When Karen Met Osama

The curly-haired boy wears a white thobe like the terrorists on TV. His grey plaid uniform isn't ready.

The traditional ankle-length robe draws all eyes to him. His name is as pronounced as his nose. It shoots out of his face. Like a bullet.

Osama. 

How can I relax when a freshman named Osama stands in front of the class? Heaven knows what is in his black backpack.

Can he be any more suspicious?

"You can sit beside Karen. The blonde girl with green eyes to your left. She's the class president," Mr. Singh, our English teacher, says.

I mentally laser Mr. Singh's red turban off his head. As the brown-skinned boy comes closer, I scoot to the edge of my seat.

"Karen, please show Osama around our school later." Mr. Singh forms praying hands with glued palms.

He's got to be joking.

Oh well. This gives me a chance to dig into the newcomer.

"Hello, Karen." Osama smiles widely.

He wants me to think he's a sweet, little, innocent boy.

Not on my watch.

I, Karen Ryce, will protect Breakwater High from this guy.

By lunchtime, Osama has managed to charm people. Mostly teachers. They all gushed about how great he is at Algebra, History, and English.

English is my turf. Yet he tried to mark it as his territory.

 "Yes, Mr. Singh. I like Hamlet. More so The Tempest."

 Ugh!

I also saw him praying in our PE teacher's office. He had a mat with a mosque sewn on it. He kept bending up and down, saying Arabic words.

Ms. Martha just sat at her desk, writing notes. She never swung her black bob in his direction. As if nothing was happening!

I ask Mr. Singh why the Palestinian boy is doing Islamic things during school hours.

"He's Palestinian-Nigerian, Karen," he says. "I know how tolerant you are. You two will surely get along in no time."

Mr. Singh means I must play nice. As if I asked for the boy to be booted out.

Osama Bin very likely Laden. I'm on to you.

At home, Mom stands under a frame of dad in his decorated military uniform.

A golden oak leaf twinkles on his jacket. His gentle green eyes spread warmth through the glass. It's as if he's trying to comfort Mom while she digests the news about Osama.

"I would never forgive myself if I let one of them hurt you too. Why would Breakwater High allow something so reckless?"

Mom wipes her face with her aqua apron. It stains her blonde hair with flour. She rushed upstairs from her shop below, The Blissful Bakery, when she got my text about him.

The doorbell dings.

You wouldn't believe it.

Osama's here. So is a taller version of him.

The man's face is almost buried under a beard. He's wearing a white thobe. A black and white scarf held by a black band sits on his head.

Beside them is a dark-skinned woman. She's in a flowing, ocean-blue boubou dress. Her face is wrapped in a matching pashmina scarf.

They're all smiling widely.

"Salam alai–Good evening! We're the Maleks. Your new neighbors," the man says.

"I'm Fatimah. This is my husband Mustafa and our son, Osama." The woman ruffles Osama's hair while he smiles at his brown sandals.

"I'm Anne Ryce, and this"—Mom buries my face in her apron—"is my daughter Karen."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Anne and Karen. We hope you enjoy our signature blended dish. Jollof rain rice and grilled lamb kebabs," Ms. Malek says.

"Rice for the Ryce." Mr. Malek quips.

His wife stretches a yellow casserole dish painted with leaping gazelles toward us.

Mom eyes the item like a ticking bomb. "Bless your heart. We're vegetarians."

I hope Osama didn't see my mayo chicken sandwich at lunch.

Wait. Why do I care? I don't care.

Osama spots me. "Karen!”

"You know her?" Mr. Malek says.

"Baba, she's the classmate who showed me around school today."

"Your neighbor is your classmate? Allahu Akbar!"

Mom shrieks and Ms. Malek drops her dish.

Red rice, raisins, meat skewers, and a jigsaw of gazelles litter our entrance.

"I'm s–sorry," Ms. Malek says. "You screamed suddenly."

"I'll get our broom and sweep it all away," Mr. Malek offers.

Mom raises a hand. "You've done enough."

"I'm sorry." Ms. Malek looks up at her husband and back at us.

"Mama, let's go," Osama says.

I hate the look in his eyes as he turns away.

As if we're the ones who dirtied another person's home.

As if we should be sorry for something.

Osama hasn't said a word to me.

I said hello out of courtesy when I saw him in class today. He just nodded without looking my way.

"Hey," Gretchen says to me at lunch. "Are you trying to be chummy with bomber boy 'cause he's cute? Jin's cuter though."

Gretchen is a light-skinned redhead with a freckled face. She's my best friend. We attended Breakwater elementary and middle schools together.

"Eww, Gretchen. No." I lean over. "He's up to something. I want to scope him out."

"OMG. Sign me up for undercover agent duty. What do we have so far?" She pokes her juice box with a straw.

