 
### Safiah's Smile

### by

### Leora Friedman

### SMASHWORDS EDITION

### *****

### Copyright 2010 Leora Friedman

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

### Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

### *****

### This book is dedicated to the men and women in uniform who risk their lives every day to keep our country safe and to anyone who has ever had courage in the face of discrimination and fear.

### *****

– **Chapter 1 –**

"No one can tell me the integral of this simple equation?" Mr. Foreman

glanced at the multivariable formula scratched on the chalkboard and stared at his students expectantly. "Who would think," he fell to his chair and sighed, "that you all would be taking the Advanced Placement exam in just a few months? This is an outrage."

_4x + 5_ , Malia quickly scribbled in her notebook, placed her pencil lightly

on her desk, and counted the pleats in her plaid skirt.

"Malia, why don't you tell us the answer?" he asked almost desperately.

Her eyes shot up and her arm mechanically swiped the bangs from her

face. "Oh, well..." she glanced at her empty spiral notebook and the drawings embroidering its edges. She could sense Mr. Forman's impatience and feared her pulsating heart would betray her. "Mr. Foreman, I really don't know the answer. I'm sorry." Her cheeks turning light shade of pink, she shrugged apologetically.

"I see, Ms. Sanders. I'm very disappointed in you." Mr. Foreman turned to the chalkboard and jotted next week's homework assignment.

As the bell rang, Malia breathed a sigh of relief and scurried towards the aroma of moldy cheese and burnt potatoes. The cafeteria menu consisted of a hamburger, super-sized fries, and a diet Pepsi. Malia grimaced, reached for her set of car keys, and trekked towards the double glass doors at the front of the school. A set of about twenty stone steps led to the sidewalk and parking lot that framed her eighty year old, nearly antiquated high school. She noticed that her fellow seniors had already adopted the front-row VIP area of the school's parking lot. Most of her classmates had already spray-painted _Senior Class of 2001_ on the windshields of their cars in vibrant greens, pinks, and yellows, though graduation remained an eerie ten months away.

A crew of construction workers arrived at dawn each morning in the fall and spring seasons to try to preserve and renovate the precious bricks of the historic school. She heard their engines blazing now as she walked to her car. A new sign bearing the school's name in gold radiated blindingly in the eyes of every innocent driver who happened to cruise by.

Over four-hundred classrooms – that was what the principal had boasted to every interested parent and on every school advertisement and pamphlet, Malia recalled the various admissions programs she had attended in agony. James Madison High promised success, almost perfection, or a seemingly unbreakable bubble, of which nothing from the distant outside world could penetrate.

Malia wrapped her messenger bag across her shoulders and turned towards her 1996 Toyota Corolla with two friends who obediently followed from two feet behind. Awkwardly sensing her reign over them, she momentarily envisioned a ruby-encrusted crown on her head and a golden scepter in her palm as her two compliant servants meekly followed.

"Ms. Sanders!" she was thrown from her daydreams.

"Oh, Mr. Matthews. I was just heading out for lunch... is something wrong?" her brows furrowed in concern.

"Malia, have you really forgotten? We have a meeting scheduled for today. In fact, it began five minutes ago."

She felt a fresh layer of sweat plaster her forehead. "Oh no, I'm so sorry. I'll be there in two minutes!" she flew past Mr. Matthews, nearly knocking him to the ground, and left her two companions behind, who, without her commanding presence, wandered aimlessly around campus for the remainder of the lunch hour.

_How could I have forgotten my meeting with Mr. Matthews?_ she pondered, though she recalled her mother sticking a hot pink post-it note reminding her of the occasion onto the refrigerator that very morning.

"Ms. Sanders," Mr. Matthews entered his office, "I apologize for being tardy. You see, I was having some trouble locating a student of mine." Malia smiled and revealed a set of dimples on her lightly flushed cheeks.

"Now, I think it's time that we begin to discuss your future. Malia, you only have a few more months here at James Madison, and you really need to start considering your options after high school." Malia stared as a loose piece of Mr. Matthew's red curly hair drooped onto his forehead. "Malia? Malia, did you hear what I said?"

"Oh, yes, I did, Mr. Matthews."

"Well, what do you say? What do you want to do with your life? How do you see yourself five years from now?" he stared desperately into her emerald eyes, looking for some glimmer of hope that for once his position as guidance councilor would lead to some sort of gratification. He hopelessly imagined that she would shout in exuberance, "Oh, Mr. Matthews, I realize now what I want to do with my life. Somehow, I have found my purpose!" But Mr. Matthews could only dream.

"Five years from now? Well, you see, that is a very, very long time from now. I don't even know what I'm doing tonight, Mr. Matthews, so how do you expect me to know what I want to do in five years?" she exclaimed. She bit her lip.

"But, Malia, what have you been working so hard for in high school? All of your excellent grades and scores, what is the purpose of them? You must have been working for something?" Malia suddenly felt a stroke of shock shimmer up her spine. _What had she been working for? Her 4.3 GPA, her 2300 SAT score, her participation in far too many student activities. What had been the goal when she had hired a chemistry tutor last year to get the A she had so longed for?_ _Well_ , she thought, _that had been the goal. To get an A. But why?_

She felt tears well up in her eyes. Ever since Beth and her family moved away last year, Malia began searching wildly for a new identity. She painfully recalled their plans to share a memorable senior year and college experience. Now those plans seemed rather dim. "Mr. Matthews, I'm sorry, but I have to go." She grabbed her bag and ran from his office.

"Was it something I said?" he called after her, perplexed.

She slowed her pace and lightly wiped her eyes before crowds of curious underclassmen – girls in Marc Jacobs heels and Louis Vuitton wallets matching her own. Probably a coincidence, she thought. She felt something soft fall onto her head and wipe her bangs onto her lashes. "What the...."

Danny appeared from behind, "Now we're all ready for the game tonight." He glanced appreciatedly at the backwards baseball cap he casually planted onto her head. "You excited to watch prince charming kick a ball across a wet, muddy field?"

She glanced up at him. His face appeared blotchy, almost blurred through her tears.

"Hey," he suddenly softened. "What's the matter?"

"I just, I'm just... I don't know, I'm confused, alright." She crunched the Red Sox hat with her fist and shoved it into Danny's hand. He placed it back on his head with a smirk.

"Not a Red Sox fan, are we?"

"Oh, no I love the Red Sox. It's you I'm not such a fan of," she laughed, wiping her cheeks. "Where's my brother, anyway?"

"What, I can't walk around campus without your brother?"

Malia stared.

"He's talking to a teacher. We're gonna go scavenge for some edible food downtown. You know, as opposed to the cardboard this school expects us to eat. Join us?"

"That's okay," she began to walk away while flattening her hair from the hat's damage.

"What, not a fan of burgers and fries?" he called after her.

"Oh, no, I love burgers and fries. It's you and my brother that aren't so tempting." she smiled.

"At least come to the football game tonight. It's the first game of the season, and you haven't been to a school-sponsored event in awhile," he urged.

She eyed him curiously. "I didn't think anyone noticed," she whispered. With that, she withdrew towards her locker to retrieve her splash goggles for chemistry lab.

Before rounding the corner, Malia turned and rolled her eyes as a flock of sophomore girls with beach blonde highlights and Burberry scarves swarmed Danny Sawyer, who for seventeen years had been her brother's best friend.

James Madison High School boasted the largest football team in the entire state of Indiana. The principal thought it best to give every student an equal opportunity, rather than to cut freshman and sophomores after only two days of try-outs. Corey Simon nonetheless held the position of star quarterback since freshman year. Malia saw signs and posters telling Corey Simon and the James Madison Jaguars to defeat the Truman High Tigers in slabs of red and yellow paint – traditional James Madison High colors.

She saw rows of freshman girls in pigtails and mock cheerleader uniforms and even boys with red and yellow lines of paint under their eyes screaming his name, and she felt a sudden pang of disbelief and confusion in her classmates' obsession with the sport. She seated herself in a vacant seat on the bleachers and cringed at the unexpected coldness the metal emanated onto her bare legs. She sported a black tee shirt, a pair of faded denim jeans, and a red baseball cap with the slogan _James Madison Jaguars_ printed on its front – a gift from her father, a sports enthusiast.

"Hey, Malia, is that you?" Chelsea, a fellow senior, approached. "I've never seen you at a football game before! What gives?" She flashed Malia a friendly grin.

"Oh, you know, I've always been a football fan in secret, Chelsea. I just didn't want anyone else to know."

"Well, don't look now, but Danny Sawyer is staring at you." Malia rolled her eyes and buried her face in the palm of her hand.

"He's probably just wondering where my brother is." She unveiled her face and glanced at Danny who was accompanied by her brother, of course. _Why is he never with a girl?_ she thought. _Always with my brother. Like glue._

She heard sudden cheers from the sidelines, as the cheerleading squad pounced in their poses and bounced their pompoms. She saw number 18 kick the ball, number 5 pass the ball, and number 12 run with the ball until number 24 tackled him and the cycle was repeated. Endlessly. Almost minutes later, she felt Chelsea shaking her arm and telling her the game had ended and that the Jaguars had lost.

"Some football fan you are," Chelsea popped down from the bleachers. Malia watched the fans exit the stadium with glum faces.

Corey was chatting with his fellow athletes on the field, she saw, seemingly unmoved by his team's defeat. Suddenly, just as Corey began staring at her, she realized that she had been staring at him. She quickly switched her gaze to the dimming sun. _What's Danny doing down there?_ she thought, laughing as Danny attempted uselessly to console the team. "Hey look, you guys," Corey exclaimed, still staring at her. "It's that hermit girl. Haven't seen her around for awhile."

Danny's cheerful expression turned acidic. "Hey, man. Watch it," he commanded bitterly.

Corey was a good three inches taller than Danny, which deeply amused Malia as she watched him attempt to defend her. But when Corey gave Danny a threatening shove, she was no longer entertained. "Why don't you go back to your Mathletes buddies, Sawyer. There's a reason you didn't make the football team," Corey scowled. _Oh no_ , Malia thought. With that, Danny thrust Corey Simon five feet backwards. The star quarterback toppled to the floor.

"You did not want to do that," Corey growled, as Malia sprinted to the field.

Danny smiled. "Actually, I've wanted to do that for awhile now." As Danny's fist extended towards Corey, Malia grabbed his arm.

"Danny, no! Please. He's not worth it." Malia's baseball cap fell to the floor and brown splotches of mud quickly infested it. She felt rain droplets embellish her hair like small, cold crystals as she reached for Danny's arm to prevent him from fracturing the face of the beloved James Madison sports star. She felt Danny's arm automatically soften. In the corner of her eye she saw Corey's clammy shape sprint towards the exit.

Her head fell and the blood rushed to her cheeks. Her fingers swiped her face, trying to distinguish her tears from the rain. A soft jacket wrapped lightly around her arms and shielded her from further wetness. A blast of thunder rang and a spark of lightning that brightened her features momentarily flashed. A thick wave of darkness enfolded them as they stood silent in the center of the James Madison High School football field.

"You really didn't have to do that," she barely managed to whisper. He shook his head, his face donning a tired smile. He reached in his pocket for his Red Sox cap and placed it lightly in her fingers. She stared at it shortly and then put it on without a word, her lashes finally free from the blinding downpour. They headed to the nearest shelter – the football equipment shed – and quietly waited for the unexpected wrath of nature to pass as they both clinged desperately to the promise of tomorrow.

A repetitive buzz reverberated in Malia's ears from under her quilted paisley bedcovers the following morning. She restlessly wiped her groggy eyes and reached for her cell phone. Its screen flashed "10:00 AM, September 11, 2001" on its front. She moaned as she realized she had overslept. _A lot happened yesterday_ , she told herself, _Mr. Matthews will understand._ Somehow, however, she knew that he would not overlook this simple misdemeanor. She slowly flipped it open, and mumbled an inaudible hello.

"Malia? Malia, is that you?"

After coughing wearily, she responded, "Yes. Who is this?"

"It's Danny." He sounded confused. "After everything that's been going on this morning, I just got worried. Because you weren't in homeroom."

"What has been going on? Danny, you don't sound so good."

"You don't know? Malia...." his voice trialed off. He paused, but Malia dared not question him. "Look, Malia, just turn on the news, alright?" She hung up and flipped on her mini thirteen-inch black and white television set. After propping its antennas, she watched in awe as piles of asphalt crumbled to the ground thousands of feet below. The shouts of frantic bystanders and victims soaring to their deaths caused her to cringe.

