– Chapter 9 –
“Oh my goodness. Safiah, what have you done to yourself?” Malia breathed, gaping in astonishment at Safiah’s radically altered appearance. She nearly mistook her for a cheerleader. Another symbol of conformity. Just another soul within the crowd.
Safiah looked down, analyzing her attire. Her smooth hands, her freshly polished fingernails, and her shiny leather shoes. Then she looked up at Malia and smiled again. “Malia, I told you I was going to come to the cheerleading practice,” she innocently explained.
Meghan and Julie, two inseparable girls with identical hair styles – layered black strands with red highlights – grinned and nodded at Safiah, chatting about nail salons and high-end fashion. Malia heard the words Gucci and Louis Vuitton.
Only several days prior, Malia had observed Meghan and Julie buried in the corner of the freshman party; she had recognized them as the odd girls from her creative writing course with Ms Lany – untamed blonde hair, neon green glasses, and wildly passionate about poetry. But neither of them seemed to recall that Safiah was the Muslim girl who was debased and humiliated before her peers. Forced to leave the party rather than suffer the stares and detestation of her classmates. But now, they instantly accepted her. She was no longer a thorn wilting among a flourishing rosebush. Miraculously, she had blossomed in the loveliest rose of all.
Malia shook her head. “Safiah,” she whispered, slowly approaching Safiah and pulling her to the sidelines. Malia inadvertently smeared the white lines the man in the denim shorts had meticulously painted several minutes prior. The paint was still wet. Frightened, she turned to the man, now on the opposite end of the field. He was glaring at her. “Safiah,” she repeated, “you don’t have to change yourself. You shouldn’t have to.”
“Malia, you don’t know what it’s like,” Safiah whimpered.
Malia shook her head once more. “It’s not right. You shouldn’t have to sacrifice your beliefs,” she pressed. She looked down in agitation, sighing. Her left sneaker had become untied, and the right sneaker was discolored in its center by a splotch of mud.
“Malia,” she sobbed, “you don’t know what it’s like.”
Malia lifted her gaze towards Safiah. Her eyes were outlined by a heavy black liner. Her lids were powdered with a sinister red shadow. Malia had always appreciated Safiah’s modesty. How she never desired to boast herself to the world. Why the drastic change?
“Safiah, why do you want to change yourself? You were amazing… no, you were perfect. Just as you were,” Safiah’s eyes glimmered with appreciation for Malia’s words of kindness, and she grinned. Malia sprung upon this spark of hope. “This isn’t you.”
But, wait. There was no hope. Safiah’s eyes weren’t glimmering with gratitude. They were glimmering with anger. “Malia,” Safiah shouted. Her voice was no longer thin. It was burning with passionate fury. The veins in Malia’s eyes turned red. The misty pupils no longer hazy but fiery. The cheerleaders fixed their attention on the two companions, their eyes wide with curiosity. “That is not your decision. It is my life. Not yours.” Safiah’s tense stare softened and her eyes fell. “I… I’m sorry, Malia,” she mumbled, her cheeks pink with regret. “I’m sorry, but you really don’t know what it’s like,” she whispered and returned to Meghan and Julie, nodding in agreement as they confessed their frantic obsession with boots. Strange, Malia thought, it wasn’t even winter.
For the remaining two hours, Malia observed as girls performed flawless somersaults and cheered with undeniable energy, their throats never sore nor hoarse. After she memorized their various jingles and properly learned how to bob her pompoms at the correct angle, she trekked light-headedly from the field, her mind spinning in confusion.
“Malia,” Stacey scurried from behind, her shoes crunching the freshly trimmed grass like a sneaker on a cracker. “Tonight. Bleachers. Be there,” she commanded. She then did something strange – she burst out wildly with laughter and walked away. Not once looking back.
The remaining hours of the dwindling day passed as swiftly as lightning. Inevitably, Malia found herself obeying the commands of Stacey Gross, captain of the varsity cheerleaders. As the sun set and the sky turned pink, the girls huddled beneath the metal benches. Malia recalled the time she found herself seated on benches similar in appearance. Just one year ago she had attended her first football game to witness Corey Simon battle the Truman High School’s all-star team. She wondered where he was now. What had life brought the star quarterback and most popular senior at James Madison high school?
“Here, Malia,” Stacey shoved a bottle into her trembling fingers. “Enjoy,” she grinned.
Malia shook her head. “Oh, that’s okay. I don’t drink.” The others girls gaped at her. In astonishment but mostly out of curiosity.
“Malia. It’s just one drink. It can’t be more than three ounces,” Stacey encouraged. Her brown hair was brightened with beach blonde highlights and her eyes were exaggerated with heavy black eyeliner. “Really.” Her voice was hoarse, possibly from smoking, Malia guessed. She had seen her slumping behind the metal bleachers of the school’s football stadium with the same group of burnouts for several weeks, although she was a cheerleader. More specifically, the top-of-the-pyramid kind of cheerleader. But, nonetheless, a cheerleader who smoked and drank leisurely.