"Get this. Yesterday, his family showed up as our new neighbors. They're in the house opposite ours. Formerly owned by the Powers."

Gretchen gasps. “So sus!"

"Right! His parents are weirdly polite too. Nobody is that nice. Well, except my dad."

"Major Ryce was the best. I wish he wasn't at the Pentagon that day." She sighs. "I'll never forgive those guys."

I stab my mac and cheese with a fork. "Me too."

Years have passed, but it feels like yesterday.

The breaking news.

The hospital call.

The longest flight of my life.

From New York to Virginia.

From hope to reality.

One second, Dad's connected to a beeping monitor.

He's telling Mom and me he loves us. He's promising to always be with us. He's urging us to be strong.

And the next second…

My eyes water. My throat burns.

Gretchen reaches for me, but I pull away.

"I can't. Let's eat our food."

In English class, Mr. Singh writes diversity on the board in capital letters.

"What comes to mind when you hear it?" He circles the word with a red marker.

I raise my hand, but Mr. Singh looks over my head. "Yes, Gretchen."

"It means being different. Like with races, religions, and…" she whispers, "the s-word."

"Very good, but that's the meaning. Tell me what you picture. Yes, Jin."

Jin pushes his glasses with a pinkie. "I see Ms. Martha and her wife. They're amputees who fit each other like gloves. I see you, me, us. We're diverse."

"Excellent," Mr. Singh says.

I drop my hand. That was my idea, but Jin said it better.

"Globally, we have differences in living, grieving, worship, and festivals," Mr. Singh says. "For example, we Sikhs have Diwali. A festival of light that celebrates the defeat of evil by good. Yes, Deepika."

"Hindus mark it too. Like Holi, the love festival."

Deepika faces the class.

"There's a cleansing bonfire the night before spring. We welcome the season by trying to paint one another first with symbolic colors. We dance to drums and sing praises of Radha and Krishna."

Deepika's shiny hair bounces as she squeals.

"People end up wet and painted everywhere. It's my fave time of year!"

"Despite our differences in beliefs, we tend to have similarities." Mr. Singh sits on a desk. "What are some of your festivals, Osama?"

"Muslims have Eid celebrations,” Osama says.

“Eid al-Fitr marks the end of the Ramadan fasting period. Eid al-Adha honors Allah's mercy on Prophet Ibrahim; peace be upon him. We believe he was tested with the sacrifice of his only son, Ismail. When the time came, Allah sent—"

"A ram? Abraham, Ishmael, and the ram? That's in the Bible too." Jaden scratches his forehead.

"But you people hurt poor animals." Gretchen glares at Osama.

"Yo, Thanksgiving turkey doesn't grow on trees." Jaden's wheelchair squeaks as he looks back at Gretchen.

“And you always rave about Christmas pigs from your Opa's Pennsylvania farm. Didn't you eat Lo after playing with him for a week?"

"Her name was Lily!"

"She's in your belly," Jaden sings, shaking his locs while people laugh.

"Leave her alone, Jay." I scowl at him. He raises his hands in surrender.

"There are rules to prevent the animal from suffering during the process. It's also optional." Osama says. "If you can afford it, the meat is split into three. For people in need, friends, and family."

"Like Thanksgiving," Jaden says. "We share candied yams, mac and cheese, roast turkey, and stuff with our neighbors." He sighs happily. As if picturing himself at a full table.

"That sounds amazing," Osama says.

"You should come over, bro. We can also team up for b-ball with my fam. It's very competitive, but they're no match for me."

Jaden and Osama do an exploding fist bump.

Ugh. Boys.

"How do you celebrate in your land, Jin?" Gretchen asks.

Jin makes a face.

"My land? I'm from New York. We celebrate Thanksgiving called Gan’en Jie. Although, our main festival is Chunjie. The Chinese New Year."

He smiles, getting into the conversation.

"We wear red, hang lanterns, and light fireworks. We have lion and dragon parades to ward off evil. We burn incense for our ancestors and have a family feast. I also get a red envelope of even bills. Fifty dollars was in it this year."

"Whoa, and sorry. I just wanted to know more about you." Gretchen pouts.

"No problem, my lady. I'll get you up to speed." Jin winks.

The class oohs and ahhs. Gretchen hides her face with a paperback of The Tell-Tale Heart.

 "Settle down," Mr. Singh says. "As most of you know, Diversity Day is coming up. All classes must contribute to the event."

The class groans.

"Yay! Excitement!" Mr. Singh sings and we laugh.

"You'll pair up for an original poem on what diversity means to you. The best work will be read at the event. For extra credit and an award from Principal Grant."

Mr. Singh shakes his head as the class erupts in protest. "Jin, you're with Gretchen. Jaden, pair up with Deepika. Osama—"

"With me!"

