“It’s not going to happen,” the students outside heard him say. Lindsay heard him, and texted Kenji. Marisa heard it, too, smiling as she waited for Amira to hate her or forgive her. “This thing’s reinforced to high heaven,” the man said. “Only way it’s coming off is from the inside.”
* * *
Amira stood, reading Marisa’s poster. There was a brief hubbub outside, but things quieted down. Her muscles were stiffening back up, the blood flow slowing. She could only stretch for so long, though, and Marisa’s confidence in the lack of tools made her feel like there was no use in keeping herself limber all night. The decathlon wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.
They were numbered like tasks to be completed. For months, a similar list lay crumpled in Amira’s desk drawer, hiding among receipts for earphones and the boarding pass for the flight that brought her here. It was written in blue ink, with some unreliable pen that had failed to fully transcribe every letter. In other spots, the ink seemed permanently etched in, as if no matter what Amira accomplished at the decathlon, the goal to win would always stare back at her.
1. One-on-one basketball tournament
2. 400-meter dash
3. 400-meter freestyle night swim
4. Archery
.
.
.
10. Rock climbing
Amira’s mother had seen the list one day, a month or so ago, while going through Amira’s desk as if it belonged to her, too. “What is this?”
Amira had wanted to answer honestly, proudly. And if it had been her dad, her sisters, Omar Ng, anyone else, maybe she would have. Maybe it would have made her blur the lines between her school self and her home self. But because it was her mother, and because her mother believed certain things about what girls could or could not do, Amira bit her tongue, hating herself for saying, “Nothing.” At least she could train on her own time, compete without her mom knowing.
Although now none of that made a difference. All that time training for what? One dunk? She kept her eyes on the list, not wanting to look at Marisa for fear of a sudden surge of anger.
1. Single-use plastic ban on CIS grounds.
2. Every student must sign a petition asking for the ban of single-use plastic throughout the city.
3. School motto will be changed to reflect new environmentally driven curriculum.
4. Curriculum from primary school through high school will include environmental sciences.
.
.
.
30. CIS bus routes will operate only with electric buses.
Amira pictured Marisa at work on this poster, at home, keeping it secret from her parents, from her brother. Though in the end, Amira guessed, Marisa wouldn’t be able to hide it. It was already too late for that. Whatever her parents would say or do, Marisa had moved forward, willing to face the consequences.
“Will your parents be angry at you for this?” Amira asked, imagining what would come down on her head if she’d fallen into a path of protest instead of athletics.
“I don’t know, probably. Don’t think they’ll be surprised, though. They know how much the reefs matter to me.”
Marisa said this so casually, as if it didn’t take a massive act of bravery to face the consequences of an action this public. All year, Amira had been in quiet awe of Marisa. Of the way she allowed herself to be as quiet or loud as she wanted to be. Of the rainbow flag sticker on her laptop. Of the way that, in class discussions, she could recognize logical fallacies, calling out people who couldn’t source their knowledge. She had a biting sense of humor, and the sort of fierceness in her eyes Amira could only muster in her muscles.
Then there were Marisa’s eyes themselves. How they filled Amira with glee, to see them first thing when she walked into that classroom. How they made Amira certain, absolutely certain, that eventually the gap between who she allowed herself to be in front of her family and the other version of herself would widen even further. Or cause the gap to come crashing down. She had made her peace with all the facets of herself, though there had been a couple of hard years before she could. She wasn’t sure if her mom would ever make peace with it, though, and even that felt like an understatement. Her mother might hate the very idea of who Amira was at CIS—who she really was. The thought wrenched Amira’s insides.
She suddenly realized she’d been staring at Marisa, and looked