buttoning the third button
on his shirt,
there is a knock at the door.
The man’s shoulders
are as wide as a refrigerator,
his waist a narrow bucket.
Sir, can you step outside?
My father asks why.
Again
Sir, can you step outside?
Then
I’m from the FBI
I need to ask you some questions.
Although my father’s
eyebrows change
from delicate inverted Vs
into straight lines,
he asks
Why don’t you come in?
The man whose shoulders
are as wide as a fridge—
his eyebrows become inverted Vs,
Sir, are you sure?
If I step inside,
and I see anything,
anything,
I can arrest you.
My father’s answer
is easy:
I have nothing to hide.
My mother’s voice
is gentle:
Would you like some tea?
Don’t they know yet?
You don’t have to be nice
to everyone in this country.
Facts
In Peachtree City,
it is sometimes colder in February
than in December.
It rains often.
Thunder.
Lightning.
Sometimes when it rains
hard enough in Peachtree City,
the electricity goes.
Just like in Pakistan.
In the darkness,
I am reminded of
home.
But today, it is rainy
and cold
so I cannot eat outside
with Stahr,
but Stahr is not here
because she is
getting the metal
on her teeth
tightened.
Inside the cafeteria,
a blur of faces,
I don’t know
where to sit.
My insides feel
tight.
No one else
except Stahr
has said those 8 words to me
Do you want to eat lunch with me?
I square-root numbers inside my head
100 . . . 10
81 . . . 9
64 . . . 8
49 . . . 7
36 . . .
to calm myself.
I am only at 36 when . . .
A whispery voice.
Where are your friends today?
Cal is in front of me.
Probably no one
wants to sit with you
or your people
anymore.
His face is a chewed-up sandwich.
My insides become ice
my cheeks become fire
I am too brown
to become red.
I open my mouth.
But this time—
the words are stuck
inside me.
Y’all need to find a seat . . .
Ms. White is on lunch duty
walking with purpose.
Cal smirks,
Good luck with that . . .
Ms. White turns.
I scuttle out of the cafeteria,
plan to go back to the triangle space
underneath the stairwell
to eat my lunch
alone
again.
A tap on my shoulder
I look up
Up
Up
at a tall girl
I saw what happened.
She pushes her braids
behind her ears
a warm smile
brown sugar skin.
I’m Destiny.
You can eat with us . . .
I follow her.
Knots loosen
from my tongue.
Thanks . . .
Inside the cafeteria
the lights are too bright
But Destiny
walks right by Cal
too close.
You’d better leave her alone . . .
She is much taller
than Cal,
much wider too,
she holds her breath in,
looks down at Cal,
with scowling eyes.
Cal’s face becomes
sour,
pinched.
He looks at me
hard
then walks away.
Art Class
Blocks of paper
creamy white,
charcoals smoky,
fat pastels,
welcome me on
Tuesdays and Thursdays.
In math there’s only one correct answer
which I like
but in art there is no wrong answer
which I love.
A line can be swirly or straight.
A circle can be perfectly round
or turned into an oval.
Math I can do quickly
But art
I do
slowly
on purpose.
After the Terrorist Attack
The FBI officer
makes sure
to knock on all the doors
of the neighbors
before leaving
to ask questions
about any suspicions
they may have.
Does my father’s skin,
beige like the grass
that has died in winter,
make you suspicious?
The voice of my mother
tired of being gentle
is now tight—
Assalamualaikum, Nurah,
Wa-alaikum-as-salaam, Ammi,
How was your day?
Fine.
Hidden words fill the air.
I don’t tell her about Cal
picking on me
in the cafeteria.
I don’t want to worry her.
I have a feeling she worries enough
by the way she peeks in the mirror
and loosens her hijab
ever so slightly,
before she leaves
the house.
Part Seven
Looks
It is important to note
that my skin is
dark
like the heel of oatmeal bread
while Owais’s skin is
light
like the center of oatmeal bread.
We do not look alike
are not recognized
as brother and sister.
Jealousy
Coach Kelly praises Owais
all
the
time.
Owais is always
first.
I am almost always
in the middle.
When Owais wins,
Coach Kelly smiles big.
When I finish in the middle,
Coach Kelly smiles small.
Today, in our race,
I forgot my technique.
50 yards of me
slicing through the water,
my rhythm is off,
my arms and legs thrash
and
I am last.
Behind my goggles,
I can feel the familiar
pricking
of tears.
Why can’t I be more like him?
When will I win?
Owais’s Room
By his mirror
smirks
a
shelf
that
shines.
By his mirror
smirks
a shelf
full of
trophies
and
medals.
By his mirror
I am invisible.
By his mirror
if my insides
were visible
you would see
anger
bubbling
underneath
my skin.
Extra Practice
That is all you need,
reassures Owais,
my Underwater Sibling.
But I am already practicing extra
in the mornings.
Come with me
on the weekend
I’ll show you some pointers,
Owais’s slice of dimple smiles.
He tosses another medal
too easily
onto his shelf.
I shouldn’t have said Yes
while my anger bubbled.
Star Athlete
Coach Kelly smiles
a big smile
to see us at the pool
on the weekend.
He’s my star athlete!
she boasts to
the other coach there.
Owais is tall
has swimmer shoulders
and a swimmer waist
I am small and
don’t have much
of anything.
Coach Kelly doesn’t
see me
or maybe she does
but today
she doesn’t really
see me.
Instead of Pointers
From the very top of the diving board
Owais is diving
high to low
high to low again
a flip here
a flip there
and there is a girl
with pink-painted lips
who looks up
smiles and claps.
If I were to do
the same dive,
she would not clap
for me.
Owais is
a better diver
a better swimmer
better in looks
and most things
and sometimes when
I’m with him
I fade
away.
If I were to sink
to the bottom
of the pool,
nobody would notice.
They would be too busy
looking at Owais
diving and
diving again.
The girl with pink-
painted lips
waves to Owais
before he goes
to the locker rooms.
He waves back
and I roll my eyes.
False Promises
Owais
didn’t show me
any pointers.
Owais
didn’t teach me
anything.
Owais
didn’t do
what he was supposed
to do.
Before the Locker Rooms
Out of the corner
of my eye
I see two of them
with football-player bodies.
They exchange a look
before they frown at Owais,
who still has a smile
on his lips.
They walk toward the girl
with the pink-painted lips.
That jerk needs to stop showing off.
I see one nudge the other.
I know, right?
smirks the girl
with the pink-painted lips.
She’s looking
straight at me.
Do you know him?
she asks.
I don’t really know him.
Not anymore.
I let out a laugh
that doesn’t sound
like a laugh.
I let out a shrug
that doesn’t look
like a shrug.
I let my mouth become an O
let my answer s l i p
out easily
too
easily.
Nope.
Locker Rooms
I should call Owais back
before he goes
inside the locker room
but he isn’t paying attention
to me.
So
I
let
him
go.
Girls’ Locker Room
Underneath the shower
drip drop drip
runs shower water
Drip drop drip
run my tears
not from
the chemicals
of the pool,
but from
the chemicals
of my heart.
And although
the water is hot,
my tears
run cold.
I try to wash
the worries away
scrub my fears
lather the pesky voice
that says
What kind
of person,
what kind
of sister
are you?
Waiting
I am waiting
for too long
outside the locker rooms
on the too-hard bench
and the two guys
who are tall tall tall
and wide wide wide
come out
laughing.
The girl
with the pink-painted lips
smirks at them
All done? she says.
I am stuck
waiting
waiting
waiting
for Owais.
Where is he?
Guilt nibbles at my stomach.
I stood up
for the bus monitor man,
but for my
