Unveiled Truth (temporary title)

Thanks to Meadow, Zan, Anna, Master Yoda, Carly and Dele for all the help and encouragement.

Chapter 2

Dean
(Baghdad, Iraq, 2003)

Insomnia.

I’ve just recently learned the word. It means you can’t sleep. I know I have it. I often stay awake at night, too haunted by my memories to sleep. And when I do manage to fall asleep, I have awful nightmares. I see my mother’s burnt face every time I close my eyes. Worse, I hear her voice. I hear her wheezing my name and trying to reach out to me, and I always wake up with a scream stuck in my throat.

It is better not to dream at all.

My father has insomnia too. The doctor gave him pills to help him sleep. A few nights ago, Noora found him collapsed on the floor of the guestroom with the bottle of pills spilled over in his hand. He tried to kill himself. Suicide. A word I already know the meaning of.

The entire house was awakened by Noora’s shriek. When the EMS arrived, they wheeled Baba to the hospital to have his stomach pumped. When the paramedics asked what happened, my uncles didn’t tell them it was a suicide attempt. I asked them why they didn't tell the doctors the truth, and they said if they knew my father tried to kill himself, they would have surely sent him away from us, and this is the time Noora and I need him the most.

I believed this was the truth, but I didn't believe that was the only reason they lied. I think part of it was for the sake of our family honor, but with the bombings that keep killing people all over the country, I can’t see the significance of something like honor anymore.

They brought him home from the hospital tonight. For the time being, they are trying to keep him a safe distance away from us. Space, for lack of a better word, which is why they don’t know I’m standing outside the room they locked themselves in with him.

The light is on and it is seeping through the outline of the door, so I know they are not asleep. They keep their voices quiet, but with my ear lightly pressed against the door, I am able to hear their conversation.

“…patient with him, Sayid,” my uncle Rahman’s voice is calm, urging.

“Be patient?” I recognize Uncle Sayid’s angry, bitter tone. “He tried to kill himself, Rahman.”

“This is a difficult time,” Rahman says evenly, but his voice is grave.

“That’s no justification,” Sayid spits.

“I didn’t say it was. You could be a little more understanding.”

Sayid makes a tsk’ing sound. “What were you thinking, Abdullah?” He is speaking to my father now.

“Keep your voice down,” Rahman warns.

Sayid ignores him and keeps talking to Baba. “Have you no fear of God? You are a fasting and praying Muslim. How can you turn your back on your beliefs and commit one of the worst possible sins?”

Baba doesn’t respond.

“Sayid, stop,” Rahman says.

“To take your own life is murder, Abdullah,” Sayid continues. “It is forbidden. It is haram.”

“Enough, Sayid,” Rahman says. He sounds angry now.

Sayid doesn’t listen. “Hell is not the place for you brother. Hell is for the murderers.”

“Stop.”

“Let the true perpetrators be punished for their sins.”

“Enough.”

“Let God punish the ones who killed Zai-”

“Enough!”

This time it is both Baba and Rahman who shout. All is silent. I feel my heart beating fast and hard against my chest.

“Dean?”

My thudding heart lurches. I whirl around, startled. Noora is standing in the middle of the hallway, holding a lantern. A shawl is loosely wrapped around her head. There are dark circles under her eyes.

“What are you doing?” I hiss. “Go back to bed.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Go back to bed,” I repeat, trying to keep my voice down.

She shakes her head. She comes up to me and puts her head on my chest, leaning against me weakly. I sigh and put my arms around her shoulders.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” She asks.

“Insomnia,” I mutter. Suddenly our uncles start talking again. “Shh…”

We listen carefully.

“…act so indifferent, Sayid?” Rahman whispers. “Tell me how you would feel if Aisha was taken away from you.”

“That’s different,” Sayid says. His apathetic response fills me with anger. I clench my teeth.

“No it isn’t,” Rahman says.

Another strained silence passes before Sayid speaks again.

“Alright, Abdullah. I...I can see what you might have been thinking,” he allows reluctantly. “But that doesn’t make anything all right. Your actions went against God’s will.”

Sayid’s voice cracks on the word will, and then the words come spilling out of his mouth.

“How could you do this?” He sobs. “How could you take yourself away from us? Isn’t it enough that we’ve lost a beloved sister? You are my brother, Abdullah. I love you. I love this whole family. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost any more of it.”

Silence. I am taken aback by these words. To me, Sayid had always come off as a hard, cold man. I didn’t think he was capable of having such strong emotions. I didn’t know that the love he felt for the family ran this deep in his veins.

The air is filled with the sound of Sayid’s quiet sobs. I swallow back the lump in my throat. In my arms, Noora cries softly. I hug her tightly and she buries her face into my neck. A long moment passes, and then my father finally speaks.

“I…I am sorry, Sayid.” I wince when I hear Baba’s voice. It is hoarse and strangled and full of agony.

“I don’t want to put you in pain,” he says. “But you didn’t see…you didn’t see…” He chokes, unable to finish the sentence, but I know what he wants to say. The atmosphere suddenly feels somber and haunting.

“I can’t see a reason to go on,” Baba whispers.

The words shatter me. I fight back the tears forming in my eyes and hold Noora closer. I feel her tears, warm and wet on my shirt.

And then Rahman speaks.

“I’ll give you a couple of reasons.”

I hear the sound of heavy footsteps coming towards the door. Before I can move, before I can think of an excuse as to why Noora and I are not in bed, the door flings open and I am staring up at Rahman’s face. The left half of his face is concealed in shadow, the right half is exposed by the light. He is unsurprised to find Noora and me standing outside the door, as if he’d known all along that we’d been listening.

He drags us into the room and makes us stand in the middle of the floor. We are directly underneath the light hanging from the ceiling. I look tensely at Sayid and Baba. Sayid’s eyes are wet and his expression is a mixture of surprise and anger. Baba wears a tired look on his face. He is sitting on the mattress on the floor, leaning his back against the cracked wall. He looks up at us with weary eyes.