She suddenly felt Danny by her side, holding her steady as her legs heavied and she felt her body go feeble.

"What's happened, Danny?" she whispered.

She eventually regained her stability but still felt Danny firmly grasping her arms, as if grasping the edge of a building to prevent falling to his demise.

"Nothing can ever be the same now," he whispered. He looked into her eyes, but somehow reached far deeper than her pupils. They stood in silence as both wordlessly accepted the untimely end to their short-lived youth. The outside world had finally penetrated their bubble.

– **Chapter 2 –**

Malia watched as her balding history professor slowly removed his silver spectacles and stared heavily at his class, preparing to discuss the horrors of the previous day's attacks. He began to discuss the the heroes of the New York police and fire departments and the tragedy that just one day prior plagued America's most beloved metropolis – New York City.

New York. Malia had never travelled to New York, but she had long aspired to visit the illustrious Statue of Liberty in all of her glory and to ascend the world-renown World Trade Center. The opportune moment had finally arrived at the end of eighth grade – her teachers had arranged a class trip to the Big Apple. Malia had unfortunately caught a cold – a condition her frantic mother would not risk worsening by a cumbersome three-day excursion. Each year since, Malia had pleaded with her mother to attend the Phantom of the Opera on Broadway, but now the prospect of hearing those melodious tunes and walking those scorched sidewalks and riding those brutally dented taxis rather than driving her glossy Toyota Corolla appeared tragically dim.

"And so here we are. Almost sixty years from the conclusion of World War II – the most demoralizing international debacle of the past one-hundred years – and almost immediately the new poison that will ravage the twenty-first century has arrived. Terrorism." He briefly froze his speech as if to allow this chilling revelation to settle in his students' impressionable minds.

Jennifer, the ordinarily headstrong girl in the front row who was notoriously labeled the class's overachiever, timidly raised her hand.

"Mr.... Mr. Collins?" she stumbled.

"Yes, Jen?"

"What's going to happen now?" For once, the girl with all of the answers intricately preprogrammed into her brain was left bewildered, and the teacher who never once paused while delivering his countless, interminable lectures appeared speechless.

"I don't really know." He paused, locked his eyes to the white linoleum floor, and gradually raised his glance to his students who desperately placed their trust in his words. "All I know is that now, more than ever, all of us must have faith in our country. We must remain unified in the face of tragedy and not permit external threats and attempts to divide our nation to succeed."

He began to pace the room, clearly engulfed in his dialogue and barely addressing his class any longer. "This is the true test of the fortitude and survival of our nation. For years, we have faced intimidation and animosity from others because of our principles and because of our liberal beliefs, freedoms, and tolerance." He finally perceived the twenty-five expectant students whose aghast stare remained locked on his.

"You all might consider tomorrow's chemistry exam the test of your lives right now. But, years from this day, you'll look back and realize that the true test was the test of courage. What you each individually take from this calamity and how you interpret it will carry you through for the rest of your lives."

The bell signaling the end of the school day pierced the students' ears, but each remained locked to his or her seat, hardly flinching a muscle.

"Go on. You all can leave. Just... just remember what I said. If you need to speak to me about anything or would like to share your thoughts, my office is always open." He slumped slowly at his desk and watched his students automatically return to their trivial high school anxieties.

"You know what I don't get?" Malia heard her brother teasingly ask a group of seniors standing idly by the locker bay, "I don't get why we've still got school this week. After watching the news yesterday, I actually got hopeful." Malia sighed at her brother's inability to allow this historical disaster to spoil his cheery mood.

"Sam, you really shouldn't say things like that at a time like this," she intercepted. "Even for you. I thought you were better than that."

He widened his eyes. "Sis, I'm just trying to lighten up a dim situation. I'm sure everyone else appreciates it. Am I right guys?" He glanced expectantly at the crowd of zombies who hastily agreed.

"See, Malia? Not everyone sees this as the end of the world. Life goes on." Nearly the entire senior class observed her flushed face with sympathy, each inwardly sharing her glum disposition.

She quickly spun around, weary of her brother's adolescent games. Crowds of chattering teenagers in vibrant plaids and shimmering accessories passed her through the halls, yet she only saw dull shades of grey.

"Malia," Danny trailed from behind. "Don't listen to Sam, you know he has a tough time dealing with difficult situations."

"I know. He _is_ my brother, Danny."

He quickened his pace to hold open the glass doors leading to the splintered pavement of the school's parking lot. "But, just know that everyone agrees with you. Sam was way out of line."

"I never thought the day would come when you would side against my brother." She noticed his face slightly redden.

Several moments of thick silence passed. "Malia, you seem upset. Is something wrong?" he whispered. He appeared sincerely concerned, never once removing his eyes from hers.

She looked up at his alarmed stare and sighed. "It's nothing. I've just been really stressed lately. That's all." Turning her glance towards the grey clouds dotting the sky, she sensed his heavy stare on her face.

"Is this about next year? Are you worried about college?" he inquired.

"No. I haven't applied to any schools yet. I'm not even sure what I want to do next year," she confessed.

"But you've been dreaming about going to college you're entire life," he exclaimed. "I still distinctly remember that time in first grade when our teacher went around the room asking everyone what they want to do when they grow up, and you said that you wanted to go to Harvard."

Malia smiled, revealing a set of dimples and pearly white teeth. "I had completely forgotten that. Thanks for reminding me." She paused. "But that was a long time ago. Things change, Danny." She opened the front-door seat to her 1996 Corolla and ignited the engine.

"Yes, things definitely change." He watched Malia quietly exit the parking lot of James Madison High School. He shook his head with a smile and laughed at the various times he found himself deserted by Malia Sanders, his best friend's sister – the girl everyone considered a symbol of perfection, yet he was starting to see more than the varsity jocks and popular wannabes perceived of her at a mere first glance.

The following weekend, Malia woke to the blare of her alarm clock, accidentally set to sound at seven-thirty on that crisp Saturday morning. After showering and dressing in comfortable autumn attire – light denim Levi jeans, a white Abercrombie and Fitch hoodie, and brown suede boots – Malia scurried down the stairway to consume a light breakfast before enjoying her first free weekend in months.

"Hey, Dad." She entered the kitchen, clacking the soles of her shoes on the black and white checkered tiles.

"Hey, Mal. You hungry?" he revealed a frying pan of freshly scrambled eggs and plates of homemade waffles and blueberry pancakes. She inhaled hungrily and nodded.

"It's nice to not eat Cocoa Puffs for a change. Not that I don't thoroughly enjoy cereal that tastes like chocolate, but may I ask what the occasion is?" She sat at the table and began meticulously dissecting a blueberry pancake.

"Nothing much. I just thought I'd give you some fuel for the day. So you can, you know, work on some college applications."

Malia instantly froze. "Dad... I don't know...."

"Look, Malia, I know things have been tough ever since your best friend moved away." _Does he even know the definition of the word?_ she thought. "But you've been working hard for a long time now. I just don't want to see you throw all of your dreams away." _No one from school had even kept in touch with Beth ever since her mom relocated her family – essentially Beth – to New York for her new job after she got laid off,_ she thought. _No one even knew._

Since nursery school, Malia and Beth Walters had been nearly inseparable. Together they had conquered first grade math, ninth grade biology, the PSAT, and ultimately their high school's social pyramid. When Beth departed for New York, she left Malia stranded, solitarily responsible for their countless cronies. Now, none of it seemed to matter.

"Speaking of Beth, have you talked to her lately? How's she doing?"

Malia blinked, "I don't know Dad... I haven't spoken to her in awhile," she replied. In fact, she had spoken to Beth merely two days prior from a payphone at the local ShopMart in an urgent attempt to inquire of Beth's mother's wellbeing. When not trapped in her tedious home or in the classroom, Malia could frequently be found at Beth's apartment for the past ten years. Mrs. Walters almost felt like a second mother to Malia, or at least an adult she perceived as a role model and sought much guidance from in troubled times. Memories of Beth and her mother blazed instantaneously in Malia's mind, as if she was hurriedly perusing through a painfully nostalgic photo album unopened for centuries.

"I'm sorry, Dad. I have to go." She felt suddenly weak and feeble.

Her father appeared abruptly nervous. "Are you okay? Should I call the doctor?"

"No, no, I'm fine." She faked a smile. "I think I might get started on those applications you were talking about a few minutes ago," she lied. Not for the first time.

After slamming the door to her room, her body trembled and she scavenged for her cell phone in her purse. Her eyes scanned the list of contacts – Chelsea, Rebecca, Ally, Jake, Jordan. The list appeared infinite. She slammed her phone in frustration and let it slide from her fingers to the hardwood floor.

She heard a light knocking on her door. "Malia, can I come in?" Her brother.

After quickly wiping her eyes, she replied, "Sure, Sam."

He turned the knob and entered her overwhelmingly purple room – lavender wallpaper, dark purple bedcovers, and even a violet lampshade. "Is everything okay? I heard some noise coming from your room. And... were you crying?" he stared at the blotches of water on her cheeks and the red puffs marking her eyes.

"I wasn't crying. What would make you think that?"

He strode from his position by the doorway to her nightstand and slipped a handheld mirror into her grasp.

"Oh." She blushed. "Okay, I was crying. You're right. Is that all, Sam? Because I really should be heading out." She hopped from the bed, one hand desperately clutching the doorknob.

"No, Malia, that's not all. Look, I know. Everyone does."

"About what?" The beating of her pulsating heart quickened and a fresh layer of sweat enveloped her forehead, nearly dampening the hair she so meticulously blow dried that morning.

"Um... Beth Walters, Mal." _How could he know?_ she thought. _She hadn't told a soul. She had promised Beth that much, and she certainly wouldn't lie about something so important._

"What about Beth?" she innocently asked. _Who knows?_ she asked herself. _Maybe it was something else. It had to be something else_. She clung hopelessly to the prospect that it was something else. Anything but the truth.

"Her mom, Malia. She died. Four days ago. On September 11." He paused to allow his weighty words to sink slowly in Malia's mind. "I assumed you knew."

She relented. "I did know, Sam. I promised Beth I wouldn't tell anyone. It was the least I could do."

Her brother looked pained – an expression she had never before witnessed on his habitually youthful face. "I just found out this morning." He ran his fingers through his hair in a frustrated manner. He fumbled his speech for several moments. "Look, Malia. I... I'm really sorry. About before. I'm an idiot. Remember all those years you called me an idiot? Well, it turns out you were right."

For the first time in days, Malia broke a smile. "I was right, was I? I thought I'd never hear those words come from your lips."

He nearly returned the smile, yet suddenly recalled the focus of their conversation. "How is she, I mean, how is Beth doing? Have you spoken to her?" Malia quietly recalled all those years she privately suspected that her brother harbored more than friendly feelings towards her best friend. Now she was certain.

"She's getting by. She's living with her aunt in the city now. Her aunt's cool, so I think she's going to be okay."

Sam nodded approvingly. "That's good. Are you going to be okay, though? I know you and Beth... and her mom... you guys were all really close, weren't you?"

She locked her eyes to a budding rip in the carpet by Sam's feet. She hoped that one loose thread wouldn't shred the carpet to pieces. "Yeah," she whispered. "We were." She sunk to her bed. After several minutes of contemplation, she met her brother's eyes and noticed his anxious stare. Another new expression from her brother, whose only care in the world for seventeen years remained solely basketball. "You know me, Sam. I don't let anything take me down. Don't you worry." She smiled, sensing no need to extend her despair to immediate family members.

"So, are you hanging out with Danny today?"

He looked at her. "Nah. I mean not today."

Malia gaped, "Are you serious? This may be the first Saturday in ten years that you haven't spent with Danny. Explain yourself." She waited expectantly.

"I don't know. It's just... lately, all he talks about is you."

She froze. "I guess without Beth this year, we've become friends in a way," she responded casually.

"Friends," he repeated slowly, emphasizing each syllable. "You know, Malia, I don't like sharing my friends with my sister," he chuckled. Another awkward silence. "Well, sis, I won't take anymore of your time." He headed towards the hall.

"Oh," he swirled to face her, "Dad wanted me to remind you to edit each of your college essays at least fifteen times. Microsoft can't catch every mistake, you know." She rolled her eyes as she watched him sprint to his room and snatch his basketball. His thin shadow floated across the wall opposite her room and evaporated within seconds. She heard his basketball thud rhythmically against the lobby's hardwood floors.

