Under the Olive Tree

1. Wahid

Amani shrugged. "Yes, bas I don't care enough to."

"You should. These are your people."

"My people?"

Reema nodded. "You were born here and, maybe you weren't raised here, but you were raised by people raised here, Amani. If you just try to, you'll see yourself in us and you'll see us in yourself. More than you've ever seen in those foreigners."

"But I am one of those foreigner here."

"And you're one of these foreigners there. Come on," Reema hooked their arms together and led them toward town. "There's going to be a funeral at the next prayer and you don't want to get stuck in here while all the men bury the body."

Amani squinted the moment the roof no longer shielded her from the sun. The plain green dress that fell just past her knees and covered her arms would have suffocated her had the Mediterranean air not been blowing as consistently as it was. "Auntie needs bread."

Reema tugged Amani to the side of the busy street, away from the approaching bakery. "You'll have to wait until tomorrow. Look," she pointed to the light blue sign and clear glass. Amani's gaze rose in time to see the bakery boy a few steps in front of her, his gaze on the masjid behind her and his feet following.

She watched him, having never seen him quite so close. Or perhaps he'd never lifted his head to reveal more than the brown color of his hair. It wasn't long enough to pass his ears but always fell over his eyes while he worked.

He was taller than her by four or five inches, a height that lifted her head to meet his unreturned gaze. His skin bordered between fair and olive like the lighting held the power to change its color. The natural arch of his eyebrows wasn't too thick, nor too thin and his nose was straight. His eyelashes, brown and long, cast shadows on his hazel pupils. The reflection of the sun caught in the green, brown, and grey shades embracing his focused pupils.

As he passed, she noticed the absentminded expression lining his full lips, like he wasn't thinking of much. Before she could ponder on his intelligence, the sweet smell vanilla cologne mixed in with freshly baked bread that followed him filled her lungs.

Reema elbowed her. "Stop drooling."

Amani's hands instinctively flew to the corner of her mouth. "I was just looking at him," she shrugged.

"You looked for half of my lifetime."

"He's not very bad looking. If only his face wasn't in the bread he makes twenty-four-seven, maybe people would notice," she started to turn around then decided against it.

Reema shook her head. "You're the only one who hasn't noticed, Amani, and that's just because you don't live here."

Amani's eyebrows raised in intrigue.

"Every girl his age in town has crushed on him at least once, but it usually fades. The only girl still on him is Yasmeen. She practically has dibs on him so nobody else thinks they have a shot. She's had dibs for seven years too, but he hasn't looked at her once."

"Now this is interesting," Amani grinned.

Reema nudged her again. "You just focus on not getting killed by the Occupation Forces until your dad takes you back."

The mention of the occupation made Amani frown. "If I focus hard enough maybe I can free this place," she smirked.

"Oh, for sure. Savior Amani coming through everybody."

They laughed as the call to prayer sounded in the microphones behind them and continued until Amani stepped through the narrow doorway of her Aunt's house. They ate dinner together and, once her uncle had gone to bed, her Aunt slipped into Amani's room with a voice so low she might have been planning a murder. "Amani."