Even after a month and a half, I'm still shocked by how much he's changed. He is only thirty-one, but he looks so much older now.

Rahman places his hands on mine and Noora’s shoulders.

“Have you forgotten about them, Abdullah?”

Baba doesn’t answer. He keeps staring at us. I can’t read his expression.

“I understand that this is not an easy time for you. But it’s not an easy time for any of us, and especially not for them. They are going through the same thing you are. They need you. And you need them now more than ever.”

“It’s not fair,” Baba whispers.

“No, it isn’t,” Rahman says gravely. “What those murderers did to those poor soldiers - to their own Muslim brothers - was not right.”

“‘To their own Muslim brothers’,” Sayid scoffs. “If they were truly Muslims, they wouldn’t have done what they did. Nowhere in the Qur’an does it permit the murder of innocents. Surely the killers didn’t really think they would be sent to paradise for their deeds. I am certain that they have earned Allah’s wrath, not His praise. They will be devoured by the fires of Hell forever.”

Silence. For a moment, I am confused. I don’t understand what religion has to do with all the bombings, but I pray with all my heart that Sayid is right about the fate of the murderers - that what they did to my mother would happen to them over and over again for all eternity.

Rahman finally speaks. “There is nothing we can do to change the past. We must now focus on the future. Dean and Noora have lost their mother. If you don’t change your mindset, Abdullah, you will take away their father, too. How is that fair?”

Baba still doesn’t respond. He continues to watch us. His eyes roam over Noora, and then his gaze moves to me. Our eyes lock and we stare at each other for a long time. I can’t tell what he is thinking, but the hopelessness I see on his face suddenly makes me feel…uneasy.

After what seems like an eternity, he slowly holds out his arms. Noora instantly runs into them, throwing her arms around his neck. Baba sighs and closes his eyes, holds her close to him.

Something binds me in place and I know it is not Rahman’s hand on my shoulder. Something isn't right. I can’t explain the sudden impulse I feel, the urge to take Noora out of Baba’s arms and get as far away from him as possible.

Baba finally realizes that I haven’t moved. He looks up at me with confusion. He holds out his palm, gestures for me to come forward.

“Come,” he says.

I only stare at him. The confusion on his face deepens. I feel Rahman squeeze my shoulder gently and I turn my head to look at him. His face is impassive. His eyes roam over my face carefully and he nods once.

Hesitantly, I come forward and kneel into Baba’s embrace. He pulls me over and tucks me into his other side across from Noora. His hand strokes my head, and his other arm is wound tightly around Noora.

“So what now?” he asks, not looking away from us.

“There is another important matter,” Rahman answers. He hesitates, and then says, “Iraq is not a safe place anymore.”

There is a long pause.

“No, it’s not,” Sayid agrees.

“Abdullah, you must go back to America,” Rahman declares.

“As much as I hate to say it, I agree with Rahman,” Sayid says reluctantly. “I’ve never been fond of the west, but your home in Washington is no doubt much safer than Iraq at this point.”

“What about you?” Baba says carefully.

Rahman and Sayid share looks.

“We’re still working things out,” Rahman says. “But we’ll be moving our families out of Baghdad for sure.”

“In the meantime,” Sayid says. “We must get you and the children out of the country.”

“Slow down, Sayid.” Rahman looks at Baba. “Try to get some sleep tonight, Abdullah. Then tomorrow you can start packing. We’ll take you to the airport in Kuwait at the end of the week.”

“I don’t want to leave you behind…” Baba murmurs.

“Don’t worry about us, Abdullah. We’ll have things figured out soon. You just worry about making Dean and Noora safe,” Rahman responds.

Baba still hasn’t taken his eyes off of us. It’s impossible not to see the intensity of his love for us, but the vulnerability is there in his every feature and it frightens me.

No matter what Rahman says, I have the feeling that I won’t feel safe for a very long time.

***

Whooho! I love this story!

Dreamworx95 wrote:I’ve just recently learned the word. It means you can’t sleep. I know I have it. I often stay awake at night, too haunted by my memories to sleep. And when I do manage to fall asleep, I have awful nightmares. I see my mother’s burnt face every time I close my eyes. Worse, I hear her voice. I hear her wheezing my name and trying to reach out to me, and I always wake up with a scream stuck in my throat.

I you know what? I still think about that scene too.

Dreamworx95 wrote:A word I already know the meaning of.

How old is he? I think this will have more of an impact if you're like '...already know the meaning of and I'm only 13' or whatever.

Dreamworx95 wrote:But with the bombings that keep killing people all over the country, I can’t see the significance of something like honor anymore.

I really liked this line. It really brings the situation home.


Well...I still love this story (And to think you weren't even going to post it )

What I really like about this story is how well you can bring this culture to us, even though I know nothing about Muslums or Iraq or anything like this. I feel like I'm there with them and I still feel for these characters.
I'm really excited to see what happens next. Please PM me if you continue!

-Carly

This is amazing!

I think your characters have grown beautifully. Everything they do is very believable and natural to human instincts.

A word I already know the meaning of.

It's a nice touch, but I have a question. Should it be in past tense (knew) since he knew the meaning of the word suicide before his dad tried to kill himself? He's speaking about somethat already happened and then saying that he knew it already even before that, correct?

I enjoyed the bit of dialogue when Dean was listening to the men talking. I don't know much about the middle east, but sounds like you sure know something! The way they speak and the vocabulary they use sounds very realistic.

No matter what Rahman says, I have the feeling that I won’t feel safe for a very long time.

A brilliant ending.

I'm excited for this story! They're going to America? Will they be going to an American school? This is awesome!

Thanks for the great read!
--Anna

Hey There Worx

I'm sorry about the delay, but I just finished my last exam so I'm finally available.

I did not enjoy this chapter quite as much as I did the first two. Don't get me wrong, it was still great, but there were one or two things that spoiled it for me.