"Sam, no bouncing basketballs in the house!" she heard her mother reprimand from the kitchen. "I don't know what I'm going to do with that boy, Jack. I really don't."

_He'll be fine,_ Malia thought. She seized her car keys and headed to the driveway at ease, no longer drowning in her secrets. While racing to her silver Corolla, Malia stooped to inspect the mysterious envelope emblazoned with her name lying lifelessly by the front door.

"What the...?" she curiously slid the packets of papers from their package, each stamped with the names of various prestigious colleges – Penn State, Brown, Washington University, Princeton. "Mr. Matthews," she thought quietly. She secured the envelope under her arm and strode to the kitchen, her father still merrily whistling while delicately knotting spongy dough into butterscotch croissants.

"Dad, if you ever get tired of accounting, you should definitely open your own bed and breakfast."

He analyzed the array of creamy croissants, strawberry muffins, and crispy waffles adorning the kitchen table. "Oh, this? It's just a hobby."

"Dad, this envelope, do you know who..." she began to question the origins of her unanticipated envelope of college applications when the doorbell obstructed her speech.

"Danny?" she opened the front door to Danny's smirking face. "Here to see my brother?"

"Nope. I just wanted to make sure you got my gift," he watched the enveloped crumple beneath her arm. "And I see that you did," he smiled.

She stumbled to find words. "You?"

"Yes. Me," he said, his eyes unwaveringly tied to hers.

"Why?" she challenged.

"I can't let you throw all of your dreams away. Just let me help you, Malia." He searched her face for some glimmer of agreement. "I heard about Beth. You can't keep these things inside."

"You can't even begin to understand," she whispered. She no longer attempted to vigorously prevent her tears from streaming down her pale-white cheeks. _Why is she always crying in front of him?_ she pondered. "You don't know how hard it is to go on like nothing is changed," she elevated her voice, nearly screaming, "when everyone around you moves on like nothing even happened."

"Let me help you, Malia," he took a step towards her.

"I don't need help," she asserted. "I don't. I'm fine. Why don't you believe me?" Her last words muffled with her tears.

"You've always been so stubborn." He slid the envelope lightly from under her arm. "This is your future, Malia." He snatched a handful of Kleenex from the nearby mantelpiece and offered it to her. She wiped the smudged mascara from her lashes and lifted them to him. "Just let me help you."

"Okay," she surrendered.

– **Chapter 3 –**

The fleeting days of September passed painstakingly slowly, as Malia Sanders faced her senior year at James Madison High School flustered and abandoned. Nonetheless, as with all traumatic experiences, she gradually healed and discovered that she would eventually return to her more carefree, youthful self with time.

After snatching a cereal bar, Malia scanned the morning newspaper for the latest headlines. Printed in block letters on its front was the President's declaration of war against Afghanistan in response to the attacks Osama Bin Laden spearheaded against the United States one month prior. She felt a bolt of electricity blaze up her arms. _Finally_ , Malia thought. _Maybe now Beth's mom can rest in peace._

After skimming the lengthy article analyzing the historical event, Malia crammed the newspaper into her shoulder bag and drove peacefully to James Madison High, somewhat at ease.

"Mr. Matthews!" she dashed into her guidance councilor's office with a chunky pamphlet of stamped and addressed envelopes. "Here are those teacher recommendations you asked about last week." She slapped them onto his desk.

He analyzed them briefly, grinning and nodding in approval. "Thank you, Malia. You know," he rose from his seat, "You've come a long way. I am so glad you've decided to apply to college." His brows furrowed, "I hope you don't mind me asking, but what is it that persuaded you to change your mind so quickly?"

She bit her lip, contemplating the past month. "I guess you could say I was... inspired." She thought about Beth and her strength in the face of such a massive loss.

After muttering a brief farewell, Malia stumbled to homeroom in search of a familiar face. Her brother was standing idly by his seat in the back row listening to music and rhythmically snapping his fingers against the hardwood desk.

"Sam, guess who just handed in their recommendations for college?"

"Huh?" He squinted, recognized someone was speaking to him, and swiftly removed his ear buds. "Oh," his lips curved upward in a brief grin before he immediately returned to his hard metal tunes. "I'm glad," he robotically uttered.

"Speaking of college, where are you thinking of going next year?" Though she adored her twin brother, she privately yearned that they would attend separate universities the following year. Essentially inseparable for seventeen years from her brother, three minutes her elder, she needed to find her own identity. She no longer wished to wear the label of _Sam's little twin sister_.

He flipped off his portable music device and stuffed it into the back pocket of his jeans. "Oh, well," his eyes perused the classroom, as if desperately searching for something. "Malia, you know I've never been the best of students."

She eyed him concernedly. "There are plenty of schools out there. I'm sure you can find something that's right for you."

He sunk his fist into the tabletop in frustration. "That's just it, Malia. I'm not so sure that college _is_ right for me. At least not yet." She waited, certain that an explanation would follow.

He stumbled on his words. A sharp pang of fear reached his eyes, and he swiped the sweat from his face. He hastily removed his bulky denim jacket. "I think that I need to do something different. Something I'm better at. I'm thinking of joining the army, Malia."

She stared. "Please, don't tell Mom and Dad. I'll tell them when I'm ready. We both know how they'll react when they find out their oldest son doesn't want to win the next Nobel Peace Prize."

She continued to stare. "Malia, can you please say something?"

"I... I don't," she started just as Danny miraculously appeared.

"Morning everyone." Neither Malia nor Danny acknowledged his presence. "Did I interrupt something?"

"I'm sorry. I have to go," she slid past Danny.

The mundane halls painted in shades of creamy ivory and iron grey swirled dizzyingly before her eyes. She leaned heavily against the wall and sunk to the ground, swimming in colors of confusion. A teacher, possibly Mr. Foreman, inquired of her wellbeing and then, struck by her lack of response, scurried to the nurse's office. The reverberation of the morning bell chimed piercingly in her ears, yet all she heard was a deafening silence.

"Mr. Matthews is looking for you," she saw Danny striding towards her. His form was hazy, almost ghost-like. "Class just started." She looked at his feet. Brown leather with laces. Mesh holes dotted either of their sides. "Malia, did you hear what I said?"

"I heard you, Danny." Her eyes fixated on the opposite wall. The crusty, lead-infested paint was already starting to chip. Small brown gaps stained the previously hospital white hallway. And yet, despite all of the wall's insufficiencies, Malia continued to stare.

"Sam told me about the whole army thing," he confessed. "Is that what's bothering you?"

Her trance was suddenly broken. " _The whole army thing_?" she mimicked. "He's been your best friend since kindergarten. You played little league together, you learned how to throw a fast pitch together, you.... Danny, how can you let him risk his life?" she challenged.

"For his country," he intercepted. "For something admirable." He sat beside her, breaking his speech for several minutes, simply contemplating. "I might go with him, Malia."

She looked at him, his face nearly an inch from hers. "I guess you've made your choice then."

He leaped bitterly from the ground in irritation. "Why does this have to be a bad thing?"

"Because it is," she retorted, "Why can't you see that?"

"You've suffered so much because of terrorism. I thought you'd want me and your brother to fight it."

Her breathe quickened, and she shrunk deeper into the ground. Her heart pounded, nearly escaping her chest. Eventually, she steadily lifted herself from the checkered linoleum floor. "I'm afraid," she admitted.

His muscles grew tense. He fixed his gaze on a copper penny lying flatly by Malia's loafers. "So am I." He wrapped his fingers around her snowy hand and steered them towards homeroom. In spite of everything, he worried that Mr. Matthews might condemn them both to a week's detention upon their arrival.

The remainder of the afternoon was a blur. In chemistry, Malia's professor rebuked her for improperly extracting DNA from a strawberry. In calculus, she plainly forgot the formula for the derivative of the cosine function. In history, she delivered an oral presentation in which she unintentionally mistook the Jim Crow legislation for the black codes. Between classes, she bundled herself in a quilted winter jacket, dragging herself through the school's maze-like hallways. Her bag sturdily strapped around her shoulders, she tried to minimize speculation from her curious classmates.

After finishing her two-hour shift at Pete's Pizzas later that evening, Malia slouched on the staircase leading to her house's family room. The scent of Swiss cheese and tomato sauce lingered on her skin. She draped a furry blanket around her arms to mask the odor, and began to pry into the conversation taking place between her brother and her parents in the adjacent room. Her brother, slouching casually on the sofa bed with a backward baseball cap lying flimsily on his head, looked at both of his parents expectantly. Malia's mother and father sat tensely opposite their son, their hands fidgeting wildly in their laps.

"Sam," her mother began, breaking the painfully tangible silence. "Your father and I think that this is just another one of your attempts to slack from your studies." She glanced at her husband for some inkling of support. He returned her glance with an uncomfortable stare. With his silence, she continued. "You cannot _join the army_ just to evade college, Samuel."

"Mom, this isn't about my relaxed attitude towards school and... and my unwillingness to wake up at seven in the morning on weekdays. This is something more," he pressed. He swiped the cap from his head and fiddled it in his hands. After straightening out his muffled head of hair, he seated himself upright.

"Joining the army is an incredibly serious thing. I don't think you are prepared to make that kind of commitment," his mother persisted.

"Well I do." Malia stepped from the staircase and stood boldly before her family. Rolling the sleeves of her thick cotton sweater to her elbows, she defended her brother's maturity before her skeptical parents.

Confusion marked her brother's face. "Malia? But, I thought...."

"Sam, I've never seen you so determined." She seated herself beside him and sank into the cushion with ease. Noticing a cluster of dust lying by her hands, she softly brushed it to the side. She eyed her chipped fingernail polish with disdain and, suddenly swept with a rush of cold, enclosed her hands in the sleeves of her sweater.

"If this is what you really want," she started. She met her brother's eyes. Snippets of memories from their childhood – running madly through the snow without a care in the world, riding the merry-go-round at the state fair until they both went sickeningly dizzy, and competing against each other to see who could snatch the most leaves falling rapidly from the oak in their backyard – flashed fleetingly in her mind. "Then," she continued, "then, I have to support you. And Mom and Dad," she rotated to face her parents, "I think you should, too." She brushed the bangs from her eyes. After giving her brother a meaningful smile, she mouthed _I'm sorry_ in earnest sentiment and exited the room.

Though terrified for her brother's fate, Malia could not protect him from the world. She could no longer shield herself from the outside to prevent loss and heartbreak. Her brother was undertaking an admirable responsibility, she realized, and he would need her support to succeed. They had been sheltered in the realm of high school and luxury for far too long, she thought. She only wondered how she would find her own identity, and she secretly coveted her brother for his strong resolve in becoming a soldier.

A yellowed copy of _Crime and Punishment_ was lying meekly on her empty bookshelf when she reached her room. With a sigh, she slid it from the shelf and perused its lengthy pages – nearly six-hundred of them – in search for guidance from the great Dostoyevsky. She recalled writing a report on the classic Russian novel in the ninth grade; she had been partnered with Chelsea Donnohu, and the paper received a B-. For weeks she had contemplated her teacher's criticism that the paper lacked dimension and profound thought. Now, however, she finally understood.

The true theme of the novel was healing and self-discovery and about the immeasurable value of life both at its worst and at its best. That sometimes, to experience true joy, you must first experience great grief and suffering. Finally, she located the passage she had tirelessly been searching for:

Where is it I've read that someone condemned to death says or thinks, an hour before his death, that... if he had to remain standing on a square yard of space all his life... [for] eternity, it were better to live so than to die at once! Only to live, to live and live! Life, whatever it may be!

"Life whatever it may be," she whispered. These words had always been a graceful river to Malia – admirable from a distance and superficially spectacular. Nonetheless, Malia had never read beyond the surface. With life's sudden waves slowly sinking her to the depths of the ocean, she now clutched to them dearly.

Snatching her cell phone from its place in the left-hand pocket of her olive khaki pants, she urgently dialed Danny's number.

"Hey, this is Danny."

"Danny, I'm so glad I...."

"You've reached me at 765-845-9966. Please leave a message, and I'll get back to you when I can."

"I talked to Beth today," she began after the beep sounded. Tears cascaded down her cheeks, and her uneven voice cracked. "She said she's really proud of you guys for what you're doing." She breathed heavily and wiped her cheeks with a Kleenex. "She said that it's because of people like you and Sam that... that." She paused. She did not foresee this much difficulty in delivering a simple message. "That we can bring her mom justice. And bring justice to every other innocent person who died that day." She finally regained her composure, muttered a goodbye, and returned the phone to her left-hand pocket.