Mr. Singh's mouth falls open.

Osama's eyes double in size.

"All right. Osama with Karen. Daisy with…"

Mr. Singh's voice is drowned by my drumming chest. This opportunity to dig into Osama better be worth it.

"Hey," I whisper to him. "Let's start our homework at my place. Two o'clock on Sunday."

Osama squints at me. "You want me back there?"

"My mom was just startled that day. It's ancient history."

"Okay. So, I'll meet you this weekend at—"

"Would you two like to continue this conversation in detention?" Mr. Singh raises an eyebrow.

"No sir."

"No sir."

He fights off a smile and continues talking.

Sorry, Mr. Singh. No friendship is happening here any time soon.

Before sunrise on Saturday, Mom and I head downstairs to prepare for our soup kitchen.

Mom ran a smaller version when she rented the bakery and dad lived upstairs. They bought the building when they got married.

Now, our soup kitchen runs twice a month with the military's financial support.

I could tell you the story of how my parents met a million times. My tall, dark, handsome, and hungry dad walks into Mom's yellow bakery. Saying—

"Good morning!" Osama sports a Star Wars t-shirt and shorts.

Everything's black. Even his notebook and backpack.

He scans the bakery and my Spidey-sense tingles.

"Hey!"

Osama spots me stacking a display shelf with cream-filled macarons.

"Hi. No one answered the doorbell upstairs. So I came here."

"It's fine, but we're to meet up at two o 'clock on Sunday." I check my wristwatch. "It's ten."

"And Saturday," he says. "Yikes. I don't have your number. So I couldn't confirm the time."

"Oh. I'll give it to you later."

Osama watches our assistant, Jamie. He's just opened a big bag of floral table linens.

"What's happening?"

"We're hosting a soup kitchen. People can dine in or grab takeout for free. We'll soon be super busy."

"How can I help?"

"You can drop your things at home and stack these shelves with me."

Osama puts his notebook in his backpack.

"Sounds good. I can just leave this at the back."

Yeah, right.

 "No, it'll get dirty."

I hand Osama an apron and a hairnet when he returns. "Wash your hands in the kitchen."

He points at the door. "Is your mom in there?"

"Yes." I gesture a hand to the kitchen to say go on.

 He replies with those annoying puppy dog eyes.

"Fine, I'll follow you."

I swing the door open.

Mom is bringing out golden-brown croissants from an oven. Her eyes dart between us like ping-pong balls.

Osama coughs. "Good morning, ma.”

"Mom, Osama came early for our homework. He decided to stay and help."

We shuffle to the sink like penguins and head out the door.

Ms. Malek is here. She's beside Jamie in a red and yellow African wax print dress. A large straw tote bag sits by her feet. Yams and spinach stalks stick out of it.

She waves. "Hello. Osama told me about your soup kitchen. I'd love to help."

 "Bless your heart," Mom says. "We're almost done. Jamie and I only need to make some soups."

Jamie swirls and plops a hand on his hip. "Ja-who? Girl. Our pastries are perfect, but the soups suck. Plus that kinda heat will hurt my skin."

He waves a napkin at Ms. Malek. "Let mamas do it."

"May I come in?" Ms. Malek asks.

"You're already in."

Mom's reply is met with Jamie's pursed lips and raised eyebrows.

She sighs. "Please come with me."

Ms. Malek adjusts her headscarf. She picks up the tote bag with a huff. "I've got some seasonings and things. How do you feel about freekeh cereal?"

"Never heard of it," Mom says as the door closes.

Osama grins as he wiggles his fingers into transparent gloves. "Thanks. This will cheer my ma up after last time."

What next?

Will Mr. Malek appear and offer to serve the dishes?

Oh my gosh. What's happening?

Osama is stacking croissants in a pyramid when I ask, "Why did your family move here?"

"We wanted a quiet place. Yet this mixed community made us feel at home. My ma's a chef too. She plans to open another bistro here," he says.

"Really? Where did you live before moving to the Upper East Side?"

"Let's see. My hometown, Gaza, is unsafe. It took a lot for Baba to get us out. We lived in Brooklyn for some years, then moved to Lagos."

I stack the last cupcake. Red velvet is my favorite, but I have no appetite.

"Your mom's bistro is in Lagos?"

"Yeah. It's a big deal there. She has chefs running two branches while we're here."

Osama just happens to be my classmate and neighbor.

Now his mom—who looks nothing like him—is a chef. One who can make the one thing needed at our soup kitchen.

And what exactly is this a lot his dad took to leave Palestine?

What kind of deal did he make?

Are the people who took dad from me targeting victims' families?

Or are these just coincidences?

"What's her bistro called and what does your dad d—"

I'm interrupted by a gust of wind. People troop in, saying hello.

