My alarm went off before sunrise and the house smelled like cumin and cinnamon and the warm kind of nervousness that lives under your skin. I lay there for a minute listening to the quiet, the hum of the fridge, Ahmed's muffled laughter from the other room, the way Soraya's stuffed animals sounded when she kicked them under her blanket. I told myself it would be okay. I told myself too many things.
Mum had already been up. The kitchen light was on when I walked in and she had made parathas, the flaky kind, still steaming. She smiled the way she always does when she's trying to make courage for someone: small, steady. She put a hand on my head and whispered a dua. I closed my eyes and let the words fall over me like a coat.
"Remember who you are," Dad said at the doorway, a brief thing between buttoning his shirt and checking his phone. He looked tired, the lines by his eyes deeper than last year. He told me to work hard, to represent the family well. His words were heavy with hope, like expectations packed into a suitcase I didn't know how to carry yet.
Ahmed barreled into the kitchen wearing a basketball jersey two sizes too big, shouting about which seat he had in Year 7. Soraya danced around our legs in her bright dress, asking if I would show her the locker tomorrow. I ruffled Ahmed's hair and pretended her questions didn't make my throat tight. I kissed Mum's cheek before I left. She squeezed my hand like it was fragile.
On the walk to school I kept my hoodie up even though it wasn't cold. The streets looked the same, cracked footpath, the corner shop with its lopsided sign, Mr. Nguyen watering his plants, but I felt like an invisible glass wall had been put between me and everyone else. I told myself to be brave. I told myself to be normal.
School was loud in the way only new terms can be: shoes on polished floors, laughter squeezed into corners, the smell of cheap coffee spinning from the staff room. People that had been strangers became familiar in the space of a bell. I moved through clusters of students like I was floating through someone else's life. I answered the small talk when it came and kept my voice low.
They stared. At first it was a look, a tilt of the head, subtle, like they were trying to read a book in a language they didn't know. But the glances piled up, got louder. "The White terrorist," I heard it once in a whisper as I crossed the courtyard and I felt my face go hot. A laugh followed, soft and sharp.
Cameron and his group were like a storm you can see before it arrives. He's got that lean, arrogant way of moving, the sort of confidence that makes other people disappear. He saw me, smirked, and said something under his breath loud enough for his friends. There was a joke. Racist, cruel in the tiny way that makes you wonder if people mean it or just think they're being funny. I stared at the ground. My heart thudded like someone knocking on a door I didn't want to open.
At lunch I sat at the edge of the tiered concrete outside the library, my sandwich untouched in its wrapper. The sun was warm on my neck but it didn't reach inside me. I watched groups like they were a different country: musicians in one corner, the soccer kids in another, girls laughing too loudly at something I didn't understand. I noticed small things, the way Sophie's glasses caught the light, the way Amira's luscious locks move with the wind, the colour of her skin, the way Mr. Chen's tie had a little stain on it, the scuff on the library door that always made a funny squeak. Observing was easier than joining. Observing was safe.
Someone walked past and bumped my backpack hard enough that the zipper bit into my side. No one said sorry. I felt the old, familiar knot, the one that shows up when you expect danger in the eyes of people you don't even know. I thought about answering back. I thought of fists and retorts and the satisfaction of making someone uncomfortable. But I also thought of Mum's dua, of Dad's buttoned-up face, of Ahmed and Soraya expecting me to be better somehow. So I didn't.
The last bell felt both sudden and like a relief. On the way home, the bus windows made the world blur into long stripes. I watched my reflection in the glass and didn't recognize the tiredness under my eyes. When I walked in the door, Mum greeted me like a prize, full of questions. "How was it? Did you meet your teacher? Any new friends?"
"Good," I said. It was the same word I used when Mum asked if I'd eaten at school, the same word I used when I didn't want to tell her I'd spent lunch counting the tiles under my feet instead of eating. It felt small in my mouth, but it protected her. It protected all of us from the things I kept because they were mine and heavy.
In my room that night I closed the door and sat on the edge of my bed. The house sounded different now, Ahmed practising a layup in the yard, Soraya whispering a story to her stuffed rabbit, the faint sound of Mum folding clothes. I took out my diary. My hands moved almost without thinking.
Diary — Day 1
First day of Year 9. Woke up early. Mum made parathas and said dua. Dad told me to work hard. Ahmed and Soraya are loud and excited like always. People at school stared at me. Heard someone call me "the Muslim kid." Cameron and his friends made a joke about me. I didn't say anything. Sat alone at lunch and watched everyone. Felt like I'm in a picture where everyone else knows their role and I don't. I said "good" when Mum asked. I don't want to worry them. I still feel hopeful. I hope this year gets better. I hope I can find someone who sees me for more than what I wear or how I pray. — A.
I closed the diary and lay on my bed, eyes open. Hope felt like a thread, thin, fraying in places, but still there. Tomorrow I would go back. Tomorrow I would put my hoodie on and fold myself smaller and maybe I would speak to Ms. Foster in English and she would say something kind. Maybe Liam would sit near me, maybe Sophie would say hi. Or Amira would notice me. I love Amira. She's perfect.
I wasn't brave. Not yet. But the dua Mum gave me hummed in my ears like a promise I didn't quite understand. I slept with my hand over the diary, as if holding it would keep the words from blowing away.