The remaining months of Malia's senior year of high school passed abnormally quickly. Before she knew it, high school had ended. Graduation had passed, and Malia, along with the seventy-four other members of the James Madison senior class were no longer simply high school students but adult members of society.

The beams of sunshine that had blinded Malia from the world had inevitably evaporated. In their place, grew a dark abyss of confusion and emptiness – a typical post-graduate's despair intermingled with the pain of the times.

At graduation, Malia nonetheless recalled Dostoyevsky and his wise words, and through Beth's strength, she found her own. Every eye in the oversized auditorium gazed intently upon her as she approached the podium attired in her navy blue gown and graduation cap, her golden tassel casually swung to the side. Her eyes scanned the room – her parents who had sacrificed so much to ensure her success and happiness and her teachers who had shared their invaluable guidance with her. She smiled at Mr. Matthews and began.

"We are here today to celebrate," she began. "Today, we celebrate us, our teachers, and all of those who have helped to reach this point in our lives. For twelve long years we have fought all the odds against us and approached all of our obstacles with courage. We have worked tirelessly so we can come here today, on this blazing June afternoon, and receive a little, folded up piece of paper with our names on it.

"But this is not just any piece of paper. This is our key to the future, our key to the rest of our lives." She looked at her parents. Her mother, of course, had a digital camera in one hand and a Kleenex in the other, most likely anticipating an emotional conclusion to Malia's speech. "But, in truth, it is not the key or the piece of paper that matters. What matters is what we choose to do with our diplomas, how we use what we learned here at James Madison High to better the world and to follow our dreams.

"Some of us may dream to play professional basketball and become role models for young children all around the world," she glanced at Jake and Jordan. "Some of us my dream to save a life someday." She looked at Chelsea and grinned. "And some of us," she continued, "may dream to save the world." She looked at Sam and Danny. "To serve our country. No matter how unrealistic your aspirations may seem, always treasure what you learned here in high school. In a high school where the highest goals any of us have ever set were... were to become popular or to get into an Ivy League college. Out there," she pointed to the window, "we can truly reach for anything.

"So, take this diploma," she held hers high in her hand for the audience to see, "and carry it with you as a reminder of what you can accomplish. But, more importantly, always carry with you courage and determination.

"Recently, someone very close to me taught me an important lesson," she looked at Sam. "He taught me that the most important goals in life are those that seem the most daunting. The most impractical. But, I've learned that no obstacle, no fear is ever too great to overcome. The only thing that can possibly hold you back is yourself.

"My fellow seniors," she looked at her classmates, "This past year has been one of the most trying years of our entire lives. We are watching as our country and the rest of the world is slowly falling apart. But _we_ are the future. We grew up together, we laughed together, and we cried together. And now, on our own, but together in spirit, we'll change the world together."

A thunderous applause roared in Malia's ears, and she clung to it desperately. She clung to the sound of her peers and to the reassurance of the crowd that almost made her words believable, established them as truths.

"Malia!" Danny called. "I wanted to say goodbye," he appeared from behind, as crowds of people thrust through the swarming halls and shoved her from side to side. Proud parents took photographs of their beaming children. Graduates smiled in various poses with various relatives as Malia stood with Danny, saying their farewells, in the center of the uproar.

"When?" she shouted above the deafening tumult.

"Tomorrow." There was pain in his eyes. She didn't want to believe it. She just wanted to get it over with, to make it end, to make the pain end. She couldn't take any more goodbyes.

"Danny, promise me something." Her brother would come later. Now, she just needed to tell him. To make sure. "Promise me you'll be careful out there. Promise me you'll come back, and promise me that you'll make sure my brother comes back too." His promises were no guarantee, she realized, but she desperately needed to hear his reassurance. She knew that it was his reassurance that would get her through the coming months.

He strained to hear her words. He strained with astonishing intensity, holding on to each word as if they were here last.

"I promise," he vowed with incredible sincerity. His face was somber. They swiftly said their goodbyes, and in seconds he was gone.

Minutes later, the crowd consumed Malia, and she disappeared.

She watched Danny fade into the hurried swarm of parents, siblings, and graduates. Sam was by his side. _Two children_ , she thought, _two children off to fight a battle as men_.

In the coming months, Malia would frantically piece together the memories of her last day of high school in her mind. But, mostly, she would cling to the notion that after the storm always appears a rainbow. So she patiently waited for her rainbow with faith and with hope.

### June, 2002

Malia stumbled to the rear of the local library and huddled in the dusty corner with a weighty book on the history of the United States. She trembled at the photographs of soldiers. Some in lively poses with a burning vivacity visible in their pink cheeks and some fallen. Intermingled with the yellow grass and muddy water. Fallen heroes.

### July, 2002

Two months from now Malia's parents would place all of her beloved possessions in a brown suitcase and haul the heavy load to the St. Louis campus where she would inevitably spend the next four years of her life. Four years. An eternity. Her mind turned numb at the mere thought of it. How could she spend four years at college when one day in Indiana lasted decades?

### August, 2002

The grey sky and four white walls of her bedroom felt like a prison. Malia needed to escape, she knew. She needed to breathe, to once again inhale the sweet scent of oxygen and to live unshackled by the chains of her agony. It had been two endless months since her brother and his best friend had departed for the war. And, somehow, Malia was ready to accept it. _Don't waste time, Malia._ Her brother had warned several days before he packed his bags and boarded the local shuttle. _Don't dwell in the past. And, please, whatever you do, don't kill yourself over this. Don't kill yourself over me. I'm not worth it._ He smiled, trying to alleviate the anxiety of the moment with levity. _Everything that's happened this year... with Beth... that should have taught you at least that._ Taking one last look at her neighborhood – at her home for the past seventeen years – she breathed heavily, lifted her luggage with both fists, and entered the passenger seat of her father's Toyota.

– **Chapter 4 –**

Come September, Malia entered Washington University with an odd combination of indifference and enthusiasm. Fully prepared with a fresh set of college attire – Washington University baseball caps, pajamas, and track jackets – she viewed the four-year path ahead of her as a means of freedom – freedom from her past.

For weeks she aimed fruitlessly to liberate herself from the haunting memories of her last months of high school, but the luscious greenery of the campus and the fresh, grinning faces of her new college classmates planted within Malia a new hope. A hope that she would finally find joy and forget the frets of a world slowly disintegrating with the horrors of war.

Nonetheless, within the depths of Malia's soul, still lay a vacancy. An agonizing emptiness and anxiety. A constant fret for her brother's safety. For Danny's safety.

Meanwhile, she still mechanically attended her classes and participated in far too many student activities in a weak attempt to fill the void her painful past left behind. Always in awe of the actors she saw in the theater, Malia almost immediately signed up for the drama club's rendition of _The Importance of Being Earnest_. Gwendolyn seemed like a cheery enough character, she thought. Cheery enough, hopefully, to scatter the horrid spells of anxiety that infected her mind every now and then. In truth, she knew, every other minute.

Brushing her hands lightly against the velvety rose curtains of the university's renowned theatre, Malia inhaled the fresh scent of the recently built auditorium. She stared in awe at the architectural masterpiece before her. The walls were not flat, but carved into various exotic designs. A crystal chandelier dangled in the center of the ceiling, brightening the countless navy blue seats speckling the room. These very seats were currently occupied by the twenty or thirty members of the exclusive drama club of Washington University. The young members of the committee, men in too-tight jeans and black tee shirts and women with exaggerated eyeliner and ruby lipstick painted on their pale faces, stared impatiently at Malia as she approached center stage.

A golden light focused only on her shape and the surrounding areas of the theater were lost in a bizarrely thick darkness. The light beamed blindingly in her eyes, nearly resembling the instantaneous and unexpected flash of lightning that inevitably follows the howl of thunder. Malia closed her eyes and envisioned the afternoon when a storm unexpectedly befell her small Indiana town just one year prior. With the flash of lightning, she saw Danny's shape. Almost instantly, the darkness reappeared, and they had been lost in the night with no foreseeable escape. _Almost like right now_ , she thought, ironically.

"Malia, is it?" the janitorial assistant flipped on the light switch and Malia's eyes found the irritated face of the president of the drama club – Trish Fisher.

"Yes, that's me. Malia Sanders. I'm a freshman."

"Of course you are," Trish smiled knowingly. "We really don't have all day. If you could read those lines, please?" she pointed impatiently to the packets of papers lying flimsily at the rear of the stage.

After stooping to retrieve them, Malia recited the dialogue with painfully tangible spirit and sentiment. She walked the stage with poise. Her hands gesticulated, and her words soared effortlessly from her lips. Her five minutes performance brought her a sense of freedom, a sense of ecstasy. But, eventually, the show ended. And her life was once again saturated with pangs of emptiness.

"You put on a good show." Trish finally said after several moments of silence, smirking.Malia's lips curved upward, glad to see her hours of preparation culminate in success.

Trish analyzed her from head to toe. "But, Malia, the performing arts are not simply about the show. Theatre is not only about the action, the movements, the facial expressions." She removed her black plastic frames and wrapped her fiery red bangs behind her double pierced ears.

"Malia, I know that you were acting, which means that you weren't playing your part very well. I see you trying desperately, and that deteriorates your performance even more. And the worst thing of all," she paused, allowing her insensitive criticism to settle in Malia's mind, "is your eyes. I don't see it in your eyes.

"In fact," Trish stood now, revealing silky tight pants wrapped in leather lace boots that reached the tips of her knees, "I didn't see anything in your eyes at all during that performance."

Malia's eyes scanned the room and met the glances of the drama club members who clearly sympathized with her predicament. Undoubtedly, this was not the first time Trish Fisher preyed upon weak and innocent freshman hopefuls.

After apologizing for wasting the valuable time of her Majesty, Queen of Drama, Malia raced through the theater's exit and dashed to her dorm room, the fatigue of disappointment too much for her to handle while exposed to the eyes of her curious new classmates.

After hurriedly swiping her key through the slot, she entered the rundown building and began ascending the stairs to her third floor suite. _Cold water, cracked paint, and no elevators. This college doesn't seem to like freshmen very much_ , she thought. Upon her arrival, lying flatly on her mattress was a simple white envelope addressed to a Ms. Sanders. She fiercely tore open its seal and removed and unfolded the slip of paper. Words in untidily scribbled handwriting resembling her brother's were printed on its front.

Malia – It's September now, which must mean that you're probably worrying. A lot. Well, please don't. I'm fine, really. In fact, I'm more than fine. We've been stationed in Afghanistan since our training ended. Malia, since joining the army, for once in my life I feel a thrill, like I'm contributing to something important and making a difference. The world is a crazy place right now, Mal, but I think soon enough things will get back to normal. I'm working hard, and I hope I can make Mom, Dad and you proud. I know for awhile there, I thought that would never even be possible. But, don't worry. I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for me. I've never felt better in my life. Danny told me what Beth said. It wasn't right what happened to her mom, or to any of them. We have to keep our country safe, Mal. I know I was born to do this.

Oh, and Danny says hi.

Sam

After struggling to read her brother's letter and to decipher the loopy words for hours, she fell restlessly asleep, her fingers firmly clutching the slip of paper. When she woke, her cheeks were wet. Her eyes were sore. She leaned over her mattress and squinted at her digital clock. She had less than ten minutes before her first class would begin – Introduction to British Literature, taught by a Mr. Gary Wilson.

She slipped on a pair of velour sweatpants and a white tee shirt, stuffed the letter into her pocket, snatched her schoolbooks, and raced to Room 435 – nearly halfway across campus. Upon her arrival, the students jumped in alarm as she sprinted to the only empty seat remaining in the front row, her wet hair glued to her forehead and her cheeks flushed with exhaustion. Her breathing unsteady, she slipped her books to her desk and sunk into her chair, Sam's letter still tightly strapped in her pants pocket.

"As I was saying," Mr. Wilson addressed his class while placing a course syllabus on each student's desk. "I don't want you all simply to strive for an A. I want you to take something from this class. To learn about the world and explore yourselves through these authors' writings." His square-shaped face was covered by a pair of thick plastic glasses and a dark, scruffy mustache.