Mom and Ms. Malek emerge with aluminum pots in their mitten-clad hands. They head behind a display with stainless steel warmers.

"Who's ready for some yam potage and pepper soup freekeh," Mom sings.

"Vegan and non-vegan," Ms. Malek says.

Kids, adults, and seniors cheer.

Our moms dish the steaming meals into bowls. They place them on people's trays with warm smiles.

"María may be writing the letters to the cathedral. I think she knows that Pastor Pablo's son kidnapped Inéz," Ms. Malek says.

"Me too!" Mom points her ladle at Ms. Malek excitedly. "I'm sure she's Inéz's birth mom. Remember, she and Sebastián were stuck at the ranch."

"Yes! That summer day."

I drop a croissant on a tray, eyeing them. Are they really discussing Secrets of Saltillo? Mom's telenovela obsession? 

What exactly happened in the kitchen?

"Colors," Osama says.

Huh?

He places a strawberry cupcake on the tray of a brown-skinned kid in faded overalls. The kid blows Osama a kiss and he blushes.

"When I think of diversity, I think of colors. Look," he says.

Our guests are clinking cutlery, chatting, and laughing.

The Maleks' presence almost made me forget. This is my favorite part: watching everyone come together and have a blast.

"Should we write about how diversity makes us more colorful?" Osama says.

"Let's also make it rhyme. Mr. Singh will give us points for that."

The last of our guests leave. After many hugs and praises for the new dishes.

Mom slouches on a chair and wipes her face with her apron. She's had such a busy week. Her weekend is all but gone.

Still, her smile says she'll gladly do this again.

Ms. Malek insists that Mom goes up to rest, promising to clean up with Jamie.

"I'll visit you tomorrow," I say to Osama. "What time should I come over?"

"Any time you want, Kare Bear," he says.

Something funny skids along my skin, making me laugh.

"What did you call me?"

Osama chuckles. "It's silly, but I'm keeping it. Hey?"

"Yeah?"

"Honestly, I thought you guys were kind of mean toward my family at first. I was wrong, and I'm sorry."

A wave of guilt swells and washes over me.

I feel like Princess Jasmine on a magic carpet ride, at the Maleks' house on Sunday afternoon.

The furnishings have colorful embroideries. The walls are painted in dreamy pastel hues. There's a whiff of spices in the air and art everywhere.

Osama's room is upstairs. Star Wars souvenirs are on his shelves. Posters of Palestinian soccer players hug his walls.

Ms. Malek offers us milkshakes and pastries called small chops. She leaves us with the door open.

Osama and I abandon his cushions for a cream carpet. I tell him about life in Breakwater. Our seasonal fairs and movie nights.

He tells me about Lagos. The art. The major ethnic groups. The yellow commercial buses called Danfo.

We start our project. Scribbling ideas into his notebook.

"We're made of different colors. To appreciate the magic of diversity," Osama reads from a messy page.

"Let's replace magic with beauty. It rhymes a bit."

"Nice." He scribbles it down. "Should verse two say what diversity shouldn't do? Like a closing argument?"

"Great idea. Is your middle name Habibi? Your Mom kept calling you that."

"Nah. It means my beloved."

Osama's phone buzzes beside his notebook. A text from Mama pops up on the screen.

"Sweet! The samosas are almost ready. I'll be back."

He speeds out the door.

I should follow him. If samosas are like puff-puff and other treats I had, I want some too.

I travel the hallway, singing softly, "When I'm way up here, it's crystal clear. Now I'm in a whole new world with you."

At the top of the stairs is a frame of the Maleks in purple lace. Ms. Malek looks regal in a head tie and sash.

Whoa! Gretchen should see this.

They're a sweet family and we… No, I was being awful. I grab my iPhone from my jeans pocket and launch the video camera.

"At six o'clock on Diversity Day, the whole place will light up." Mr. Malek's voice rises from under the stairs.

I freeze.

"Don't worry, akhi. We wouldn't sign up for this if we weren't ready. With the Palestinian bombers, yes."

Mr. Malek cackles. "Every single person will be blown away, Wallahi. Trust me, it'll be front-page news."

My phone slips from my shaking hands.

My ears are ringing.

My stomach is swirling.

I need to get out of here!

I grab my phone and tiptoe to the carpet, trying to breathe slower.

Osama returns with a plate of steaming triangular pastries. "Hey, Kare Bear. Let's eat these before we work on—"

"Can we pick up our project tomorrow?"

"Something's up." Osama squints at me.

He's no longer cute.

He's creepy.

I let out a long sigh. "I didn't sleep much after the soup kitchen. I've been feeling so tired."

His face softens with fake concern. "Kare Bear, you should have told me sooner. Please go home and get some rest."