With regard to tense: Present vs. Past vs. Past Perfect. Please take a look at the following quotes and what I point out as I go through them:

My father has insomnia too.

Note that like most of the piece you write this in the present tense.

The doctor gave him pills to help him sleep.

Your sharp transition to the past tense is really fitting here, as you are now describing something that has already happened even as you're narrating the story.

A few nights ago, Noora had found him collapsed on the floor of the guestroom with the bottle of pills spilled over in his hand. He’d tried to kill himself with them.

This is where the problems really start for me. You use past perfect for no apparent reason. Dean could just have easily have said "A few nights ago, Noora found him collapsed on the floor of the guestroom with a bottle of pills beside his left hand. He'd tried to commit suicide."
If you look at what I've done here, you'll notice that the transition is first from present tense to past tense, and it only goes into past-perfect after you're already situated in the past tense and are explaining what Noora's thoughts were. Alternatively, you don't need to go into the past tense at all.

Suicide. A word I already know the meaning of.

Now you're back to present tense. Not a problem at this stage.

The entire house had been awakened by Noora’s earsplitting shriek.

And you switch straight back into past-perfect. Switch back to past tense, and this'll read a whole lot smoother.

When the EMS arrived, they wheeled Baba to the hospital to have his stomach pumped.

And to top this, you switch back to past tense almost immediately. You can afford to write this whole section in past tense as opposed to past-perfect and you wouldn't miss out on anything. That's it as far as tense goes just remember, what ever the main character can see is in the present tense, whatever he has seen is in the past tense, and whenever he is describing something that has already been seen by himself and others in the past, write that in past-perfect. You can also afford to cross from past perfect to past after a sentence of past-perfect, as this sometimes makes it easier for the reader to read.

On Building up to a climax: I'm not 100% sure what your other readers will think, but for me the pivotal point on this chapter is Dean's sense of his father's foreignness. The problem for me with the way that you wrote this was that essentially you throw us into the deep end with almost no forewarning. Without any buildup whatsoever, you throw this line at us:

Something binds me to the place where I stand, and I know it is not Rahman’s hand on my shoulder. Something wasn’t right. I can’t explain the sudden impulse I feel, the urge to take Noora out of Baba’s arms and get as far away from him as possible.

Yes, sure you told us that his look made you feel uneasy before this, but we never had any insight into your uneasiness. We never saw any fear of him as a new person up until now. Perhaps you need to show his lack of character earlier. Tell us you were frightened. Tell us you did not wish to defy, but you couldn't obey immediately. We need more of your feelings that build up your tenseness and discomfort.

Dialogue: You've managed to do the extraordinary here. Your dialogue is on the whole, strong, emotive and penetrating. The one or two lines that bother me are:

“Why aren’t you asleep?” She wonders.

The problem with writing in the first person is that you can only describe what you yourself see. She asks this, whether she wonders it or not, you can never be sure. Try to go for the simple. Says and asks are usually words enough for dialogue. These words give you everything you read and allow our eyes to read the next piece of dialogue uninterrupted. If you want to emphasize the words themselves, use only those two words for maximum effect.

“That’s different,” Sayid says. His apathetic response fills me with anger. I clench my teeth.

“No it isn’t,” Rahman says.

These two lines of dialogue don't work that well for me. I don't believe that he would say, "That's different." He knows that it isn't different, and wouldn't even claim it to be so irrationally. You could replace the line of dialogue with a long silence or something of the sort. I'd eliminate them though.

“Abdullah, you must do now what you did years ago to avoid getting drafted into the Iran war,” Rahman declares. “You must go back to America.”

I don't think that Rahman would say the first part of the sentence. I believe it would be more believable and more potent at the same time to say, "Abdullah, you must go back to America."

Onomatopoeia:

Sayid makes a tsk’ing sound.

I would switch this to a "clicking noise." tsk'ing sound just distracts me from the story itself, and unless the onomatopoeia works smoothly, I'd do the same for every sound that you have. You don't want us to be drawn away from your story itself.

Overall: I found this piece to be emotive once again, and to further the story. It's getting more and more involved, and it's still really great. I think this chapter needs a little bit of housekeeping, but keep up your marvelous standard and I'll be honored to keep on reading. The things that I would bend most of my focus towards are seeing only what your persona can see, and trying to keep our focus exactly where you want it at all times. You've written another really solid chapter.

Have a great one!

Thanks guys for the reviews. I appreciate it. I know this is a long bit of reading, so thanks for sticking with me, and I really appreciate all the gold stars.

*sigh* Okay, sorry I’m so late about this. I was so busy with JulNo and my biology homework that I’ve sort of lost track of time.

All right! Well, that was another very good chapter—to be frank, I can’t find a lot to criticize in this one. The characters are still very well developed, and I like how you added more characterization to the other members of Dean’s family—their gains in depth help to make the story more interesting.

I also think this story is doing a very good job of showing the horrors of war from the perspective of an innocent, a child—Dean’s voice is very easy to identify with, but still very developed, the reader can tell how much he’s been affected by the events of the story.

I think something that really helps with this is your use of the present tense—it maeks everything feel very… surreal and strange, and one can feel what it would be like to be caught up in it and helpless as a child.

So, a wonderful chapter, and I’m sorry for being so behind, I’ll try to stay on track next time. XD

Thank you for the review.

Chapter 3

Noora
Baghdad, Iraq, 2003

Baba’s voice echoes off the walls as he does his morning prayers. I stand in front of the window, listening to him recite the verses from the Qur’an and watching the sky change colors with the rising sun. The stars are slowly disappearing and the shadows covering the city are beginning to fade away.

Today is our last day in Baghdad and I can’t wait to leave. This place has turned into a battlefield. People are too afraid to leave their homes. I hear the loud cracks of gunfire every day and see the black smoke rising into the sky, and I know that someone has been killed. I would be lying if I said I didn’t want to leave. Selfish as I am, I want nothing more than to bury my memories here and go back to America.