"Every book I assign you to read will teach you something. You will learn to read beneath the surface of a writer's language. You will read between the lines." He paused to glance at each student who returned his glance with a focused stare. Heaps of second-hand, worn paperback books were piled on Mr. Wilson's front desk. Malia skimmed the titles printed on each of their spines. _Crime and Punishment_ was sandwiched between _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_ and _Romeo and Juliet_.

"Shakespeare's _Hamlet_ , for example, is not only addressing the qualms of a young royal haunted by his deceased father's ghost." He strolled to his desk, lifting his copy of _Hamlet_ to show the class. "Obviously, there are underlying messages to everything Shakespeare writes to make it relatable to modern society," he slapped the book to the table.

"That is why his plays are still so popular today. From the classroom, to the library, to nearly every educated person's bookshelf in the country, Shakespeare is universal." He wrapped his arms around his chest. "You have to make the literature relate to you. You accomplish that, and you're not only set for an A, but you're set for life." Mr. Wilson leaned his lanky body lightly against the front desk and analyzed his students' faces, examining their reactions to his speech. He wore a freshly ironed pantsuit, a pair of black tie shoes, and an olive oxford. Miniature portraits of Shakespeare's face were printed on his tie.

Malia sat dumbfounded by her professor's words. The truth to his speech stung painfully in her mind, and she knew this class would force her to abandon her nest of comfort.

"Don't forget to read the first fifty pages of _Hamlet_ for tomorrow's class," Mr. Wilson reminded as his students began gathering their belongings. Malia gripped her books snugly to her side and stumbled towards the exit. She stepped clumsily over the threshold leading from the classroom to the campus garden, causing her brother's letter to glide inconspicuously from her pocket. The valuable slip of paper became immediately camouflaged with the off-white flooring, and Malia did not even notice its absence.

An eighteen year old girl with dark skin and chocolate brown eyes lifted the letter lightly from the floor and inspected it. She had a maroon headscarf strapped around her head, covering her silky hair. Her ruby cotton dress reached her toes, which were covered by black moccasins. Her eyes were locked to the ground, somewhat in coyness but mostly in fear. Her alternative attire and uncommon modesty startled her more modern classmates.

"Malia Sanders?" she whispered, striving to match a face to the name. Upon her realization, she sprinted to the girl with the black sweatpants and white tee shirt whose face bore a fear similar to her own. She watched Malia's sneakers spring against the sidewalk in a hurried manner and recoil. Quickening her pace, the girl with the headscarf saw that Malia was now merely several inches away. Within speaking distance.

Her eyes skimmed the letter to ensure that Malia was in fact the correct recipient of the mysterious slip of paper. "Army?" she saw the word scribbled loosely on the paper. "Afghanistan?" The temptation was far too great. Her hunger for information about Afghanistan surpassed her desire to protect Malia's privacy. _Her brother. He's in the army. Fighting for my country._ Her heart fell and her spirits simultaneously soared for the girl to whom she had not once spoken.

"Malia Sanders?" she asked.

The girl with the dark waves concealing her emerald eyes quickly spun around. "Yes? That's me." Her voice was confident, but her eyes appeared lonely and somewhat vulnerable.

"Here," she offered the letter to Malia. "I believe this belongs to you."

"Oh," Malia took it in her fingers and glanced at it curiously. "Oh! Oh my goodness, thank you! You do not know how much this means to me." Pangs of relief throbbed through Malia, as she extended her gratitude to the mysterious girl in the headscarf.

"It's not a problem. Not at all." As Malia smiled once more and turned to persist on her path, the girl shouted, "I'm sorry, Malia. I shouldn't have read it." Malia turned, baffled and slightly embarrassed. Her past was finally revealed. Her story was known.

"Oh, that's okay. I'm just glad you returned it." _Who is this girl, anyway?_ she thought.

"I... I...." the girl stuttered incessantly. Her mouth twisted, and her dark cheeks flushed in embarrassment. "I saw the word Afghanistan." Her eyes met Malia's, and she smiled shyly. "And, you see, Afghanistan is my home."

"Oh, well, I don't really know anything about Afghanistan. I'm sorry, I can't help you," Malia struggled to explain, wishing dearly that the girl was unaware her true connection to Afghanistan.

"I know. But your brother. He knows. He is fighting to protect my country and my people." She saw Malia's eyes travel to the floor. Tears resembling raindrops settled on Malia's lashes. "I'm sorry, I did not mean to pry."

"No, it's okay," she dried her cheeks with her sleeve. "You're not prying," she took several steps towards the girl in the floor-length gown, no longer afraid.

"You've been through a lot, haven't you, Malia?"

"Not as much as some. I'm sure you've had your share of traumatic experiences." Malia glimpsed into the pair of eyes opposite her. She saw a soulful brown hue on the surface. Underneath the exterior, she saw pain, confusion, and a bitter longing.

"I suppose," she looked at Malia. Malia waited patiently for her to proceed. "My family and I relocated to America two years ago once the government began to deteriorate. My father lost his job. We were living in poverty. After my baby sister perished in the famine, we were left with no choice. That was the final straw. We couldn't live like that anymore," the girl's eyes scanned the campus. A man with shoulder-length hair and blonde highlights strummed his guitar peacefully under a tree. A young couple chatted innocently on a wooden park bench. A professor spilled the contents of his briefcase in the tall grass and stooped with a sigh to retrieve them.

"I only wish all of my aunts and uncles and grandparents could have traveled to America with us. I despise myself for abandoning them. I am a traitor. I betrayed my family, my people... my culture. I love America; it is the land of the free, as they say. It is like a luxurious hotel for me," she laughed. "But Afghanistan will always be my home." Malia stared in awe at the girl opposite her, struck by the amount of distress this mere teenager had been forced to endure. The girl in the silky headscarf smiled and turned, no longer wishing to burden Malia with the sorrows of her life.

"I don't think you told me your name," Malia smiled at the irony of the situation.

"It's Safiah. Just Safiah." With that, Safiah gracefully spun towards the library, the tail of her bead-embellished dress trailing inches behind.

_This is what Danny and my brother are fighting for_ , she thought. _People like Safiah_. _Young children and families._ For the first time, Malia saw beyond the invisible boundaries separating her and the people of Afghanistan. Her eyes shed their tears, her heart pounded with their fear, and her body quivered with their pain.

She closed her eyes that evening and saw Safiah's chocolate-brown eyes staring deeply into her own. Those eyes that raged with loss, blazed with regret. With Safiah's words, she could almost feel her brother's presence, his strength and his courage.

Two young girls with entirely different backgrounds, completely separate stories, yet virtually identical hearts. Malia slept soundly that evening, her mind at peace, and her slumber no longer haunted by her nightmares.

– **Chapter 5 –**

The Eagle Café was the most exclusive dining hall on campus. One humid Sunday evening, Malia decided to spend the six dollars and fifty cents in her wallet on their grilled hamburgers and crinkle-crisp French fries. After spending an entire morning and afternoon bicycling through the winding paths of the Washington University campus, Malia's stomach screamed for sustenance. Surviving solely on microwavable dinner packages, toaster strudel, and boxes of Cheerios for the past several weeks, Malia craved for a well-cooked meal.

Searching the restaurant for a friendly face, Malia noticed a girl named Alice who she met in Greek Mythology 101 with loose blonde locks that reached her waist and a brunette named Amber with untamed curls and deep blue eyes from Organic Chemistry. The sea of jubilant teenagers laughed riotously at Amber's comments. Amber had apparently been relating hilarious tales from her crushingly humiliating high school years that sent a stroke of contagious laughter throughout the entire table.

"And that's why," Amber concluded, "I will _never_ show my face at the Burger King in my hometown again. Ever." The throng of students roared with laughter. Malia grimaced at their carefree behavior, and turned towards the corner of the dining hall. A dark shadow lingered heavily over the table she selected, concealing it.

It was conveniently empty.

Gracefully lifting a fry to her lips, she heard a thin voice from behind and the fry fluttered from her fingers to the paper plate.

"Malia?"

Safiah. The Muslim girl.

Malia slowly spun around, somewhat soothed by Safiah's calming presence.

"Safiah. Would you like to join me?" she asked out of common courtesy.

Safiah smiled and crept timidly to the seat opposite Malia. She glanced curiously at the large _James Madison Jaguars_ logo printed on the front of Malia's shirt in vibrant yellow ink. Malia's hair was knotted in a messy bun, and for once her eyes appeared clean. There were no smudges of stray water stains on them. She had a small plate of potato fries and tomato ketchup on the side along with a medium-sized sesame hamburger. Safiah looked down at her own plate. A large salad coated with a thin layer of honey dressing. In her two years as an American citizen, Safiah still remained unaccustomed to the peculiar concept of fast-food. She lightly nibbled on her lettuce in her olive dress and black headscarf in content.

Malia unintentionally noticed that once Safiah entered the restaurant, the Eagle Café's many customers mostly huddled towards the right-end of the cafeteria. Safiah seemed unhindered.

"Does it bother you much?" Malia bravely inquired.

"Does what bother me?" Safiah appeared sincerely oblivious. Malia immediately regretted her question.

She placed her fork lightly on her folded napkin. "The people. It's almost like...." She wished desperately that she were anywhere else. Anywhere but here. Sitting in the corner of the Eagle Café with Safiah. "Like they are avoiding you. Because you are... you're...."

"Different," Safiah finished her sentence.

Malia blushed, wiping the bangs from her eyes. "Yes." she blushed. "But not in a bad way," she quickly added. "I mean, it must be hard."

"I'm used to it," Safiah explained. "Anyways, it's understandable, isn't it? The distance they keep. The fear they have. With everything that's happened...." her voice trailed off. "It's understandable," she explained. Her lips were slightly twisted, her eyes pained.

Admiration swept over Malia as intensely as a tidal wave. "How can you say that?" she whispered in disbelief. "It's unfair," she declared. "How can you say that it's right to treat you like this?" she sputtered. "Like you're some kind of... some kind of...."

"It doesn't matter," Safiah pressed. "Here, let me try to explain it to you." Malia wondered what color Safiah's hair was under the scarf. She imagined a rich, wavy black, or maybe a deep honey brown.

"Alright," she consented.

"In my History of the Holocaust course, we are reading Anne Frank. I think there is this one quote that describes what I am feeling. How I must feel. Or else I'll just whither away and become a cynic. One moment." Safiah reached into her multi-colored suede beaded bag and returned with a diary filled with various notes and drawings. Malia saw a picture of a bird, flying solitarily from its nest. She saw a sketch of a young woman resembling Safiah. A young toddler was by her side, clutching the older girl's hand dearly. Beside that picture was a sketch of two girls. One slightly taller than the other, yet both were adults. Two Muslim sisters.

Malia quickly turned away.

"'It's a wonder I haven't abandoned all my ideals,'" Safiah recited, perfectly enunciating each syllable. "'They seem so absurd and impractical. Yet I cling to them because I still believe,'" Malia could see the admiration in Safiah's eyes, the near idolatry, "'in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart.'"

They both paused, contemplating. After several minutes, Safiah broke the silence. "It's true," she reflected.

"That may be so," Malia finally spoke after several minutes of quiet consideration. "At the core, every person in this room may have a good heart," she looked around, eyeing a pair of college freshmen shake hands respectfully and introduce themselves. A sophmore girl spilled the contents of her purse in the center of the hall, and a stranger stooped to help gather the missing lipstick, drivers license, and spare cash. "But it doesn't mean they're always right," she concluded.

Safiah persisted. "They're afraid," she sympathized. "It's only natural."

"Prejudice is not natural. It's immoral," she fought. Safiah was smiling. "Safiah, I'm sorry," she relented. "I just don't understand. My life is so much simpler than yours, and yet I can never seem to find strength to have faith in what's meant to be." The sketch of Safiah and her deceased sister lingered in her mind. She saw a group of stereotypical jocks staring at Safiah. The boy with the backwards baseball cap and Lakers jersey whispered something to the lean blonde girl in the magenta tank top and black skinny jeans. "You seem so sure."

"I have no choice," she explained. "What I must contend with here in America is almost nothing in comparison to the horros waiting for me in Afghanistan." Malia shrunk in understanding and humiliation. Why did I have to bring this up? she thought. I barely know this girl. I know nothing of her life. And I have the audacity to offend her like this. "There is a war there, Malia. But, you already knew that."

Visions of her brother in a soldier's uniform carrying a weapon, sprinting through the trenches, shooting a man. She could not bare to consider what he and Danny were confronting as she sat here in the cafeteria, enjoying a simple fast-food meal with Safiah. If only I could be a fly on the wall. The pain of not knowing suffocated her mind.