Downstairs, Ms. Malek hands me a paper bag with samosas. I wave goodbye to everyone and walk away slowly.

Back home, I toss the paper bag in the trash and dash to Mom's room.

She's not going to believe this.

On Monday, I head down the hallway toward Mr. Singh's office. I'm bursting with a new appreciation for Breakwater High.

These people's hatred could have cost us our lives. Still, it hurts that Osama proved me right.

Military veterans founded our school. Many of their children are enrolled here.

It must have felt like the perfect place to make a statement.

Mom took my iPhone and went to file a complaint as dawn broke. Mr. Malek—if that's even his real name—must have been arrested by now.

Mr. Singh welcomes me with a smile I can't return. Not when I'm about to break his heart.

With a heavy sigh, I plop down on a chair. I stare at his cast iron bangle as he opens his blinds.

 How do I tell him we've been fooled by a spy?

"There's something you should know about the Maleks."

Mr. Singh chuckles. "I see your bestie has told you. Keep it a secret though."

What?

"You know?"

"The Diversity Day host knows all." Mr. Singh sits and adjusts papers on his crowded desk.

"I spoke to Mustafa yesterday. The fireworks will be delivered to his new hardware store this week."

Fireworks?

"Principal Grant owns the building. So Mustafa's in good hands. I've been helping him set up after school."

Was Mr. Malek talking about fireworks when he said…?

"Sadly, there's no upstairs space for Fatimah's bistro. Regardless, she'll treat us to sub sandwiches with a twist. Delicious delights called Palestinian—"

"Bombers?"

Oh, no.

"For vegans and non-vegans. Will you stay back to set up the auditorium with me today?"

"Mr. Singh, I've got to go."

My legs can't carry me across the hallway quickly enough.

The air is thinning. My heart rate is rising.

Breathe. Think.

Mom. I have to call Mom.

I fetch Mom's phone from my locker and dial my number. The call connects to my voicemail.

Oh, no.

Outside, it's more crowded than usual. I push past people, trying to listen in on their chatter.

Two officers face Osama. The woman wears shades and a sleek bun. She holds up a mugshot of Mr. Malek in a black thobe. A black and white scarf is wrapped around his head.

"Do you know this man?"

Osama frowns. "That's my Baba. Mustafa Malek."

"He's in custody. Over suspected plans to bomb this school at an upcoming event." The man in a police hat clutches his taser.

"Come with us and answer some questions," the woman says.

"Is this a prank? He's not a terrorist."

"I assure you these tasers are real. Hand over your backpack," the man says.

Osama hands them his backpack, tears falling down his face.

This isn't what I wanted. I thought...

I need to get to Mr. Singh, but the huddle pushes me farther away.

"Karen!" Mom yells out of her brown sedan.

She hops out with her door open and marches forward.

"I can't believe I let you near my baby!" Mom grabs Osama by his shirt.

"Mom, please!"

I pull her hands away and she holds me. Osama stares at us in confusion.

It's getting harder to breathe. To move. To think!

"Ma'am, don't you worry. They won't get away with this," the woman says. She clutches Osama's elbow. "Move!"

"What did you do? Karen, what did you do?" Osama keeps asking me, as he's led into a black SUV.

"I'm sorry!"

I'll fix it. I'll fix everything.

There are countless flashlights and buzzes.

"I can't believe we were almost attacked by jihadists."

"Definitely Al-Qaeda or ISIS."

"Who names their kid Osama?"

"He needs to be deported."

"I hope his father is jailed forever."

My body feels limp. My head feels light.

"Karen!"

The world spins and fades to black.

The sun shining on my eyelids pulls me out of my slumber.

Mom glances at me from the driver's seat and cups my chin.

"How do you feel, honey?"

"We need to go to the station."

"Don't worry about that anymore. The officers are handling it. Let's get you to a clinic."

"They're innocent, Mom!"

Her sedan screeches to a halt.

"What do you mean?"

We arrive at the station to meet Ms. Malek waiting outside. She's wearing a wrinkled orange headscarf, pink pajamas, and mismatched sandals.

Her thin smile shatters my heart some more.

"Let's go to the tea shop around the corner. Mr. Singh and the principal are giving their statements. It might take a while." Her voice is low and raspy.

Mom and I walk silently behind Ms. Malek.

In the shop, music plays softly and people lounge about. I wish we were here for fun. I wish I could go back in time.

"Please sit. I'll order for us." Mom fumbles for her wallet in her bag and it falls.

I chase after rolling coins while she picks up the notes.

"So, sorry," Mom says to the floor. "I'm so sorry. No, please sit, Fatimah."

"All right. I'll have the decaf Earl Grey with lemon, please." Ms. Malek takes a seat by the window.

Soon, she sips her tea while Mom explains everything.