I tear my gaze away from the window and glance at Baba. He is kneeling on the floor with his forehead on the prayer stone. Ever since his suicide attempt, I have been too scared to leave him alone. I keep a close eye on him, making sure he is never by himself too often or for too long.

He finishes his last prayer and folds his rug over, then stands up. He looks down at me and gives me a smile, but it does not reach his eyes.

“Let’s go have breakfast.” He takes my hand and leads me out of the room.

We go downstairs, and Rokaya and Aisha are in the kitchen making breakfast for the family. Baba kisses me on the forehead before he goes into the kitchen to help them. I walk down the hallway, looking for Dean. I pass by the living room and see that he’s watching T.V with our cousins, Muhammad and Ali.

I stop at the doorway and look at Dean’s face. Though his gaze is fixed on the screen, I doubt he is actually paying any attention to the movie. Again, I recognize that somber look in his dark brown eyes. A shiver runs up my spine.

I push the feeling away and head to the bathroom upstairs and wash up for breakfast. As soon as I turn off the sink, I hear hushed voices floating in the hallway. I step out of the bathroom. The door across from me is slightly open, and I hear Uncle Rahman and Sayid arguing from inside the room, though they try to keep their voices low. Unable to suppress my curiosity, I quietly move next to the door so that they don’t know I am eavesdropping again.

“…a bit last minute, yes, but-” Rahman starts to say, but Sayid cuts him off abruptly.

“Are you out of your mind?” he exclaims, angry and appalled, which is not unusual for him.

“It makes sense, Sayid.”

“America? You want to go to America?”

“Keep your voice down, I still haven’t told-”

“What business do you have there?!”

“Shh! Listen to me!” Rahman exclaims.

Sayid is silent, but I can only imagine the indignant look on his face.

Rahman takes a deep breath, then speaks. “I’ve been paying careful attention to Abdullah over the last couple of days, and I don’t think he’s ready to raise his family by himself.”

“Don’t be stupid, Rahman.”

“I’m not. You’ve seen what Zainab’s death has done to him, Sayid. How do you know he won’t try to kill himself again?”

I cringe. Sayid doesn’t respond.

“I…I don’t have enough faith in him,” Rahman says. “We can’t take any risks. Rokaya and I have already discussed this, and she agrees with me. With me and her with him-”

“Alright,” Sayid says. “I see your point.”

“Thank you.”

“But I don’t think that’s your only cause.” He lowers his voice. “Is this really the only reason you want to go?”

“No,” Rahman replies. “Rokaya is pregnant.”

In the silence that follows, I feel the tension emanating from the room. It was no secret that Uncle Rahman and Aunt Rokaya had been trying to have a baby. Now was not the most convenient time.

“Ah,” Sayid says. Surprise colored his tone.

“After what happened to Zainab…I don’t want anything like that to happen to Rokaya and the baby,” Rahman says fiercely. “If we stay in Iraq, we’d be taking a risk. Now we have an opportunity to be safe.”

“Fine, Rahman. But I don’t think you or Abdullah should go. America is not the most welcome place for Arabs right now.”

“And Baghdad is better? People are getting killed everday.”

“Yes, I know that. I meant that there are other parts of Iraq that are much safer. Why don’t you and Abdullah bring your families to Basra with me and Aisha? Or, if you really want to leave the country, Syria is quite safe-”

“I have made up my mind, Sayid,” Rahman says firmly.

Sayid sighs. “Fine. Let’s just say you do go to America. What are you going to do there? Getting a job won’t be easy if you can barely speak English.”

“My English is fine,” Rahman snaps. “Maybe Abdullah can get me a job at the trucking company he works for. If not, I suppose I could drive a taxi or something…”

Sayid groans as if he is in pain. “Rahman, please, please don’t do this.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I am resolved.”

“Fine. I guess there’s nothing I can do to convince you,” Sayid grunts. Then with a resigned sigh, he says, “It looks like you’re going to America.”

***

(Farwaniyah, Kuwait International Airport, 2003)

Rahman told Baba that he and Rokaya were coming with us shortly after the conversation with Sayid yesterday. Baba didn’t have much of a reaction when he heard the news. Then again, Baba didn’t have much of a reaction to anything lately.

After Sayid dropped Aisha and our cousins off in Basra, he drove us all the way to Kuwait. We are standing in the middle of the Kuwait International Airport with our luggage surrounding us. Baba is getting our passports checked. Dean and I watch Sayid try to convince Rahman and Rokaya one last time not to go to America.

“It’s not too late to come back with me, Rahman. Have you and Abdullah reconsidered?”

Rahman shakes his head. “We are both set on our decisions, Sayid. What about you? I regret not asking you this sooner, but I think you should come to America with us.”

Sayid stares at him in disbelief. “I am not going to that country.”

“It would be better for the family to stick together,” Rokaya says.

“Which is why you’re the ones who should be coming with me.”

Rokaya looks to Rahman. He sighs, and I can feel his frustration. I know neither of them is going to bend.

A voice rings in the speakers, announcing our flight. Baba returns with our tickets and our passports.

“We’re ready,” he says.

Suddenly the mood changes. Baba, Rahman, and Sayid all look at one another with strange expressions. Sayid shifts awkwardly from foot to foot and I’m under the impression that he’s unsure how to say goodbye.

“I still wish you’d change your minds, but if you don’t go now you’ll miss your flight,” Sayid mumbles. For a moment, I think I see his eyes get wetter, but I can’t tell because he stares at the floor rather than looking directly at us.

Smiling, Rahman reaches out and pulls him into a hug.

“Goodbye, brother,” he says in a soft voice. “I will miss you.”

Sayid pats him on the back. “I will miss arguing with you.”

We all laugh at that. Baba even cracks a smile.

Then Sayid hugs Baba. He whispers into Baba’s ear. I thought it sounded something like, “Be strong,” but I couldn’t be sure.

“We love you,” Baba murmurs.

After that, Sayid embraces Rokaya, then moves over to Dean and me and gathers us into a group hug. He taps me under the chin and tousles Dean’s hair before pulling away, wiping his eyes with the ends of his sleeves.