"I can only appreciate the gift of safety that America has provided me and my family," Safiah explained. Malia's eyes were glassy. Safiah knew her focus was currently directed elsewhere. A place less welcoming. "Malia," she whispered. Her senses returned to reality. "You have to have faith in a better tomorrow."

Malia sighed. "For weeks, I would lie awake at night. Listening to my own breathing," she closed her eyes. "I would wonder if they were still breathing on the other end of all this." She opened her eyes and smiled. "I never really believed." She looked at Safiah. Her eyes projected pain. The pain of her relatives still residing in Afghanistan. And the pain of her sister. Only an infant. One of the injustices of the world. Along with so many others. Like Beth's mother. They were all unecessary, Malia thought. It just takes courage to fight them, to prevent it from happening to someone else. She thought of Danny and her brother. "But part of me does now."

Her cell phone vibrated gently in her pocket. Her home phone number. Either her mother or father. "I should probably take this," she stood and gathered her belongings. "Thanks for the chat," Malia smiled and strolled out of the Eagle Café, leaving Safiah to munch on her Romaine lettuce in silence.

"Mom? Is that you?" Malia sat on a vacant park bench. She was alone in the campus garden, surrounded by weeds and wilting flowers. It was still daylight, though the sun was beginning to set slowly into the depths of the earth.

"Mom, I can't hear what you're saying. Why are you muffling your words?" She touched a finger to her ear to block nature's quiet but distinct noises – a bird softly chirping, a bee vexingly buzzing.

She heard the word missing on the other end of the line. Missing?

"Did you lose your car keys again?" Malia inquired. "I'm sure they just fell in the street vent outside the house again. Remember what we did last time? Just get a stick, put some double-stick tape on it, and slide it through. Piece of cake," she assured.

More muffling.

Her brother's name.

"Mom, I can't understand you?" Her heart began to race. She sensed the strange behavior on her mother's end and the two words – missing and Sam – had some odd connection to one another. But her mind refused to make sense of it. She couldn't. She wouldn't.

Her mother eventually regained her composure.

Something was missing. But it wasn't just the keys to her mother's old Honda Civic.

No, it was something much more valuable.

Her brother.

"Mom, I don't understanding, how can Sam be missing in action? I don't believe you. Why are you saying this?"

Her mother was silent. Waiting for the wrath, the disbelief to pass. The inevitable denial. "How can the other soldiers, his generals, how can they not know where he is? He's either alive or... or... he's not."

Her mother tried uselessly to explain.

"But he can't just be gone. People don't just disappear."

More explaining.

"Well, yes, I know that they do. But not like this. Not when so many people care about them." The wave of skepticism passed. The truth began to settle into Malia's mind like a sour flavored candy on the tongue and she accepted it.

Her mother had to go. Relatives needed comforting, needed explanations, had questions. And they assumed her mother knew the answers.

A light pink pigment filled the previously blue sky, and the orange sun blazed less and less vividly as the hours passed. Malia lay feebly on the wooden park bench, staring desperately at the stunning shades of purple and pink painted artistically around the puffs of white clouds. The blending shades spiraled in her mind.

One of the clouds resembled a heart, she thought, shattered into two separate halves. Another a lion, racing to devour its prey. Another a bird, soaring to its nest to care for its young. She analyzed the clouds painstakingly, until fatigue overpowered her and she allowed herself to enter a harmonious sleep. A sleep not of nightmares. A sleep not of dreams. But a sleep of sheer nothingness. An empty mind to complement an empty soul.

Hours passed. Still, Malia sat cradling herself to sleep beneath the silver moon. In her mind, she saw visions. Visions of bliss. Of a distant happiness. Golden memories etched into her mind. Memories that shined ever so brightly due to the dim prospect of their return.

She and Sam entering the double-doors of James Madison Elementary together on their first day of kindergarten. They both had been terrified for this sudden change in their lives – from the freedom of children to the structured confinement of students. They clung to each other those first few days of school, anxious to separate from the familiarities of their youth. But one day, Sam sat just a few desks further from Malia. And Malia asked a girl with choppy blonde pigtails to sit with her at lunchtime. Eventually, they branched out into their own. Yet in their hearts, they always remained those two frightened five year-olds in spirit.

The seventh grade. A chunky boy and his exclusive club of followers had tormented Malia and her friends for weeks on end. Stealing their backpacks, sending prank phone messages, and circulating displeasing rumors. Malia especially despised the rumors.

"You'd better leave my sister and her friends alone, Joey." Sam's pudgy twelve-year old face tried to frighten the husky bully, Joseph Gandalini, in earnest sentiment. Danny was by his side, laughing his face off at his best friend's meager attempt at intimidation.

After consoling Danny for his failure to defend his little sister, Danny shoved Joey against the locker and muttered something threateningly in his ear that Malia couldn't decipher. Joseph Gandalini never bothered Malia and her friends again.

Her brother's face was as red as the Fuji apple she had crunched on for lunch for that day. "It's the thought that counts, Sam," she comforted him.

And then high school came along, and they became freshman. Swarms of sixteen and seventeen year-old giants hovered over their bony five-foot tall frames. Teachers reprimanded them for the most insignificant of discretions – marching through the halls without passes, disposing of their spoiled peanut butter and jelly sandwich and other allergenic products in the wastebaskets, or failing to place their paper products in the recycle bins. Everything just seemed more complicated. But for months they had anticipated the next four years. Danny's older brother would constantly boast of the marvels of high school. And now they were finally here. Living it themselves.

At least until Mr. Hoffman assigned their first history report.

"Mr. Hoffman, I swear, my computer broke down yesterday. I lost everything." Malia's voice trembled. Her cheeks were red. Mr. Hoffman stood firmly, his arms strapped across his chest in an iron grasp. "It's all gone. Did you want me to rewrite the entire thing at midnight?" She looked up into her ninth grade world history teacher's eyes, searching for a shred of sympathy. But he had no pity for Malia and her excuses.

"Ms. Sanders, you are in high school now. You have to take responsibility for your assignments." He spoke in a slow, condescending tone. "Your computer malfunction is irrelevant. I have no choice but to give you a zero."

Zero. The one word she had always dreaded. It shot a sharp sting of chills up her spine.

"Now is that really fair, Mr. Hoffman?" Danny tried to negotiate. "I mean, it wasn't really her fault. In fact, you can probably blame my Dad." Malia looked at Mr. Hoffman. His lips were pursed, his eyebrows raised. "He was the one using it when it...."

"That's enough, Mr. Sanders," Mr. Hoffman scolded, his cheeks red with fury. "My mocha cappuccino to settle his nerves.

"Thanks for trying, Sam. That's what counts," she smiled.

Sam looked disappointed.

He was always trying to save her. How was she supposed to save him if she was thousands of miles away?

Ever since Safiah returned Sam's letter, Malia had kept it strapped tightly in her pocket. Every now and then, she would check to ensure it was still there. She depended on it desperately. That one slip of paper convinced her that everything would be alright.

Sitting meekly on the wooden park bench, as the sunlight nearly turned to dust, she slowly unfolded the letter. Her fingers quivered as she squinted to read the curly handwriting. Her fingers, wet with her tears, painted small water spots on the thin sheet. She swiftly dried the smudges with the edge of her sleeve and searched for some hint, some clue to her brother's whereabouts.

She found none.

"I was born to do this," she whispered, slowly enunciating each syllable with skepticism. "Couldn't he find something else to do with his life?" she shouted to no one. "He loved basketball. Why couldn't he pursue basketball?"

The air replied with a frosty whirl of wind that flew the letter from her grasp. It lay flimsily by a monstrous tree. Rain droplets fluttered from its branches and prickled her arms as she stooped to retrieve it. Her hand brushed lightly against its trunk, causing tiny wood pieces to splinter her palm.

"I'm doing this for me," she continued to read. "Well what about us, Sam? What about your friends and family?" she once again questioned to no one in the vacant campus garden. "Did you even think about us?" She sunk her body to the ground, leaning heavily against the tree. Grass stains intermingled with blotches of mud dirtied her pants and the trim of her blouse, but she didn't mind. Her mind was too obsessed with anger. Her raging fury with her brother. Selfish. Irresponsible. Naive.

Brave. Determined. A fighter.

The anger passed, and the sun rose once again. Despite the deaths of soldiers and the tears of widowed wives, the sun would always rise. And life would continue. A life, and the lives of so many, that Sam was trying to protect.

She heard voices, laughter. Crowds of people were scurrying to their classes, bags strapped to their backs and piles of weighty books tucked under their arms.

"Malia?" A hand was extended towards her.

– Chapter 6 –

"Safiah? What are you doing here?" she questioned. Suddenly, Malia realized she wasn't lying on her springy mattress. Kate Lockman, her roommate, wasn't tugging on her covers gently, reminding her that classes began in twenty minutes. And the shouts of fellow freshmen in the halls weren't echoing through the thin, brittle walls of her dorm room.

"Why are you sitting beneath a tree, Malia?" Safiah looked worried. A shadow crossed her face. "You weren't sitting here all night, were you?" She sounded skeptical. Why is she so worried? Malia thought.

And then she remembered.

She couldn't tell her. She wouldn't.

She couldn't cry in front of Safiah. Safiah had already endured so much. Her anxieties would seem trivial.

"I like nature. Especially trees," Malia asserted. "In fact, for one of my classes, I'm doing a report on trees... uh... maple trees, specifically." She hoped Safiah wasn't an earnest tree lover.

Safiah eyed the note lying in Malia's fingers. Sam's letter, she recognized. It was smudged with stains that resembled tears. Holes were beginning to form in those spots. The water was too much for the brittle paper to handle and it was shredding. Malia gathered the torn pieces and placed them in her pocket.

"What's happened, Malia?" she whispered.

A golden headscarf, Malia admired. A light blue dress. Such beautiful colors, she marveled. Safiah always wore the most stunning of colors.

"Malia, why aren't you speaking?" Safiah's eyes were not simply bright with worry. They were gleaming with fear. "Something has happened, hasn't it? It's your brother." She waited for a reply. None came. "Malia, you can tell me what happened. I can help."

The morning bells chimed, signaling the start of classes. It was ten in the morning. Safiah did not flinch a muscle. A boy on a mountain bike, a backpack strapped across one arm, zoomed past them. A cluster of giggling girls strolled by, their hair tied back sophisticatedly, a black leather handbag harnessed to each of their shoulders. A middle-aged man jogged briskly with his dog through the park while whistling classic John Lennon tunes.

"They don't know where he is. He's gone, Safiah," she looked at her friend. Friend, she thought. In spite of everything, somehow she had managed to make a friend.

Safiah exhaled heavily and contemplated. After several moments of silence, she spoke. "Malia, that doesn't mean he's not coming back."

"Doesn't it, though?"

Safiah looked to the sky. At the swirls of white and blue. "When I was a little girl, I got lost in the corn fields. Every afternoon, it was my obligation to harvest the vegetables. And I got lost within acres and acres of starch. For hours I tried desperately to find my way back. And eventually, I did." But she looked uncertain. "And maybe... maybe you're brother will...."

"No." Malia lifted herself from the ground, swiping her backside. She looked at her hands. They were soiled with gunk and green smears. "No. This is not like that at all. I have no way of knowing whether he's alive or... or...."

"You can't think like that. It will destroy you. Your brother would not want you to think like that," Safiah stood now, as well, her dress stained with grass. But she didn't mind.

"You know, I supported him. I told him that if this was what he really wanted, that he should go for it." Malia was no longer speaking to Safiah. She spoke to the trees, to the shrubs, to the clouds, but not to Safiah. "I am to blame, in a way."

"No, Malia, that is absurd. You are not at fault here." Safiah tried to reason with her. Almost uselessly.

"But what about Danny? He promised me... he swore. That he'd protect him." She no longer fretted over allowing Safiah to see her tears. Her vulnerability. Her weakness. "How could he let this happen? How could he do this to me?" It was almost as if Safiah wasn't even there.

Her light blue gown was camouflaged. Blurred with the light blue tint of the sky.

"Malia!" she shouted. Her voice was no longer a thin needle. It was a fierce storm.

"What?" Malia turned to face Safiah. Her eyes were wide with desperation. She instantly regretted shouting at Safiah. Her helpless friend. Her life such a tragedy. Not too different from her own.