"Fatimah, I'm completely ashamed about how I handled this incident. I'm so sorry for the pain I've caused your family," Mom says.

Ms. Malek looks out the window and sighs. "You were trying to protect your daughter. I understand."

Mom and I exchange glances.

"Mr. Singh said you lost your loving husband and father to the Pentagon attack. There's no pain like losing someone unjustly."

Ms. Malek traces a circle around her teacup. "White cops shot my brother while we were schooling in Brooklyn. They said the phone in his hand resembled a gun. It was self-defense."

"Fatimah," Mom whispers.

"I'm not Osama's birth mom. She died in a mosque bombing in Gaza when he was a toddler. That forced Mustafa to sell all they had and flee to Egypt. I was in Cairo for a cooking class when my purse got stolen one evening. Mustafa went after the thief and left me with his doe-eyed boy. I fell in love with them right then.”

Ms. Malek wipes her eyes with her headscarf.

"Though I’ve lived in Nigeria mostly, I was born here. So they have green cards now. We moved to Lagos for safety and work, but our son needs better access to education. Osama wouldn't speak when I met him, but he's doing so well now. Anne, to be woken up by cops who dragged my husband away in cuffs… It was a lot.”

Osama opened up to me. He let me into his home and his life. He trusted me. All I did was hurt him and his family.

"Please forgive me, Ms. Malek," I whisper, as Mom tries to catch her breath.

 "Karen, you're so young to have experienced something so cold. Yet you have a good heart and a kind soul," Ms. Malek says.

My throat feels like sandpaper. I can only shake my head.

"I mean it, habibti." She holds my hands.

"Goodness and evil aren't based on race or religion. That's why you and Osama are braving similar storms. Anne, Mustafa wants you to know he's not pressing any charges. We want to put this behind us."

"Fatimah, we're heavily indebted to you," Mom says. "Please give us another chance to make things right.".

"For now, I need to be with my family."

"Please, let's come with you," Mom says.

As we near the station, I'm shaking. Mom squeezes my hand and I squeeze hers back.

Mr. Singh and principal Grant have left. We meet Mr. Malek sitting in front of our police chief.

Chief Dean is in a crisp, dark-blue uniform. Four gold stars are shining on each collar. Osama stands behind them with squared shoulders and clasped hands.

"Please accept our apologies again. The officers in charge could have prevented a spiral by following due protocol," Chief Dean says.

"They'll be reprimanded. We'll also hold a press conference to clear any misunderstandings the public may have."

"How kind of you. Do keep the Ryce's name out of the press," Mr. Malek says.

"You have our word they'll remain anonymous. Allow our men to escort you home."

"No, no. Your officers are needed in emergencies."

"Baba, let's go." Osama yanks his backpack off a table before an officer can.

"M-M-Mr. Malek, I'll spend forever making it up to you," Mom says as they approach us.

Osama rolls his eyes. "I'll wait outside."

"All's well that ends well, Ms. Ryce," Mr. Malek says. "Let's leave the past behind and head home in good faith. As good friends."

"Take care of yourselves." Ms. Malek waves.

Outside, Mr. Malek kneels in front of his wife. He kisses her belly with closed eyes.

Oh my gosh. She's pregnant and I put her through this?

The Maleks hug one another like it's their last time. Yet, it feels like I'm seeing them for the first time.

Osama faces me and the atmosphere darkens.

His eyes threaten that I'll never again hear his laughter on a carpet. In a home that smells like spices and love.

Osama hasn't come to school in a week. Whenever someone walked into class, my heart skipped a beat. For nothing.

During PE, his lookalike appeared by the bleachers. I stared and stared until a volleyball smacked me on the head.

So, here I am. At his doorstep with a headache and my notebooks. I straighten my school uniform as the door opens.

"Hey habibti," Ms. Malek says, rubbing her bump. She's in a grey, knee-length headscarf on loose pants. 

"Hi, ma'am. I'm sorry to bother you. I came to give Osama my notebooks."

"How thoughtful. Come in. I'll get him."

I take a seat, tapping the carpet with my feet.

Relax, Karen.

A door opens. Muffled voices go back and forth.

I get up as Ms. Malek returns.

"He's coming. Osama asked me to make this after the soup kitchen. He insisted on paying me from his savings."

She hands me a paper bag. "I'll get you some juice."

"No, please don't trouble—"

Ms. Malek gestures to a seat and heads to her kitchen.

Did Osama ask her to give this to me now? Has he been waiting for me?

"What are you doing here?"

Osama stands on the lowest stair in a black thobe. His hair is wet and clings to his face. He looks older.

The notebooks. I'm here to give him… Oh, who am I kidding?

"I miss you and I'm sorry."

"Leave."

"Osama, I know you're upset—"

He scoffs.

