those things cost money.
Mariam just rolls their eyes, the master of the eye roll. “Want to see my latest haul?”
I smile. “Always.”
“How about new scarves?” They lean back to show more of the scarf wrapped around their head in the frame of the webcam. It’s hard to tell from here, but the material looks glossy, and the bright red really goes well with their lipstick.
“I love it.”
Mariam and I have had long conversations about being religious and nonbinary. For Mariam though, their hijab represents comfort, security, a connection to their faith. They could spend hours talking about how it made them feel. In fact, they made a whole series on their channel last year, what being Shia Muslim and being nonbinary meant to them.
For a second, I remember what Mom told me that night. How God doesn’t want this. Mariam’s the only reason I can’t believe that.
“I bought a few more, but this one is my favorite. Oh!” They reach off-camera for something. “And this sweater.” Mariam stands up quickly, pushing their desk chair out of the way, and twirls in front of the camera. It’s one of those that sort of looks like a cloak, but it’s cut so it won’t fall off you or anything. The kind I was always sort of jealous of when I saw them in stores, out shopping with Mom.
“Oh my God.”
“I know, right?” Mariam twirls again. “I’m never wearing anything else. Thirty percent off too!” They do a little dance. “Not that I’ll have much of a chance to wear it at home. The lowest it gets here is like sixty degrees, if we’re lucky. But maybe on tour.”
“I’m jealous.”
“You’ll get there one day, Benji. I promise. When you’re designing logos and painting masterpieces, no one can tell you what to wear.”
“Yeah, right.” Technically no one could tell me what to wear now, but I know exactly what would happen if I dared to go out in public dressed like that, or in some of the cool-looking polka-dot dresses I’ve seen online, or maybe in calf-high boots I know would never fit my feet.
I settle into the couch and go back to my drawing. I’ve been thinking about portraits for a while now. There’s always been something about faces that just feels so interesting to me. I spent the last few days saving photos of various models I found online, their smooth faces and sharp lips, eyebrows perfectly plucked and eyes like they’re piercing you.
I heard a car pull into the driveway. Instead of the headlights dimming and the engine cutting off, it just sits there idling.
“Weird,” I whisper to myself.
“Huh?” Mariam asks.
“Nothing.” I resume drawing. “Hannah and Thomas just got home.”
“So how are you liking the new school?” Mariam’s in front of the camera now.
“It’s fine.”
“Any new friends threatening to take my spot?”
“None so far.” Nathan kept trying to get me to come to lunch with him, but once Mrs. Liu let me in the art room, any hope of that was crushed. He didn’t seem too bothered by my rejections though. It was almost like it was becoming a game to him or something.
I glance back out the window. The car is still there, just sitting in the driveway with the engine running and headlights shining through the curtains.
“Everything okay? You seem a bit spacey tonight.”
“Hannah and Thomas are just sitting outside in their car.”
Mariam starts laughing to themselves. “Maybe they’re making out.”
“Gross.” I crawl toward the window, pulling back the curtains as slowly as possible. The driveway isn’t that long, but it’s still too dark to really tell the color or make of a car. Not that I would’ve known anyway. There are cars, trucks, and SUVs. That’s pretty much the extent of my car knowledge.
But my stomach sinks when I realize that this car definitely isn’t Hannah and Thomas’s large black SUV. That much I can tell, even in the dark. No, this car looks an awful lot like Dad’s.
“No.”
“Ben?” Mariam’s voice scares me. I’d already forgotten they were here.
Panic fills my chest as I pull back the curtains and run to the front door to check the locks. Mom and Dad can probably see my shadow running from one end of the house to the other, but that doesn’t really matter right now. I grab my phone and keep my thumb hovered over Hannah’s number.
Mariam’s voice keeps echoing through the hallways. “Ben? What’s going on? Hello? Ben?”
I hover at the top of the stairs, making sure I can