“We will keep in touch, don’t worry,” Rokaya assures him.

“Of course you will,” Sayid grumbles. “Now go before your plane takes off.”

With our final farewells, we make our way up to the passenger terminal, leaving Sayid behind.

On the airplane, I got a window seat for once. Rokaya and Rahman sit next to me, holding hands. I look behind me at the seats Baba and Dean are sitting in. Baba is leaning back on the head rest with his eyes closed, but I know he’s not really asleep. Dean is staring out the window with a faraway expression.

I turn in my seat and sink back, pulling my knees up to my chest. I don’t know how long it is before the flight attendants come to make sure we have our seatbelts on. Shortly after I click my seatbelt into place, the plane begins to move forward, and then slowly lifts into the air. I look to my side and see Rahman and Rokaya cuddled together, talking about baby names. My throat tightens up because I remember, no more than two months ago, it hadn’t been so different with Baba and Mamma when she was still alive…

I shift over onto my side and face the window so they won’t see the tears welling up in my eyes. I watch the world shrink away as we rise into the pink clouds.

***

(Everett, Washington, 2008)

The sun hadn’t completely risen above the grey clouds when I came out of the dark woods. A few droplets of rain landed on my face as I emerged from the forest and into my backyard. I knew that in a few short hours it would start pounding, so I pulled the hood of my jacket over my head.

I made my way around the house and to the front drive. Rahman and Baba were already driving out to get to work. I walked over to the Jeep and leaned on the hood, waiting for Dean to hurry up. He usually took his time in the mornings, meaning he slept in until the very last minute, then stumbled out of bed and threw on the first thing he touched. I knew he couldn’t care less, but I didn’t want to be late on our first day at a new school.

We moved from Seattle all the way to Everett this summer because Rahman and Baba bought a gas station up here. I didn’t understand why they couldn’t buy a gas station in Seattle so we didn’t have to move and change everything. It wasn’t easy making new friends, especially when you were so…different.

The front door flew open. I looked up and saw Dean stumble out of the house, half asleep. He fumbled with the keys as he hobbled over to the Jeep, and it took him a while before he finally got the doors open. I rolled my eyes and climbed into the passenger’s seat.

It wasn’t long after we started driving before the rain really started pouring. The windshield wipers whipped at the water that was streaming down the glass, but it did little good; the road ahead of us was still blurry. The sound of the pattering rain was drowned out by my brother’s complaints about the Jeep. According to him, the Grand Cherokee was a gas guzzler, and it was ridiculous that he should have to pay full price at the gas station Rahman and Baba bought.

Unlike him, I liked big muscle cars, which was why my eyes wandered over to the big red truck in the lane next to us. It was an F-150, a smart and practical car, good for towing things. But also a gas guzzler. Nonetheless, it was beautiful. The owner had good taste.

Following this last thought, I looked up at the driver. He was a boy with brown hair who looked to be around Dean’s age. The rain was falling too hard for me to make out much more than that, but I saw that he was staring – no, glaring – right at me.

As soon as I met his gaze, he revved his engine and sped up, crossing into our lane and cutting us off without a signal.

“What the-?” Dean said, slowing down so he wouldn’t bump into him.

The insane driver flashed his lights, blinding us momentarily. The Jeep swerved, and Dean blinked furiously. Once the car was under control again, we looked ahead, but the driver was already speeding away, disappearing into the falling sheets of rain.

“That was weird,” Dean muttered, sounding annoyed.

It was weird. Before I could try to make any sense of what just happened, we turned a corner and came into the view of Cascade High School, and I forgot all about the driver.

Dean drove into the school’s parking lot and parked in a space close to the buildings so that we wouldn’t have to walk in the rain for too long.

“Ready?” he asked, placing his hand on the handle. I sensed that he was just as nervous as I was.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

***

Everyone stared, just as I had predicted.

I knew that seeing a girl in a hijab wasn’t something people were used to around here, but it wasn’t like I was wearing a burka for God’s sake. Why did they have to stare for so long?

I made my way through the throng of students and tried not to make eye contact with anyone. Dean and I had already parted ways at the cafeteria. With him being a junior, and me being a sophomore, it was unlikely that we had any classes together.

I looked down at my schedule and saw with dread that I had Algebra II for first period. Math was my most hated subject, and it was unfortunate that I had to deal with it first thing in the morning. It was hard to find where I was supposed to go; the buildings were scattered all over the place.

Finally, I found the big sign above the building I was looking for. I trudged up the ramp and walked inside. My class was right next to the entrance. When I went in, the room was full and the teacher had already started class. I glanced at the clock, and noted with chagrin that I was late.

“Glad you could join us,” the teacher, Mr. Benson, said. His face was pinched up in annoyance.

All the students turned around and stared at me, and they took me in from head to toe with keen interest. Their eyes lingered for longer than I thought was polite.

“Sorry,” I said to the teacher, looking past all the probing stares. “I had trouble finding the class.”

Mr. Benson raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You do realize we have a map of the campus in the main office building.”

“I didn’t know that. I’m new here.”

“If you expect to get special treatment because you’re a novelty here, think again Miss Karim.”

I had a bad habit of talking back to my teachers when they got on my nerves. I was about to tell him that no, I did not expect to get special treatment because I was a novelty here, but it was irrational for him to get angry because I was a few minutes late on the first day of school.

But I was caught off guard when he said my name. He pronounced it perfectly, rolling the r and elongating the i.

“Cut her some slack, Mr. B. It’s the first day of school.”

I looked at the boy who had spoken. He was sitting at a table near the white board, and he was quite…well, beautiful was the only word I could think of at that moment. He was long, lean and muscular with dirty blond hair that was a little on the shaggy side, and snow white skin. The features of his face were sharp and angular, and his eyes were ice blue.

Mr. Benson glanced at the boy, then back to me and eyed me above his horn rimmed glasses, pursing his lips.