What has the world come to? Malia thought. She stared at the transparent glass Stacey dangled temptingly in front of her thirsty, chapped lips. Malia, she heard a voice in her head. A male voice. A scolding voice. Don’t be stupid. Do not, under any circumstances, drink that stuff. You don’t know what could be in there.
Her heart raced wildly in her chest at the sound of his voice. “I’d love a sip,” Malia smiled, touching the rim of the glass to her lips. As Stacey turned to offer her fellow cheerleaders a taste of the golden poison, Malia abruptly spilled the drink from her mouth to the muddy ground, the taste too tangy for her to handle.
Wow. You actually listened to me. I think this is the first time you actually did what I suggested. It was the voice again. I’m shocked, Malia. Really, it said sincerely.
She was trying her best to disobey the commanding voice in her mind, but she had failed. Dreadfully failed. She rolled her eyes and tried again.
The liquid sizzled down her throat, as she swallowed it noisily. Coughing hysterically, she felt her throat become clogged, as if with detergent. The liquid once again surged from her lips and she surrendered.
Her face grew hot with humiliation. Well, I wouldn’t say it’s the best way to listen to me… But, at least you didn’t end up swallowing it, right? the voice laughed casually. A figment of her imagination. It had to be a figment of her imagination. It couldn’t be real. Could it?
Stacey was looking at her amusedly now, her eyebrows raised. “Are you gonna be okay, Sanders?” The other thirteen members of the cheerleading squad were staring at her, smirks planted onto each of their tanned faces.
Malia slowly nodded, “Yes,” she whispered. “I’m fine… I just… I’ll see you guys at practice tomorrow.” She struggled to find the exit to Stacey’s dorm room, and once she reached the pavement, trekked to the library in resignation.
At the library, a large group of boys, and several girls, were perched in metal seats, their eyes intently locked to a group of men in uniform, their spines straight and their chins high, who stood solemnly at the front of the room, their hands tied tensely behind their backs. The chunkiest, most muscular soldier of the group stood before a podium, his rich voice advertising the army in an almost irresistible manner. Tiny specks of black hair dotted his scruffy chin, and the strong bones of his face were vibrated tensely with each word he spoke. He conveyed the honor of war. The priceless lessons that could be learned. The everlasting friendships that could be established.
Malia closed her eyes. If only each student knew of the everlasting pain that
could possibly result. But, no. It was an honorable thing. A thing of value. She knew that.
“Hey, kid.” Malia jumped at the scratchy sound of his voice. A man in uniform standing in the corner of the room, five-feet to her left. She hadn’t realized, but she had been standing there intently watching the ROTC meeting with eager interest for at least thirty minutes. The appeal, as she suspected, struck her as undeniable. Almost like an infant who reaches for a bite of a mouthwatering toy truck, only to find her teeth in wretched pain just moments after she grinds her teeth into the mercury-infested paint that she thought resembled strawberries. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. He sported a buzz-cut and a pair of denim overalls that were thrown over his uniform. A European cigarette hung loosely from the corner of his mouth. His hand clutched a wooden clipboard that carried a slip of paper with the messily scribbled signatures of young soldier hopefuls.
She waited.
“Let me guess. Your boyfriend in the army or somethin’? Wanna go see him, so you thought you’d sign this roster here and get yourself a first-class ticket to see him, that it?”
She stared.
“You thought the ole’ government here’d pay your way to see ‘im? That right?”
Her lips quivered noiselessly and her fingers twitched in fear.
“Don’t be afraid, girl. I’m not tryin’ to scare ya,” his lips broke into a bitter smile before he began roaring with laughter. She could see a piece of the red meat the cafeteria served for lunch bulging out between two of his yellow teeth. “This place ain’t for you. Trust me. I’ve seen a lot of things in my day. Things that would probably end up killing you.” He began walking away.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” she dared to respond, her voice no louder than the sound of a thimble against a hardwood floor. But he didn’t hear her; he simply continued walking. She saw him high-five one of his buddies, another man – this one slightly older, possibly thirty years old – who wore a pair of light wash jeans that were ripped at the knees and an old white tee-shirt.
Alarmed, she dashed from the library, the feet of her white-wash jeans sweeping the unwashed floor, inevitably becoming damp with soda spills and speckled with cookie crumbs. Stooping to swipe the grime from her athletic sneakers, she lifted her gaze to Safiah, who stood timidly before her. The first thing Malia noticed was that her eyes were wet.
The second was Safiah’s attire; she was clothed in a lavender floor-length dress and her hair was enveloped in a dark headscarf. Her eyes were clean, except for several stray tears on her cheeks. No make-up. Just Safiah.
Wordlessly, Malia and Safiah roamed in unison to their dormitories – Malia weary from the festivities of unruly and, she thought, juvenile cheerleaders and Safiah consumed by her failed attempt at masking her true identity.