"Upset would be watching my parents spend hours cooking for our neighborhood. Upset would be watching some of that food spill to the floor. All because two of those neighbors couldn't stand us."

"Habibi?" Ms. Malek holds a tray with two glasses of orange juice.

"Upset would be knowing you pretended, just to spy on me. What you did…  makes me furious."

"Karen, you go home, okay? I'll return the notes to you," Ms. Malek says.

"Don't show your face here again."

"Habibi, please calm down."

"No, Mama! She has no idea how scared I was on that drive! That my parents would be gone when I arrived! That I would be deported! That my life would shatter simply because I brought home a friend."

He spits out the word friend.

"I hate walking on eggshells. I hate that when normalcy comes, it's snatched away again. Above all, I hate you, Karen. So. Much."

"Habibi! Habibi!" Ms. Malek drops her tray on a table. She races up the stairs after Osama.

I reach for my notebooks and the paper bag tips over. Inside is a blurry pink material.

I wipe my eyes and unfold an apron. On the front, Kare Bear is stitched under white and brown teddies.

After school and a sleepless weekend, Gretchen and I head to the auditorium. We decorate a colorful WELCOME TO DIVERSITY DAY!!! banner.

Ms. Martha and Mr. Singh are hanging it up on foldable ladders.

Ms. Martha massages her end of the banner with her unamputated hand. "Karen, have you checked up on your absentee friend?"

"Yep. He hates me and I deserve it."

"Now-now. Neither you nor that boy is built for hatred. You need to make it up to him."

"My best shot is at the ceremony. I doubt he'll show up. He doesn't want to see me. Ever again." 

I let go of a brown balloon. It squeals to a stop.

"How about I visit Osama and invite him myself?" Mr. Singh suggests.

"Yes! I'll come with you. I want to see him, and I've got the book," Gretchen says.

I forgot about the other notebook. It holds our apologies and well wishes for Osama. Gretchen and I took it around school until it got filled up.

"I'll let Mom know I'm coming home with Mr. Singh. Gretchen, you should call your dads too."

I'm hiding in Mr. Singh's passenger seat. He and Gretchen are at the Maleks' doorstep, a few feet away.

Osama opens the door. His frown becomes a smile and he hugs Mr. Singh.

He notices Gretchen and says, "I'd invite you in, but I'm all out of prison visits."

Mr. Singh sighs.

"My dear, sweet boy. I understand if you want to leave the Breakwater community for good. Before then, can you let us try to make it up to you?"

"Please attend Diversity Day. We all would love to see you there. Here." Gretchen hands Osama the notebook.

He opens and shuts it quickly, looking away. "I'll think about it."

I hope this convinces him to come back to us.

Oh, Osama.

 Students and their families arrive in the auditorium. The hall is alive with balloons, banners, and bright lights. Even brighter are the people in traditional attires.

Some girls look straight out of a fairytale. They’re in Chinese Hanfu dresses with flowing sleeves. Some boys look dashing in Korean hanbok. With belted silk vests and black, high hats.

I'm backstage with Jin and Jaden. We're helping Mr. Singh get ready to take the stage. Well, I assist in between peeking through the red curtains.

It doesn't look like the Maleks will show up.

"Karen, guess what!"

Deepika appears backstage in a rose-pink sari. Its long shawl is draped over her shoulder. A golden headpiece rests on her forehead. It's paired with a necklace and a pair of dangling earrings.

"Whoa!" I say. "You look royal."

She smiles, holding up praying hands and shaking her head.

"Shukriya. Your dress is stunning too. So silvery and sparkly. Guess what? I saw the Maleks outside."

"No way!" I poke my head through the curtains.

She's right! The Maleks are saying hellos and finding their seats. Osama and Mr. Malek are in white thobes. Ms. Malek is in white lace and a head tie.

"It's showtime!" Mr. Singh says.

Thumping drums echo through the hall, giving me goosebumps.

Jaden hands him a prop sword. Jin says, "Break a leg."

Mr. Singh appears on stage. He's wearing a bold blue turban and a robe with a wide skirt.

The drumming stops when he raises his sword. It speeds up as he jumps and somersaults. He wields the fake weapon like a real warrior.

I already saw him in rehearsals, but I can't look away. He's so cool!

The lights go off. Jaden and I hurry to the stage. Jaden collects the sword while I hand Mr. Singh a microphone.

The lights come on amid thunderous applause.

"Hello and welcome to our annual Diversity Day celebration." Mr. Singh's voice booms across the hall.

"Today promises to be entertaining and educative. Before we begin, a word from our Principal, Ms. Louise Grant. A round of applause for her."

The day zips by and my turn to take the stage arrives. I head past the curtains with my flash cards in hand.