“Have a seat,” he muttered.

The boy looked at me and smiled sympathetically. I mumbled a forced apology to the teacher and sat down. Mr. Benson continued with his little first-day-of-school speech, and lectured us about how math was an important part of everyday life. I tried to focus, but my attention started waning after the first couple of minutes, and my gaze drifted to the windows. I watched the rain fall, and before I knew it, the bell was ringing and the students were getting out of their seats. Everyone was already at the door, anxious to get out of Mr. Benson’s class. I pulled my bag over my shoulder and stood up, following the line of students.

“Miss Karim.”

I turned to look at him. He had his arms folded over his chest and his lips were pressed together in a thin line.

“Don’t be late again.”

I nodded and left the classroom, knowing that he and I were not going to get along.

***

The next two classes passed by uneventfully. People kept staring at me, and I tried my best to ignore it. One boy in biology actually gathered up the courage to talk to me. The questions he asked were ones that I’d heard countless times before. Do you sleep in that? Do you shower in that? Do you ever take that off? To which I answered – regardless of how stupid these questions were - ‘no’ to the first two and ‘yes’ to the last one.

I was relieved when lunch finally rolled around. Dean and I had no one to eat with, so we sat together at an empty lunch table by the windows. I could feel everyone’s eyes on us…well, on me.

“Remember that crazy driver?” Dean said as he slid into the chair.

“Yeah,” I said, placing my tray down on the table.

“He goes to this school.”

“Really?”

Dean inclined his head to the table behind him. I looked over his shoulder and saw a group of people sitting there. One of them I recognized immediately as the handsome boy who’d stood up for me in math. He was laughing at something one of his friends had said. On his other side was a pretty girl with honey blond hair and bronze skin. His girlfriend I assumed; he had his arm around her shoulders.

My gaze moved over to the boy sitting at the edge of the table. He was the same boy who cut us off this morning. I hadn’t been able to clearly see his face before because of the rain, but now I could make him out.

He was huge. His blue jacket draped over his large shoulders, torso and arms, which I could see were muscular even hidden underneath the fabric. His long legs, covered in dark denim jeans, stretched out for miles underneath the table. I looked back up at his face. It looked like he hadn’t shaven in a couple of days. Stubble was scattered over his chin and jaws. This made him look very menacing. My eyes traveled higher until they met his, which were bright green…

…and they were glaring at me murderously. There was no mistaking that look in his eyes: pure hatred.

I leaned back in my seat, completely taken aback.

“Stop looking at him,” Dean ordered.

I quickly lowered my gaze back down to my tray full of food, but I was very aware that the boy was still glowering at me. I pushed the tray away, losing my appetite.

“Noora,” Dean lowered his voice and began speaking in Arabic. “If you have any classes with him, don’t speak to him. Ignore him completely.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s a junior, so you might not share any classes, but try to avoid him. If he talks to you, you come tell me.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

The rest of the lunch hour was far from comfortable. I tried my best to ignore the boy. I really wanted to move to a new spot, but every other table in the cafeteria was occupied. I kept my eyes on the tray in front of me, fearing that I would look up and see his indignant glare again. Dean also kept his back to him.

Finally, the bell rang. Dean and I stood up and gathered our things, careful not to make eye contact with the boy as he walked past our table. My heart beat faster when he walked by, barely inches away from me. Dean moved himself so that he was in between me and the boy.

When he was gone, my brother took me by the arm and led me to the exit on the opposite side of the cafeteria. Outside in the whirl of rain, we stopped, and he looked me very seriously in the eyes.

“Remember what I told you,” he said.

“Fine, Dean,” I replied, feeling slightly irritated. I hated it when he got overprotective.

We left for our next classes, and I did as Dean told me to. As I went through the hallways, I kept a lookout for the boy in case I needed to walk in the other direction. Luckily, I didn’t see him for the next two periods.

I walked to my last class in a daze, exhausted even though it was only the first day. I went into the classroom and sunk into the first chair I saw. The students all flowed in around me. When the second bell rang and everyone was seated, the Spanish teacher introduced herself as Seniora Gomez.

Before she could present our first activity, the door swung open and a student walked in. I felt my pulse quicken when I saw that it was the angry boy at lunch. He sauntered inside, and I noted that his shoulders nearly filled out the doorframe, and he was much taller than I thought he was. He had to duck his head under the doorway to come into the room.

“You’re late, Mr. Daniels,” Seniora Gomez said in disapproval. “I’ll excuse you since it’s the first day, but I hope it doesn’t become a habit.”

The boy mumbled something under his breath that sounded like “sue me” but I couldn’t tell. I glanced at Seniora Gomez, and it looked like she’d heard him too, but she only shook her head and continued conducting the class.

I tried not to make eye contact with him, hoping that he wouldn’t see me. Unfortunately my presence did not escape his notice. As he went by my table, I couldn’t help glancing at him. I looked up, and instantly regretted it; he was glowering down at me from his great height, and that same look of indignant loathing was on his face.

I looked back down, shrinking into my seat. The boy walked around the full desks and went to a seat in the opposite side of the room, to my relief. Seniora Gomez began discussing about the curriculum. I tried to pay attention to what she was saying, but I kept getting distracted because I knew the boy was watching me even though I wasn’t looking at him. I couldn’t tell whether my temperature was rising because of my thudding heart, or because his glare was slowly turning me into flames. Either way, it was not a comfortable feeling.

Seniora Gomez passed out some papers for our parents to sign; permission slips for Spanish movies we’d watch over the year. Then she introduced our first activity, which was merely a game in attempt to force the students to get to know each other. It was a modified version of speed dating. Speed meeting. I was not looking forward to this game. I knew that at some point I was going to have to talk to him.

We set up the chairs and I tried to sit a long distance away from him, hoping that maybe time would run out before we had to meet. I looked to my left and was filled with dread when I saw that he was not far from me. He was only three seats away.

Ding.

“Hi, my name’s Charlie,” the boy in front of me said.