"Let me help you," Safiah offered. Malia froze.

That's what Danny said, she thought. When everything was falling apart. He said he would help me. She pictured his Red Sox baseball cap. Now when everything's falling apart all over again, where is he? The one he never went anywhere without. Similar to him and her brother. Always together. What would Danny do now that Sam was gone? How would he go on without him?

"You already have." She looked at Safiah. Her eyes sparkled with pain. Safiah's heart was probably still healing, Malia thought. If it could even become whole ever again.

Safiah furrowed her brows. "How so?" Her mouth twisted in confusion.

"With everything you've dealt with, you still seem so strong." Malia's face dropped. "I just wish I could be like that." Not for me, but for him. Wherever he is.

"You can. You just have to have faith," Safiah encouraged. She could get through to Malia, she kept telling herself. She just had to keep trying. No matter how stubborn she may seem.

"I just don't understand why people have to destroy. And kill. And destroy some more." Malia brushed the hair from her eyes in frustration. "I just can't wrap my head around it."

"Neither can I. But you have to believe," Safiah urged. "You said you supported your brother enrolling in the army. Why is that?" she inquired.

"Because..." Malia thought. Why did she support him? Because it was important to him? No. Basketball was important to him, also. And getting the world record for the most hot dogs eaten in a twenty-four hour time span. But it didn't mean that she was contacting all the basketball scouts in the Midwestern area to inspect her brother's athletic skills. And she certainly wasn't offering to assist Sam in grilling three hundred hot dogs overnight in their backyard. Although he tried to persuade her. Multiple times.

"Because I knew that it was right. What he was doing. It was a good thing." Was a good thing. Was it still a good thing now? she pondered.

"Exactly," Safiah agreed, smiling.

For something admirable. For his country, Danny had said.

Danny. Where was he now? Would he be coming home? Or would she lose everyone closest to her? He had saved her from Joey Gandalini – the seventh grade bully, from Corey Simon – the grand football star, and most of all, from herself.

"I guess the only thing left to do is pray," Malia finally declared. "And have hope." The pangs of disbelief and denial dissolved. And she surrendered.

Together they dashed to class, enduring the remainder of the day with the knowledge that with time, the war would end. The world would heal, and inevitably, so would they.

While striding to the freshman dormitories, Malia noticed turquoise advertisements pasted on every empty space on the bulletin boards posted throughout the university. "Freshman party! Come meet your new classmates," Malia read eagerly. This is exactly what I need, Malia thought. The prospect of chatting with strangers – carefree college students unaware of her qualms – whetted her excitement and she relished in the joys of college life.

She raced to dial Safiah's number. Reaching in her mesh bag to retrieve her silver flip phone, she realized she had never asked for Safiah's phone number.

"It'll be fun. Our first college party. Plus, you're the only person I've spoken to at this school!" Malia laughed. "So you have to come with me." Malia was smiling. Safiah was shocked at this sudden change of character and hurriedly agreed. Malia stood in the hall on the velvet navy blue carpeting on the third floor of the freshman dormitory.

"Don't laugh, but I've never been to a party before," Safiah smiled.

Malia sported a short black dress with sequins and a necklace with multi-colored crystal beads. The heels of her satin black pumps pounded against the cement of the stone path leading to Grover Hall. An innocent grin sketched on her face, Safiah lifted the thick cotton of her navy dress in her fingers to prevent it from drifting to the wet floor after several hours of afternoon showers.

Malia recalled the countless high school parties she attended most weekends at James Madison High School. Mostly due to peer pressure rather than her own enthusiasm for underage drinking and rock music.

"Malia, I don't think it's such a good idea for you to be going to these parties," her brother declared. She was already dressed in a brown blouse, denim skirt and cowboy boots. She was a sophomore, and Mandy Johnson was hosting a western-themed party at her suburb mansion that Friday night. Whose idea was that? she thought.

"But you're going, Sam," she insisted.

"Yes. But that's different," he pressed. He stood in the doorway, his arms criss-crossed against his chest.

"How so?"

Malia refused to surrender. Her brother was being unfair. A double standard. If he could go, why couldn't she?

"It... it just is, Malia. I don't like this." Since when did he become my parent? she remembered thinking in disgust. Now she finally understood. At least somewhat.

But not at the time.

She saw Danny lingering in the hallway impatiently.

"Danny's going? And you're going? But I can't go? You're funny, Sam. But newsflash – you're not my father. You're my brother." What was he so worried about? she had thought.

"Older brother," he reminded with a smirk.

"By three minutes! And you never let me forget it." She had been so furious with him and so disgusted with Danny – his obedient best friend.

"There's going to be alcohol there, Malia. It's a senior party."

"Oh no! Thank you Sam for letting me know. I had no idea they would be serving beer. Really, Sam, you are my hero," she chuckled, striding confidently past her brother and inadvertently shoving Danny Sawyer in the process.

Malia felt a hand lightly shaking her shoulder.

"Malia. Malia, we're here." And almost immediately, she was transported back into the present. The gloomy, surreal present. If only I could go back, she thought.

They stepped into the hall. Flocks of college students stood mindlessly chatting and spinning and bobbing to tunes of the new millennium. Girls in platinum heels, sequin skirts, and jewel bangles gossiped with friends, while boys in denim jeans and J. Crew shirts pranced confidently through the hall while sipping aluminum cans of Diet Pepsi.

And there they stood. Watching it all from a distance. For several interminable minutes, Malia and Safiah simply observed, wondering what to say. What to do. But then Malia strode through the threshold, and Safiah timidly followed.

The stares of their fellow classmates were fixed on Malia and Safiah. Meanwhile, Malia eyed an alluring tray of salted sourdough pretzels, snatched a handful from the glass dish, and began lightly nibbling on one.

"Did you come here for the food, too?" a boy with light blonde hair and misty grey eyes approached her with a smile.

Malia turned to her left and saw Reese, the overly-eager chemistry fanatic from Dr. Howard's class. She smiled. "Are you kidding? The only reason I ever come to these things is for the food. Why else?"

Safiah chuckled, and Reese abruptly gaped at her. "Who is this? Are you friends with this girl, Malia?" he asked while promptly stepping away from the Muslim girl with the twinkling eyes and unconventional attire.

Malia jumped, not anticipating a harsh tone from such a jovial character. Several sourdough pretzels spilled to the ground, crackling into pieces. White grains of salt peppered the hardwood flooring surrounding Malia's satin shoes. "She's a friend of mine, Reese. Her name's Safiah. Why do you ask?"

A thick silence swept the room. A boy in a Ravens jersey pouring seltzer from a plastic bottle into a small glass unintentionally overflowed his cup. Malia could hear war droplets trickle from the metal table to the wooden floor.

"Because, no offense, but I don't really want a terrorist at my school. Which, unfortunately, I can't really do anything about. But I definitely don't want her at my party," he exclaimed, his face burning with a surge of adrenaline.

Malia's heart heavied and she gaped at the crowd of classmates, expecting a courageous soul to speak. But not a word was spoken. Not even a gasp.

Glancing at Safiah, Malia saw that she was unhindered. Rather, her body was frozen. Her face was still as a marble statue. Even her sparkling eyes were fixed, barely even blinking. But, no. Something was different. The animation in Safiah's eyes was absent. The smile was swept from her face. No, not merely swept. It was stolen.

"You know, my uncle died last year because of you." A voice from the corner of the room. A man with black eyes and dark wavy hair frozen into place with globs of hairspray. Malia stared in disbelief. Because of her? Malia speculated to herself. What did she do?

"His kids don't have a father now. What do you have to say about that?" He was looking at Safiah with unbridled anger. His hands were balled into fists.

Safiah tried to open her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

"Who do you people think you are?" Malia stood in front of Safiah, perplexed and furious. What is happening? she thought. Is this all a dream? No. This must be a nightmare. A nightmare gone horribly wrong.

"How can you speak to her like that? Treat her with such animosity. After everything she's been through." She felt her pulse quicken. Her body went feeble. Weary. Restless. Tired of this absurdity. "She has done nothing wrong." Malia stood firmly between Safiah and Reese.

Reese gaped at this five-foot-three eighteen year-old who spoke so fiercely before crowds of onlookers. Then, suddenly, his face softened. He broke a smile and whispered something into Malia's ear.

"Malia, don't get mixed up in this. Come on," he grabbed her arm and began gently pulling her towards the crowd. Towards the people. The silent spectators.

She urgently shook her head and freed herself from his tight clasp on her arm.

"No, Reese. You shouldn't have gotten mixed up in this." With that, Malia pranced to the exit with Safiah following closely behind, the stares of their fellow freshman drilled into their backsides.

Safiah breathed heavily when they finally reached the darkness. "Malia, no. You shouldn't have done that. We should have left," Safiah gasped. "They will hate you, too, now."

Malia stared in disbelief. "Safiah, you have to stand up for yourself. You can't let them walk all over you. You're better than that. You... you just have to show them that... that...."

"No, Malia. There's no hope. I have to give it time. To wait for the world to heal." In spite of everything, Safiah did not shed a tear. Her eyes were clear, but no longer bright. They were dark with resignation. "And then maybe it'll go away someday."

Sighing, Malia shuffled with Safiah to the freshman dormitories to rest after an emotionally exhausting day.

Maybe she's right, Malia thought. But, no. What would she have done in the seventh grade if Danny and her brother hadn't defended her from Joey Gandalini? But that was different. Much different. She knew that.

"We'll figure this out, you know," Malia finally declared. That's what her brother had said to reassure her in the eleventh grade after she had been cut from the girl's varsity lacrosse team. It had been her dream. And it was shattered by Haylie Thomas – the only sophomore ever voted captain of the varsity team. But once again, Malia's heart sank in the realization that her sorrow was only a flare in comparison to Safiah's fire of trouble.

"Right. Sure, we will," Safiah mumbled. But then she glanced at Malia's eyes. They were pained. "Malia, I don't want you worrying about me. You have so much else to be... thinking about right now. Please. I'm not worth it."

Just like her sister wasn't worth it? Just like Beth's mother wasn't worth it? Malia thought quietly to herself. Sometimes she felt that her thoughts dominated her mind. Massaging her pale forehead, she felt a throb of pain. A sharp headache approaching.

After reassuring Safiah once more, they muttered their farewells. But Malia still lingered under the golden stars and silver moon of the nighttime sky, wishing vigorously for a miracle.

She glanced at the empty garden. At one last glimmer of nature. The trees swayed gracefully in the autumn breeze. But, no. Wait. What was that? She saw a shadow in the distance. A shape. A shape wearing a hat. A red baseball cap. A red fiery in the smoky darkness.

And she ran to it.

– **Chapter 7 –**

"Sam?" she shrieked while sprinting to the foggy shape in the distance. But she knew it wasn't him. Sam was an Orioles fan, and Danny was the Red Sox fan.

"It's me, Malia." Although she couldn't see his face, she knew it was somber. She could hear it in his voice. His thin, aching voice. "Sorry to disappoint." His tone was mocking. No, it was joking. How can he joke at a time like this? she wondered. Did he even care?

Of course he did. How could he not?

"Danny," she whispered.

Extending his weary hands towards the darkness, he enclosed her fingers in his grasp as she guided him towards the light – towards the lobby of the freshman dormitory. The beams of electricity blinded her tired pupils as she squinted at Danny, wondering if his presence was simply a hallucination. It was all too good to be true. How can this be real? she wondered.

His hair appeared greasy and scruffy, and his face was unshaven. His eyes were not simply red with pain but bleak with exhaustion. Nonetheless, he gazed at Malia with undying focus and attention, keenly watching her every move. Intently catching her every syllable.

"You look tired," she laughed, smiling for several moments before swiping the childlike grin from face after recalling the events of the day. After recalling her brother. She looked at his feet. A thick white cast was strapped tightly around his right leg up to the knee. He limped awkwardly to the lobby and slumped in a ruby red armchair with a sigh.

She sunk to the black sofa opposite him and stared. Simply waiting. So much had changed so drastically and inevitably in the months since graduation. Do I even know who he is anymore? She turned her glance towards the ground, his stare too penetrating and intense to tolerate. It's almost like I've lost someone who's sitting right in front of me.

"Malia, say something," he pleaded. "Don't leave me hanging here." She looked up. He was grinning.

