actually write a lot of poetry. I enjoy writing. It's my passion." Hakeem confessed.

"Maybe I could read some of your poetry one day?" I asked bashfully. A week ago I probably wouldn't have been so forward.

"I would like that." Hakeem responded warmly.

"Me too."

"What's your passion? Do you write? You seem like the poetic type. Quiet, but strong." Hakeem was full of compliments. 

"I do a little something." I couldn't believe my boldness. Even with Abu on the line, I was really getting the hang of this talking to boys thing. And I liked it. It opened up a part of me that I didn't know was there. This confidence in myself. Normally, I was super shy and reserved around the opposite sex, but with Hakeem, I felt myself blooming even under the watchful eye of my father. I didn't want to put myself out there too much or too quickly. Budding flowers could wilt rapidly under the rays of a hot sun when they opened up too fast.

"Maybe we can exchange 'a little something' this weekend. I know my mom's taking you out. I'll send over something for you to read so you can get an idea of my style." Hakeem offered eagerly.

"I already know your style. I love you, you love me. We're a happy family." I teased him relentlessly.