“Noora,” I said.

“That’s a cool name.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you Arabic?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you from?”

“Iraq.”

When I said this, I saw the boy look in my direction out of the corner of my eye.

“Where are you from?” I asked Charlie quickly, focusing on his face.

“Tacoma. My family and I moved up here two years ago.”

“I just moved here this summer all the way from Seattle.”

“Really?” He looked interested. “I-”

Ding.

I swallowed. Charlie smiled at me and moved on to the next seat, and his was replaced by a pretty Asian girl. I thought I recognized her.

“I’m Lucy,” she said.

“I’m Noora.”

“You’re new aren’t you?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“I haven’t seen you around here before.”

“Oh.”

She paused, examining me for a moment.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“You’re fidgeting”

I sat still and took a deep breath. “Sorry.”

“Do you get nervous when you meet new people?”

“Yes,” I lied. I was only nervous about meeting one person.

“That’s okay. I get shy around new people too.”

I observed her for a second, and then I finally remembered where I’d seen her before. She was sitting at the table with the boy at lunch today.

Ding.

My stomach dropped.

“It was nice meeting you,” Lucy said, giving me a warm smile. She moved to the next seat, and I found myself wanting to grab her hand and pull her back into the chair in front of me.

It was his turn now. He slid into the seat in front of me. My eyes traveled up his enormous frame and to his face. He snapped his gum and folded his arms across his chest, leaning back into the chair. A long silence stretched on between us before I finally decided to say something, hoping to diminish whatever dislike he had for me and my brother.

“Um,” I mumbled. “I’m Noora.”

He didn’t respond.

“What’s your name?”

“Gabe,” he muttered. His voice was low and husky.

“Can I ask you something, Gabe?”

“What?”

“Did I do something to you?”

He stared at me, expressionless. “What would give you that idea?”

“Well,” I said sheepishly. “You’ve been looking at me like you hate me.”

“Have I?” The note of sarcasm in his tone rang clear as a bell, but I dismissed it.

“I was just wondering if I did anything to deserve it. If I did, I apologize.”

“Can I ask you something?”

Ding.

He rolled his eyes. “Guess not.”

He moved to the next person without looking at me. I stared after him. I kept staring until the girl in front of me cleared her throat.

***

It finally stopped raining when the last bell rang, dismissing the students from school and granting my escape. I walked outside in a trance, wondering what it was that the boy, Gabe, wanted to ask me, and why he wouldn’t tell me what I’d done wrong. I strolled out onto the lot and to the space where Dean parked the Grand Cherokee, and froze in my tracks when I saw the red F-150 sitting in the spot next to it.

I looked around me, searching through the crowd of students for Gabe, but I couldn’t spot him anywhere. I didn’t see Dean either. I clutched my bag tighter and went to the Jeep, praying that my brother would come before Gabe. I leaned against the front of the car and anxiously waited for Dean to get there.

But he didn’t come first. A few moments later, I saw Gabe emerge from the mass in front of the school building and stride down the black pavement towards me. He was so big, he towered above the rest of the students in the parking lot, and this made him look even more intimidating.

I pulled the hood of my jacket up, though it wasn’t raining anymore. It was an attempt to hide my face so that he wouldn’t know who I was, but it didn’t work. As soon as he reached his car, he looked at me and recognition crossed over his face.

“Oh it’s you,” he said. “It’s not raining anymore. You can take that off now.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I didn’t get to ask you what I wanted to in Spanish,” he began. He moved over to the side of his truck and rested against it, watching me speculatively. “You said you were from Iraq, right?”

I remained silent, but I wondered what he was getting at.

“It must be hard for you to live here,” he continued. He didn’t sound sympathetic at all. “You obviously don’t fit in.”

As he spoke these words, he looked me up and down meaningfully, and that was when I felt the first stages of rage building up inside me.

“Wouldn’t it be better for you if you just went back to your own country?”

It looked like he wanted to add something to that, but I cut him off before he could finish.

“Unbelievable,” I said, gritting my teeth. I pushed myself off the hood of the Jeep and turned to face him. “This is why you’ve been acting like a jerk? Here I was, thinking that I had done something to offend you, but it turns out you’re just a racist!”

I was very aware that I was shouting at him. Students who were walking by slowed down and stared, but I didn’t care. Gabe gaped at me in shock for a split second, and then he got off the side of his car and came right up to me.

To be honest, I was still a little scared of him, but I thought was ridiculous to be afraid of some silly high school boy – no matter how much bigger than me he was – when I had been through bombs and gunfire. So I stood my ground, even though I knew he could hurt me quite easily. The boy stopped about a foot away from me, his nostrils flaring.

He started to say something, but then Dean suddenly appeared as if from nowhere. He put himself between me and Gabe. The boy looked up and met my brother’s gaze with confusion. I couldn’t see Dean’s expression because his back was to me. He turned his head slightly in my direction.

“Get in the car,” he said.

“N-”

“Get in the car,” he repeated, and his voice was filled with silent fury.

I clenched my jaw and grudgingly stomped around the Jeep to the passenger’s side, climbing in. I slammed the door shut hard, causing the car to shake a little. Fuming with anger, I watched the scene continue outside.

It was then that I noticed the big crowd that was gathering around them. Students neared the scene with anxious looks, like they were anticipating a fight. Among the students I saw the beautiful boy with the blue eyes along with his girlfriend and another African American boy watching what was happening with distress. He was the only one who didn’t look excited.

I turned my attention back to my brother and the boy. Dean and Gabe stood face to face between the Jeep and the F-150. They matched in heights, but – though Dean was quite muscular as well – Gabe’s physique surpassed my brother’s, and I knew that there was a very big possibility that he would get hurt if this turned into a fight.

Dean spoke, but he sounded slightly muffled through the glass windows.

“Do you have a problem?” he said to the boy in a calm voice that I’d heard many times when he was trying to conceal his rage.

