IN ANOTHER LIFE

Chapter 9: Boring

The first day of being boring was the worst day of my life.

Friday. December 6th. Day 1 of 31.

I woke up at 6 AM out of habit. My body thought I was supposed to be at the oak tree. I sat up in bed, looked at the window where the oak tree would be if I could see that far, and then laid back down.

No text. No Aisha. I deleted her number. My phone felt lighter and heavier at the same time.

At school, I tried to be boring.

It is harder than it sounds. To be boring, you have to act like someone you are not, but also act like you don't care that you are acting.

I got to biology early and sat at table three with Marcus. I didn't look at table two, where Aisha and Sarah sit now. I stared at the frog.

"Morning," Marcus said, smelling like chips.

"Morning," I said.

Aisha walked in at 8:02 AM. Two minutes late. She never is late. Her hijab was black today, the one she wears when she is tired. She didn't look at me. She sat down at table two and opened her book.

Mr. Davis started talking about cell division. Mitosis. How one cell becomes two. How things split and copy themselves.

I couldn't stop looking at the back of her head. Her hijab had a small pin, silver, shaped like a moon. I gave her that pin in 7th grade for Eid. She still wears it.

Sarah turned around and looked at me. She mouthed: _What happened?_

I shook my head. _Can't talk._

Sarah frowned.

At lunch, I sat with the basketball guys. They talk about games and girls and they are loud. I usually sit with Maya's friend's older brothers, but today I sat with them because Aisha never sits near them. She sits with the girls who pray at lunch in the empty classroom.

I saw her in the hallway once. Between third and fourth period. Our lockers are on opposite sides now — I moved my stuff last week to make it easier to avoid her. But we still have to pass each other to get to math.

She was coming with books. I was coming with books.

We met in the middle.

Time slowed down, like in movies.

She looked up. I looked down. For one second, her eyes said everything. _Thank you. I heard you last night. I heard you delete my number. I'm sorry. I'm angry. I miss you._

My eyes probably said: _I had to. There's a ticket to Ohio in his drawer._

We said nothing. We just said "hey" at the same time, boring, short, and kept walking.

Just "hey."

The most boring "hey" in the history of "hey."

Behind me, I heard someone giggle. Two freshman girls. "See? I told you they broke up."

Good. Let them think we broke up. Breaking up is boring. People stop talking about it after two days.

After school, I didn't take the bus. I walked home the long way, not past the oak tree. Past the gas station, past the park, past the church. It took 45 minutes. My feet hurt.

My mom was home.

"How was boring day one?" she asked.

"Horrible," I said.

"Good. That means you are doing it right."

---

Aisha's side of boring was harder.

She told me later — in a letter, weeks later — what her day was like.

After I left her house that Thursday night, her father called her out of her room.

"Aisha, I talked to Daniel," he said.

She knew. She had heard everything through the wall. Thin walls in small houses.

"You heard?" he asked.

"Yes, Baba."

"Are you angry that I made him delete your number?"

She was. She was so angry she wanted to scream. But she also knew why.

"No," she lied. Again. Second lie to her parents in one week. She was becoming good at it and she hated it.

"He is a good boy," her father said. "He agreed to protect you. Many boys would not. They would say 'I love her, I want to fight.' But he said 'I will disappear for a month so she can stay.' That is respect. I respect him, even though he is not Muslim."

Aisha cried that night, not because she was going to Ohio, but because her father respected Daniel, and respect in her family is almost like love.

On Friday at school, she tried to be boring too. But girls are not allowed to be boring. If a girl is quiet, people think she is sad. If a girl is sad, people ask why.

At lunch, Sarah asked, "Did you and Daniel have a fight?"

"No. We are just... not talking much. We are busy."

"Busy with what? Mitosis?" Sarah rolled her eyes. "Aisha, everyone saw you two say 'hey' in the hallway like robots. It's weird. Before you were ignoring each other and that was drama, now you are saying 'hey' and that's even more drama. People love drama."

"I know," Aisha whispered. "But we have to. For one month."

She didn't tell Sarah about the ticket to Ohio. Or the deleted number. Or the oak tree. She kept it secret because secrets are safer.

