Immigrating across the ocean wasn't too hard. It's what comes after the move that can either give you amazing opportunities, or give you a kick in the stomach, even if your already down.
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✰ FEATURED ON @ContemporaryLit ✰
✰ RISING...
"No... it can't– is he really– so it was all set up?" I asked, still staring at Mama in disbelief.
"No! It's not like that Samira!" Mama objected.
"Okay, well, he's not much a friend anyway," I sighed, lowering my gaze to the empty plate on the the table in front of me.
I could feel Mama still staring at me as she spoke, "I'm sorry Samira, this has been hard on everyone, but mostly you. I was just trying to help you by helping you make another friend."
Iman's face dropped at the sound of Mama's words, then she crossed her arms and stared at her empty dinner plate.
"Thanks Mama, I know you... It's just something I need to deal with myself, if you know what I mean."
"Okay," Mama sighed, obviously relieved.
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I plopped onto my bed, then laid down, and look up at the white, popcorn-like ceiling that matched perfectly with the plain white walls of my bedroom.
Millions of different questions flossed my brain, and I couldn't seem to stop them from doing so.
Would Sky show up? Should I text her? Would I be able to finish my presentation in time for the ABPC? What about the diner party right after? Would Mohammed also be at the dinner party? Did he actually want to be... friends? Or was it all because Mama asked his mom who then asked him to be nice and talk to me?
The last few thoughts angered me, and I knew exactly why. Every time I thought I had maybe made a new friend, something went wrong.
I sat up, grabbed the nearby pillow, and shoved my face into the soft, fluffy fabric. I wanted to scream, but the only thing that happened was a flood of tears, creating two patches of wet fabric.
I lifted my face off the pillow, my cheeks feeling sticky. I rubbed my under eye, and got up to wash my face.
As I walked out the door, I bumped into Iman. I looked down at her, and she looked up at me. Small tears were rolling down her cheeks, and her eyes were red. Her eyes were filled with the remains of her tears, but her eyes were also wide with shock.
I held her gaze for a few seconds, and then she looked back down, pushed me aside, and ran into the bedroom. The air began to fill with the incredibly faint sound of sobbing.
I was unsure of what to do for a few seconds, then went to go wash my face quickly. I then walked as fast as I could to our bedroom. Iman was laying there, curled up in her bed. My eyes still stung a little from my own tears, but I payed no attention.
Taking a huge deep breath, I sat down next to her. I rubbed her the side of her back, the way Mama always did when I was younger.
Her sobs gradually slowed, and she eventually sat up.
"How come your always the favorite?" Iman asks, her voice full of both frustration, and sadness.
"I'm not," I promised her.
She huffed, and tears started rolling down her face as she shouted, "Yes you are! Why do you think Mama goes out of her way to make sure you have a good friend, but doesn't do the same for me?"
"I don't know! Why are you asking me?" I ask her as I stand up. "Besides," I add. "You've got great friends! What about Eli, huh?"
The mention of her friend only seems to fuel Iman's feelings more, causing her to yell again, "It's none of your business!"
Mama came rushing into our bedroom that very moment. "What is going on?"
Iman crossed her arms, and Mam kept looking between both Iman and I.
"Samira, leave." she commanded calmly.
I opened my mouth, about to protest, but instead marched out of the room, and threw myself on the couch. The living room was slightly colder than the bedroom, but it was more open and provided for a nice place to take a breath. The window curtains were pulled shut, so I went over to open them and allow some natural light in.
From the area right next to the window, I could overhear bits and snippets of what Iman and Mama were talking about, but not enough to fully make sense of what they were saying.
"She invited everyone else! I thought she was going to let me come..." Iman sobbed.
There was a large chuck of conversation that followed, but it hard to make sense of between Iman's sobs and the loud washing machine in he background.
The washer stopped, and I was able to fully hear what they were saying.
It was Mama's voice, "Oh Iman... you can always talk to me and your father. And even Samira...."
Without realizing it, a small smile began to form out of the corner of my lips as I listened to Mama finish her sentence.
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There's a lot I could ask about, but I won't lol. Any thoughts or questions?
