Under the Olive Tree

10. 'Ashra

"I think you're giving him too much credit."

"Oh, baby cousin, Muhsin deserves all the credit."

Amani rolled her eyes.

"It's too bad you won't be coming out of your hideaway soon enough to see him. I think your dad might actually be thinking about letting you go back home this time."

That night, when the moon was high enough in the sky to throw a blanket so dark even the starts seemed to shine blindingly, Amani couldn't be found anywhere in her aunt's home. She was sitting quietly across from the grave of Amer Abu Zaid, the sixteen-year-old refugee who'd been shot the day before she stopped leaving the house.

In a way, Amani found visiting the graveyard to be a humbling, grounding experience. She was worried about issues that seemed so insignificant in the true size of things. Yasmeen was spreading rumors about her? Children were dying. Why had she allowed herself to become so affected by such a minimal occurrence?

She heard something shuffle in the distance but, by this point, Amani no longer stirred at the sounds around her. Whatever the spirits in the graveyard were doing, it had nothing to do with her. Reema would think she'd gone absolutely ballistic.

Amani closed her eyes and lifted her hands before her face. She recited the new Surah she'd learned in Koran class for the boy because maybe her voice would bring him comfort in the dark isolation he was now in. Then, once she came to the end of all that she'd memorized, she recited the first Surah she'd ever known—the one that was always read for the dead because of the natural prayers present within.

When she finished, Amani rose and swept her hands softly down her face before pressing them against the grave. Long ago, her mother always told her that the purity of the words they spoke in their prayers could be caught in their hands and transferred to whoever they touched. She wanted to transfer them to Amer.

On her way back from the graves, Amani lifted the hood of her jacket onto her head—well, Muhsin's jacket. She hadn't given it back yet because she hadn't seen him. It's not like she wanted to keep it. Not at all. It was only because she hadn't had the opportunity to return it.

Yes, that was the reason.

She stopped by the water fountain but the cup was nowhere to be found. Amani rose onto her toes and peeked inside the refrigerator-like machine, but it was not there. She looked under it. Nothing. Then she carefully stepped over the bush beside it to peek behind it as a last resort. She doubted the cup would be in the narrow space between the machine's back and the wall.

"What are you doing?" Muhsin asked.

Muhsin?

Amani turned to find the boy standing on the opposite side of the bush she'd crossed. He looked down at the large shrub between them and scratched the back his neck. "The cup's gone."

"You're thirsty?"

"No." She lifted her leg to take a step back over the shrubbery between them but her abaya rose to reveal her legs. Muhsin was already looking toward the graves she'd just come from, hardly sparing her a morsel of his attention. She wondered if it was intentional.

He took a step back to give her space, tugging the strap of his backpack over his left shoulder. "I don't understand," he mumbled, his eyes roaming the ground around them.

"I need to water my plant," she cupped her hands beneath the water to gather as much as she could in her hold. Then she carefully stepped to the small seedling rising from the floor. A few droplets fell as she lowered herself to the ground, staying on her feet to keep the dirt from staining her burnt orange abaya. Opening her hands, she let the water fall quickly around the plant.