The Badboy, the Catfish & Me

One

I'm going to be Maxwell High School's next valedictorian. InshaAllah. Mama said to add that word whenever you intended to do something.

But right now, at 6:30 a.m., with the buzzing of my alarm clock piercing the dimly lit room, the last thing I wanted to do was get up and go to school. High school was almost over, and the urge to sleep in just once was tempting. Heavy footsteps walked past my door and down the hall. Baba was already up.

I hauled myself out of bed, eyelids heavy. Nope. In addition to valedictorian, I wanted the perfect attendance award. I grabbed my prayer hijab from the back of my computer desk chair and threw it over my shoulder.

"Hey, kiddo," Baba said as he saw me pass by the kitchen on the way to the bathroom.

I grunted in response.

When I finished the prayer, I joined my dad in the kitchen. From the windows above the sink, the after-dawn sunlight brightened the pink and black granite countertop. Baba once said the unusual color was because of the high amount of the mineral feldspar in the rock. He would know—he was an environmental engineer.

"This one mine?" I asked, using my fork to point at the golden-brown omelet plated on the kitchen island. Beside the plate was a pile of mail with the interchanging names of Patrick Stonewell and Yusuf Stonewell. Both referred to my dad.

"Yup." He had another omelet sizzling in the pan.

I settled into the bar stool to eat, ready to devour the fluffy eggs mixed with chili flakes, black pepper, and a pinch of salt. "Nice." My bare elbows ran across the cold counter, and I shivered.

After several moments, Baba said in a low voice, "Your mama had a rough night," while keeping his back to me.

My shoulders slumped.

After a pause, he added, "Remember, it's—"

"Nobody's fault," I said for him. It was always nobody's fault.

I hunched in my seat and continued eating, absently staring ahead to tell myself it was normal. Normal that Mama's moods flipped harder than derivatives, and you could scrape the tan off my skin and see no other part of her on me.

After washing my plate, I returned to my room. Drawing open the curtains, the morning light illuminated the lavender and cream-colored walls, my queen-sized bed, walk-in closet, and two bookshelves. The light also touched my two desks, one by my bed for my computer and the second by the attached balcony where I studied.

I wasn't totally upset with the way my parents raised me—but it was like this house had all the bare bones of a family. There was no stuffing or decoration. I learned the major and minuscule practices of Islam, performing the five daily prayers, fasting during the holy month of Ramadan, giving to charity, wearing garments that hid the body's curves, and reciting phrases before eating or leaving the house—but that was it. Everything else my mom could've passed down to me was muted. I didn't even have an infamous auntie to complain about.

I had Aunt Naomi, but I'd never complain about her.

I chose from an array of loose-fitting clothes to wear for school, unlike the t-shirts and leggings I wore at home. With the full-length mirror on the wall, I wrapped a jersey scarf around my head, keeping my widow's peak, neck, and ears covered, and the fabric rested over my chest. I grabbed my school bag, threw open a textbook, and sat at the balcony desk.

For a while, I didn't do anything. I wondered what a normal morning looked like for Valentino. Did he have a parent with episodes like mine? Was he also an only child? I never asked him because I was too scared to. All I knew about him was that he took soccer seriously and never missed a chance to talk to me in homeroom. Oh, and he loved CrusadEon Online.