anticipate getting to read Amira’s writing, the glimpses of herself that were otherwise hard to come by. Amira was passionate and could wax poetic about everything in her writing, whether it was a persuasive essay decrying the inhumane treatment of refugees or an earnest ode to nasi lemak for breakfast. Every week, Marisa seemed to flick her eyes across the room more often, and she found herself trying to time her exits from class so she could small talk with Amira in the halls. Though it hadn’t developed into anything beyond those walks, the occasional conversation in the cafeteria or on the after-school bus, and though Marisa had become swept up in her plans for the lock-in, her interest held steady.
It was hard to think of herself ruining the decathlon for Amira, the thing that seemed to matter to her more than anything.
But in the end it was only athletics, and in the face of the reefs, the fading oranges and purples, the murk spreading throughout the world, well, Amira’s goals felt like silly, human matters. Marisa’s crush, or whatever one might call it, was small, too.
Still, when Amira stopped running, took a sip of water from the fountain and looked down at Marisa from over the banister, Marisa felt herself nearly grimace. Instead, she pressed her lips into an apologetic half smile and raised her hand to wave. Amira, her breath deep and measured, did not wave back. She stepped out of Marisa’s sight.
Marisa looked down at the Tupperware of hummus and chips in her lap, unable to keep herself from feeling a little embarrassed that she had ruined things for Amira. Seconds later, though, she heard the soft pitter-patter of someone coming down the stairs, and she knew Amira was coming toward her. By now, the whole school knew who was to blame, and Marisa had mentally prepared to bear the brunt of her peers’ frustrations, wrath, begging. But Marisa couldn’t read Amira’s expression when she appeared, and despite AP Comp, despite clicking over to Amira’s social media more often than she’d like to admit, she didn’t know Amira well enough to predict what was coming.
A thin sheen of sweat shone on Amira’s forehead, and Marisa watched as a single drop scurried from her sport hijab down her temple, past those fierce green eyes. She stood in front of Marisa, her hands relaxed at her sides. Marisa marveled at how Amira’s breath had completely subsided now, reverted back to the calm, forgettable mechanism it usually was. If Marisa had run half as long and half as hard as Amira just had, she would’ve been on her knees, gasping still. The girls watched each other for a while, not sure who should go first.
So instead, Marisa held out her Tupperware, offering it as an olive branch, or an invitation, or just a postrun snack. Amira stepped forward and grabbed a pita chip, dipping it shyly in the hummus, not wanting to take too much. “Thanks,” she said in English, CIS’s neutral ground as far as languages were concerned. They both spoke Spanish, too—Marisa because of her family, Amira because of her time in Colombia—but their first interactions had been in English and they kept re-verting to it, though every now and then one of them would throw in a Spanish word when none in English would do.
Amira took a seat in the eerie but calming silence. The auditorium’s door was shut and soundproofed, so if there was more shouting going on, they were isolated from it. Even outside the building, people had stilled. They were getting updates from those inside and were now aware why no one was allowed in. They had the food trucks out there, sure, and whole tubs’ worth of filled water balloons, ready for the traditional underclassmen versus upperclassmen war. But most everyone outside was milling about sullenly, as if waiting to board a flight that had been continuously delayed. Every now and then someone would come by and give the doors another tug, not willing to believe they’d really been locked, simply because they couldn’t see Marisa and her chains. Marisa heard the scraping sound their rubber soles made as they shuffled away.
“What was it like in there?” Marisa broke the quiet, reaching for another pita chip, then passing the whole container to Amira.
Amira shrugged. “Ms. Duli’s taken over as boss, no surprise. Master Declan was so happy she did he practically hugged her. She says we have to wait and see what the