"Hello, everyone. I'm Karen Ryce. Breakwater Digest readers know me as The Girl Who Cried Terrorist."

There's some laughter in the audience.

"This poem was started by my incredible partner. The boy I assumed the worst of because of where he's from. And what I thought that meant about him."

I look up from my flash cards.

"I'm lucky I got the chance to know Osama. And his amazing parents, Mr. and Ms. Malek, who are here today. Thank you for coming to Breakwater. Thank you for the love you've shown me. Although I don’t deserve it."

The audience applauds. I can't be more grateful for the support.

"Most importantly, I want to say I'm truly sorry. For everything. Osama, you're entitled to the same freedom as all of us. Freedom from bias and assumption. Someday, I hope we can enjoy a friendship free from my past prejudices. Everyone, here's our poem titled Rainbow.”

I adjust the mic and clear my throat.

 "We're made of different colors,

So we can appreciate the beauty of diversity,

Marvel in our similarities,

And strengthen our unity.

We're not made of different colors,

To claim superiority,

Or endanger the minority,

As we're equally beautiful separately,

But, together, we're a much more enchanting entity."

 I step away from the mic amid deafening silence.

Suddenly, Gretchen stands and whistles. The audience rises, cheering me on.

I scan the space for Osama's seat.

It's empty.

"Thank you all for coming and making today a success,” Mr. Singh says. "Please gather outside for a special surprise from Principal Grant. Prepared by Mr. Mustafa Malek."

Gretchen appears on stage and hugs me.

"You nailed it! Let's go. The others have already left."

"Have you seen Osama?" I ask.

She shakes her head.

Outside, fireworks of many colors shoot skyward. They explode with a satisfying crackle.

All I can think of is how I lost my last chance to win my friend back. I can almost hear him calling me.

Wait a minute.

I turn around and there is Osama.

Words. Words. Say something, Karen!

 "Thanks for coming today. I know my actions could have cost your family everything. Please forgive me."

I hope he stays. I hope he no longer hates me. And maybe… just maybe… he mi—

"I miss you too."

"What did you say?"

"My Mom asked me what I would have done in your shoes. It got me thinking. I'm saying, I understand and I forgive you."

"Osama."

"Yes, Kare Bear?"

My fears and frustrations fall from my eyes.

"Aww. Group hug!" Deepika says.

Gretchen, Jin, and Jaden are also tearing up beside us.

We huddle together. This moment couldn't be better.

"Guys, look! A panda!" Jin pulls away and points at falling fireworks.

"Nah. It was a polar bear," Gretchen says.

"You're both wrong," Jaden says.

They start talking over one another.

Osama and I glance at each other and laugh.

It may not have been a panda or a polar bear, but it's certainly the happiest day of my life.

Mariah Carey's vocals make the Blissful Bakery and Bistro bubbly. She's gushing about all she wants for Christmas.

It's snowing outside and sparkling inside.

There's a tree and a bag of gleaming ornaments. For people to decorate it with.

We have gingerbread cookies, candy canes, and chocolate-covered puff-puff.

The whole place feels snug and magical.

Mom and Ms. Malek exit the kitchen with aluminum pots. They're chatting about Secrets of Saltillo.

It turns out, María was behind the letters. She and her daughter Inéz have reunited with Pastor Pablo's help.

I eye the Santa clock with a mustache for hands.

When is my conversation buddy coming?

Like a spell, my thought summons Osama through the door.

He's wearing a black Star Wars t-shirt on shorts. Smiling like the day we met.

He greets our moms and hurries to me.

"What's on the menu for today, Kare Bear?"

He eyes a shelf of treats begging to be eaten.

"What I've got for you is too special for the menu." I dust my Kare Bear apron proudly.

"For me?" Osama ruffles his curls.

"Ta-da!" I produce a paper bag penciled with leaping gazelles.

Osama peeks inside and gasps.

"No way!"

"Tamriyeh!" Osama's face lights up like the tree.

Inside the paper bag are puffy pastries filled with semolina pudding. They're dusted with powdered sugar and pistachios.

"Ms. Malek told me it's your favorite treat. Mom and I made them today."

"Thank you, ma."

Mom and Ms. Malek look up. They smile as Osama bows.

He says a prayer and stuffs his face with a pastry. His satisfied mumbles tickle me to no end.

"These are amazing. Thank you, Kare Bear."

Pfft. I didn't do it for his thanks. Yet his excitement is so satisfying.

"Your assistant is reporting for duty." With a salute, he heads to the kitchen to wash his hands.

"Osama?" I say as he grabs an apron from a hanger.

"Yeah?"

"Are you happy?"

"Like never before."

My heart feels like hot chocolate loaded with toasted marshmallows.

The door opens.

"Welcome to Blissful Bakery and Bistro," we say in unison and burst with laughter.