After school, she went home and prayed Asr. She prayed longer than usual. She prayed for Daniel, even though she is not supposed to pray for a boy who is not family. She prayed: _Ya Allah, keep him safe. Make him not forget me in 31 days._

Then she did something her father told her not to do.

She wrote a letter.

Not on phone. On paper. Small pink paper from her old diary, the one with locks.

_Daniel,_

_I heard you last night. Thank you. I know you deleted my number. My dad showed me the ticket too this morning. Columbus, Ohio. January 3rd. He said if we are boring for one month, he will tear it._

_I am trying to be boring. It is hard. I miss our 6 AM._

_If you find this, don't reply. Just know I am okay. Or not okay, but trying._

_- A_

She folded it three times, put it in her coat pocket, and at 5:30 PM, when she told her mom she was going to buy milk at the store, she walked past the oak tree.

No one was there. Daniel was not there. He kept his promise.

She lifted the big root on her side, the one with moss, and pushed the letter under it, under a small rock, where we said we would leave letters if we ever needed to.

Then she ran home before Maghrib.

---

Saturday and Sunday were torture.

No school means no "hey" in the hallway. No excuse to see each other.

I stayed home and played video games with Maya. I helped my mom fold laundry. I stared at my phone 100 times, wanting to type Aisha's number from memory. I know it by heart: 555-0147.

But I didn't.

On Sunday night at 9 PM, my mom knocked on my door.

"Someone left this for you at the clinic," she said, holding a small plastic bag with milk inside and a folded pink paper.

"Who?"

"Mrs. Fatima. She came to pick up her prescription. She said Aisha dropped this at the store and she thought it was yours? She was smiling weird."

I opened the pink paper.

_Daniel, I heard you last night..._

My heart beat so fast Maya could probably hear it from the next room.

She broke the rule. Her father said no letters, but she wrote one anyway.

I read it five times. Then I wrote back on the back of my math homework, because I had no pink paper.

_Aisha,_

_I found it. I wasn't supposed to go to the tree but I checked at 6 AM Sunday because I couldn't sleep and your root was moved. I knew._

_I'm not okay either. But we have 27 days left. We can do 27 days._

_If your dad tears that ticket, I will carve a bigger D + A on the tree, I promise._

_Don't write again, okay? He checks. Stay safe. Be boring._

_- D_

_P.S. I still remember your number._

I didn't have a way to give it to her. Mrs. Fatima wouldn't bring another milk bag. I had to risk the tree.

Monday morning, 5:50 AM. Still dark. I walked to the oak tree, lifted the root, put my letter under the rock, took hers, and left in under one minute.

I was home by 6:05 AM. No one saw me.

Or I thought no one saw me.

---

Monday at school, second period, Mr. Davis called me to his desk after class.

"Daniel, can I talk to you for a second?"

"Yes, sir."

He closed the biology lab door.

"Daniel, Yusuf came to see me this morning. He said you and Aisha are still meeting. Is that true?"

My blood went cold again. Second time in four days.

"Sir, no. We said hey in the hallway, that's it."

"Yusuf said he saw footprints. Fresh footprints by the oak tree this morning. Small footprints. Like Aisha's boots. And big footprints. Like yours."

Footprints. In the mud. I didn't think about mud. It rained Sunday night.

"He took a picture," Mr. Davis said, showing me his phone. Photo of the oak tree base. Two sets of footprints. One small, one big. Leading to the root with moss.

Yusuf knows. He knows about the letters.

And Mr. Davis was looking at me like he was disappointed.

"Daniel, I don't want to get involved in family drama. But if Aisha's father comes to school because of this, it becomes my problem too. So tell me the truth. Are you still meeting her?"

Behind Mr. Davis, through the lab window, I could see the hallway. And in the hallway, I could see Aisha walking with her father.

Her father. At school. On Monday morning. Wearing his work clothes, not supposed to be here.

He was holding a pink piece of paper and a white piece of paper.

My letter and her letter.

He found them.

And he was walking straight towards the biology lab.

Towards me.