“Yeah, you,” Gabe spat. His anger, unlike my brother’s, was not hidden. “You bloodthirsty Jihadists don’t belong here!”

He lunged at my brother. I cried out, but before he even touched him, Dean shot a hand out and shoved the boy in the chest with great force. Gabe’s back struck his car with a loud thud, and the big red truck wobbled from side to side.

Gabe stared at Dean, abashed, and then he pushed himself off the truck and went for him again. His face was twisted into a ferocious expression.

That was when the beautiful boy and his friend sprinted forward.

They caught Gabe barely an inch away from my brother, and they hooked their arms underneath him and pulled him back. I could see it took great amount of strength for them to hold him back.

Dean was smart enough to back away. Gabe dug his heels into the pavement and tried to get free, and the two boys kept pulling him back, but it did little good on either side because they weren’t moving. It was a motionless struggle.

The handsome boy said something to Gabe urgently, but I couldn’t hear what it was over the babble of the excited students. Whatever he said made Gabe stop for an instant. The boy kept talking to him in a persuasive manner, and Gabe deliberated for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. He took deep breaths in and out of his nose to calm himself down and his friends released him, but they kept their hands firmly on his shoulders.

Dean hadn’t moved an inch from where he was standing. Again, I couldn’t tell what he was thinking because he was facing away from me. The boys gently tugged Gabe back, still talking earnestly to him. I made out things like “c’mon” and “it’s not worth it”.

Gabe followed them, but he was still glaring in our direction as he climbed into his truck. Dean didn’t budge from his spot. Gabe started his truck, and it roared to life. For a second, I thought he would run my brother over. But he only eased the truck out of the parking space, and the students moved out of the way for him. I watched him drive off the campus and onto the road, speeding away from the school.

Dean finally turned around and entered the Jeep. His eyes were hard and his jaw was stiff. He was mechanic as he put his seatbelt on and stuck the key into the ignition.

“I thought I told you not to talk to him,” he stated, glaring out of the windshield. His grip on the wheel was very tight.

“He was the one who-”

“This is the last time I’m going to tell you: stay away from him.”

He started driving, and I knew that the conversation was over.

I looked out the window and saw that the horde of students was still there, watching my brother and me in the Jeep with keen interest. Among the faces, only one stuck out. The boy with the piercing blue eyes was staring right at me. The pretty blond girl clung to him and he held her close. The other boy stood next to him, watching us tentatively with the rest of the students. They turned into a blur as we drove out of the school grounds.

During the drive home, my mind traced back to a distant memory. I remembered something my uncle Sayid had said almost five years ago in Iraq.

America is not the most welcome place for Arabs right now.

*waves* Sorry to be a bit late on this, I’ve been out of town a few days. ^^;

All right! I really liked this chapter, and I think it pulled me into the story a bit more than the previous one. It seems like events and characters are starting to build up into the plot, which is always a good thing—I’m looking forward to seeing where this story goes!

I also really like the fact that you worked with some development of characters that have been around awhile—Sayid’s gruff personality, for example, is surprisingly likable, and the way he interacts with his family feels realistic and heartwarming—it’s sweet without being cloying, I guess.

I think you’ve shown a lot of personality and growth in your main characters, too—this chapter has shown us a lot of the strong young woman Noora has become, and how Dean’s anger and suffering still affect him.

The pacing of this chapter worked well, too—usually, first-day-of-school bits can be a little cliché and boring, but this one feels just right. Big praise especially on the scene during Noora’s Spanish class—the speed meeting game did a lot in the sense of conveying her apprehension and dread to the reader.

Just a few things to check up on:

“If you expect to get special treatment because you’re a novelty here, think again Miss Karim.”

Comma before “Miss.”

The students all flowed in around me. When the second bell rang and everyone was seated, the Spanish teacher introduced herself as Seniora Gomez.

It’s spelled Señora, actually (Though you probably know that already. XD). If you don’t want to/can’t type the tilde, I think it’s probably best to just put it as Senora.

“Oh it’s you,” he said.

Comma after “oh,” I think.

Otherwise, a ten out of ten for this chapter, I think I like it best of all of them so far. ^_^ Well done!

Hey thanks Zan. It's always good to hear from you.

Hey Worx

I'm sorry it's taken so long for me to get to this. Schools been seriously hectic. There's only three months left and then it's over for all eternity, but this last quarter's taken a real lot out of me.

At any rate, here I am.

I must say, I really enjoyed this piece. You got into your characters' heads as people rather than merely victims. Specifically Noora's personality developed remarkably.

I can only offer one bit of advice as far as characterization goes. I saw two instances of what I found sorely lacking in drive and character motivation. It wasn't bad by any means, but neither was it your usual impeccable standard. You've introduced two characters to us who your narrator dislikes intensely. One of them is the teacher Mr Benson, and the other is Gabe. The former of these two you show as reasonable in the eyes of the reader. We see him as some no nonsense person, who is not too unreasonable.

In and of itself this is problematic because while you tell us you don't like him, you show him to us as reasonable. As a first person narrator it's your job to make us feel like we're the person. Vent your emotions more powerfully. We need to see your character's exact feelings towards the person. Remember this: As a first person narrator, you're biased, subjective, and never objectively reasonable.

Let's take a look at the opposite extreme: Your second character who the narrator dislikes is Gabe. Gabe has been portrayed as a typical bully. Here you've slightly stumbled on the objective side. Remember, when portraying feeling be subjective, when portraying fact, objectivity is much more important. What the character does should be realistic. Personally, as radical as Gabe is, I can't imagine him running up and attacking her after merely being called a racist. You need to work slightly on enhancing this scene.

Stylistically I found this first person narrator a little less believable than in the previous one or two pieces. I'd advise trying to get into her head a little more, although you're doing an amazing job as it is. The sort of thing that you're busy pulling off shouldn't be pull-offable.

Aside from this, I found your description great, your narration great and most importantly your tone perfect. I hope that this helped, and apologize for the delay.

Have a great one!

Thank you so much Yoda.