"Danny, how can you laugh at a time like this?" Her dark waves flowed loosely around her oval-shaped face. Her olive headband matched the hazy green pigment of her eyes and her cheeks were rosy – slightly from the blush she delicately applied hours prior, but largely from fatigue.

He plainly ignored her question and continued to stare. She watched him attempt to speak several times, but he clumsily stumbled on his words and grunted in frustration.

"Danny, why can't you talk to me?" she questioned, confusion and worry in her eyes. But mostly fear. Angst and anxiety at the prospect that things would never be the same. She desperately needed things to be the same. Then she remembered Sam. How can things ever be the same? she thought, tears prickling her eyes. "It's just me. Malia." her voice crackled. "Why won't you speak with me? Please, Danny."

"Malia," he saw the pain in her eyes. She must know, he thought. "This isn't easy for me." He locked his glance on her glossy satin pumps. His right, injured leg was inelegantly sprawled across the footstool between them.

"What isn't easy for you?" she inquired.

He looked in her eyes. "To talk about it. To tell you things... things that you shouldn't know." His hands, which were previously wrapped firmly across the back of his head, slapped to his lap.

"Danny, stop trying to protect me. I'm a big girl now," she insisted. The beads of her crystal necklace were irritatingly scratching her neck, so she swiftly removed the chain and dumped it to the black, feathery carpet with ease.

"I can see that," he smiled. "A college freshman. I always knew you could do it, Malia."

She couldn't keep herself from breaking a smile. But she knew what he was trying to do. To change the subject. To keep her from discovering the truth. To shield her from what she needed to know.

"So what do you think of college? Is it everything you always thought it would be?"

She stared.

"I really hope it is. For your sake." It was almost as if he didn't even notice her indifference. Or maybe he simply chose to ignore it. "I always knew you'd like college. You were always such a good student. So dedicated." His glassy glance was fixed on the opposite wall. Not on Malia.

"Danny, you were the one who always told me that I can't hide things from people." He looked at her curiously. "Last year, when Beth's mom... when she was killed," she cringed at the mere sound of the word, "you told me 'you can't keep these things inside, Malia.'" The tears did not merely prickle her eyes now. They flooded down her pink cheeks, as she inhaled deeply. "That was one of the hardest times in my life. But... but somehow I got through it," she looked at him now. His face screamed with sympathy. His eyes shrieked of apology. But he still remained silent. "I know about Sam, Danny. My Mom called me this morning." Could he even hear her words through her scratchy, subtle tone? She removed her silky black sweater and swiped it roughly against her swollen eyes and damp cheeks. "I just... I... just tell me. I can handle it. Is he coming back, Danny?"

He saw that she relied entirely on his response. Her happiness and her spirits. They all depended solely on his words. His heart raced wildly. Shivering, he sensed a sudden rush of cold and gently brushed his palm across his arms.

"Malia, I'm not sure," he swiped the sweat from his forehead. "I don't know where your brother is," he mumbled, never once removing his fixed glance from her eyes. "I'm sorry."

She buried her face in her palms, muffling her cries. Her cheeks were coated with a fresh layer of tears that trickled down her chin and stained the neckline of her black sequin dress.

"I promised you," he reflected. "That day, after graduation. I promised I'd protect him." His uninjured leg trembled harshly against the ground. He shuffled his muddled hair in frustration, and then, suddenly, he softened. "For you. I promised we'd both come back. And here I am. I'm back. And he's..." his face drooped and his arms fell limply to his sides. "He's not."

"Danny, I don't blame you," she whispered earnestly. "I really don't. I know that you must've done everything you could."

"I would have died for him, Malia. I would have done it for him. And for you."

"That's not what I would have wanted. Every soldier for himself, right?" she laughed artificially, her mouth twisted in disgust.

He looked at her amusedly. "I was never such a fan of that slogan."

"Oh. That's right. You're only a fan of baseball teams that never win. I almost forgot." The words flew from her lips before she even knew what she was saying. How can we joke like this after everything that's happened? she asked herself. How can we act like everything is normal when it's not? It's far beyond normal. It's verging on tragedy.

"I don't blame you, Danny," she pressed.

"If only I had stayed with him," he continued. "Why couldn't I break orders? Why did I have to listen to the general? Why do I always have to follow the rules?" He was barely even addressing her at this point. He was simply speaking to the thick layer of warm oxygen surrounding him, to the white wall opposite him, and to his bitter, cynical self.

"Danny, I don't blame you," she repeated.

"He's just a kid. What was I thinking letting him join the army?" He spoke as if he were Sam's father. His guardian. His protector. "I supported him. I told him it was a good idea. That I would go with him, and that we'd have the time of our lives," his lips curved upward in a smile. "The time of our lives," he repeated. His lips were now crooked in horror as he reflected on the irony of his words.

"I don't blame you, Danny!" Malia shrieked, trying to penetrate his stubborn mind.

"I should have been the first one to notice he'd been gone too long. I was his best friend. But I just let myself get too caught up in everything else. Everything else that wasn't important. And I forgot. How could I forget about him? Maybe we could've found him if I had noticed sooner. Why didn't I notice sooner?" His voice echoed shrilly in the large, vacant downstairs room.

"Danny, I don't blame you," she whispered. He finally remembered her presence and turned to face her. "Please don't blame yourself," she begged.

"You have no idea, Malia. No idea," he shook his head in resignation.

She was horrified. What is he hiding? she thought. Why is he afraid to talk to me? "Then tell me, Danny. Tell me. I need to know. Maybe if you tell me about what you guys went through over there, and about... about Sam," her heart ached in agony at the mere mention of his name, "things might get better. At least a little," she urged.

He looked at her face and sighed. Her green eyes beamed with fear, but also with intensity. An intense desire to know. "Alright," he finally surrendered. With a sigh, he cleared his throat and disclosed to her his experiences as a soldier. At least the ones her fragile mind could handle. The ones her innocent heart could tolerate.

"At first, everything was fine," he started nonchalantly, his tone casual. "Life was fine. Training was tough, but we got through it together. Sam was great," he smiled. "You should've seen him, Mal." Danny seemed to be entering another universe – a universe filled with joyous visions of the past. Sweet memories of just months prior.

"He worked so hard. I have never seen him work harder in his life, Malia. He was amazing. Everyone was jealous of him. The generals loved him. I never thought I'd see the day when an authority figure would actually admire our Sam, Mal, but they did. They really did. And then," his eyes which had been focused on the ceiling in a reflective stare now reached Malia's glance and turned solemn.

"And then they set us free. To fight. They said we were ready. But I don't think they were telling us the truth. They didn't think we were ready, and neither did we. But that's what war is – fighting for what's right even if you're scared. And I think everyone was scared, Malia," he confessed. Malia didn't notice before, but he had a slim red gash under his left eye. How did I not notice? They had been conversing for about an hour now. I wonder if it's burning. Maybe that's why he seems so bitter. In such agony. But somehow she knew that wasn't why at all. His affliction stemmed far deeper than the physical.

"That is, everyone but Sam was scared. He didn't seem scared at all." He reflected on his words. Why wasn't Sam scared? he thought. Maybe if he was just a little more scared, he'd have been more careful. More cautious. Maybe he'd be here right now, sitting with them at Malia's school. Chatting casually about major league baseball and the latest Harry Potter film. Maybe everything would be normal. His mind swelled excruciatingly with the mere thought of what could have been.

Malia was still staring intensely at Danny. Waiting patiently. Her thirst for knowledge about her brother was not yet quenched. But, no matter how much Danny revealed, he knew that her hunger for information would never be satisfied. Not until she knew where he was. Not until he came back.

The hours passed swiftly, as Danny proceeded to reveal to Malia a side of her brother she never knew. A person she was never acquainted with. A virtual stranger.

A stranger she could not be more proud of. She beamed in admiration and praise for her brother. For his courage and his strength. For the lives he saved. For the honor he defended. When he was done speaking, Danny glanced at her expectantly.

"Thank you, Danny," she whispered. "Thank you for that. Maybe... maybe our story will have a happy ending, after all," her eyes glimmered with hope. But she instantly lamented her words. She knew they were lies. The optimism would fade and the joy would dissolve. Their lives would once again drip with regret and drizzle with sorrow. Their hearts would once again choke with the thought of what could have been. With the notion of an empty future. A future without Sam - her brother and his best friend. An integral part of their lives. A hole unfilled. A hole that may possible never be filled.

What if...? What if...? The infinite possibilities of the mysterious future haunted her mind. But she closed her eyes firmly in an attempt to erase these useless thoughts. To focus on the present, rather than the inalterable past etched in stone and the unknown future not yet exposed.

The sunlight radiated through the sheer white curtains and pierced Malia's pupils. Shielding her eyes from the blinding beams with her palm, she saw a thin figure approaching from the rickety stairway.

"Malia?" a small voice inquired. The figure was wearing a flowing white gown. A yellow paisley scarf draped loosely around the brim of her head and the tip of her pointed chin.

"Safiah. Good morning," Malia muttered. Suddenly, she recalled the events of the previous night and frowned. "How are you feeling?"

"I... I'm fine," she stuttered. Then she turned her glance curiously to the shape that sat limply opposite Malia. The shape that stared at Malia with rigid focus.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Safiah, this is Danny. We went to high school together," Malia pointed unconcernedly to Danny, who was clad in his soldier's uniform. Safiah gazed at the brace strapped firmly around his right leg and her mind clouded with pity. Then, almost immediately, a wave of idolatry reached her sparkling eyes.

"Oh, I know," she beamed with gratitude. "It's very nice to meet you," she timidly extended her hand towards him, as if about to shake the hand of a king. His ragged attire was suddenly transformed into the purple garments of royalty.

He immediately grimaced, scowling at her floor-length dress and religious garb. "Malia, who is this?" He turned towards the familiar face – towards Malia. Malia could trace the fear in his eyes. His brows furrowed and, with pitiful difficulty, he clumsily rose from his seat and stepped slowly backwards from the Muslim girl who spoke so casually and freely to Malia. As if they were friends. How can they be friends? he thought. His pulse quickened and his spirits fell. He knew his life would never be the same. It was almost as if he didn't even know who Malia was anymore. Why can't we just go back to high school? We would all appreciate it so much more now after everything that's happened.

"Danny, this is my friend. Safiah," she repeated. She stood firmly beside the Muslim girl now, as if physically and emotionally attached to her. As if their hearts were intertwined. Their souls interlaced.

So much confidence, Danny thought. Where did it all come from?

"Danny, what's wrong?" Worry swept Malia's face – pale as a pigeon – as Danny stumbled even further towards the exit. "Why are you acting like this?"

Safiah locked her glance to the black carpet and glumly yearned that she could dive headfirst into its bushy threads and shield herself in its warm embrace. It was happening again. A nightmare once again repeated. But now, she might just lose Malia in the process. Her one friend. The one person who understood. She wordlessly prayed that Danny would have compassion. He's a soldier, she thought. He must have compassion for me. It's his job to defend the oppressed and to pity the weak. Isn't it?

"Malia, I'm sorry. But, after everything I've been through in Afghanistan. All of those people who terrorized us. Fighting to defend their country... these people... with no souls. Literally. Malia, they have no souls. I mean, look at what they did to Beth's mom." He reached a soft spot. She knew what he was trying to do. She recognized his attempt at manipulation. Irrational, baseless manipulation. She nearly melted at the thought of Beth's mother, but she maintained her composure. Her glaring gaze bore deeply into his mocking stare. "Look what they did to all of those people in New York who died last year, Malia. I just don't get it. It's like I don't even know you anymore." Her muscles grew tense at his harsh, condescending words.

What is he thinking? she thought. Why is he being like this? She vaguely recalled the old Danny. The thought brought painfully blissful memories. The Danny who would defend her from savage junior high bullies and heartbreaking football quarterbacks. It made no sense. It was completely illogical. How can he do this to me? she pondered.

"Danny, you... you've got it all wrong," she started, her voice agitated. "Safiah and her family... they left Afghanistan a couple of years ago because her younger sister died. They had nothing." She hoped Safiah wasn't too offended at her blunt approach to such a sensitive subject. "How can you treat her like this after everything she's dealt with?"

"Malia," he softened his tone. It was no longer fierce and burning with fury and disgust. But it was still mocking. "I pity her, yes. But it doesn't change the facts. We're from America, me and you. We have to be loyal to our country," he explained, as if speaking to a child.

"I am loyal to America, Danny. And so if Safiah," she declared, her tone unwaveringly strong. Her eyes blazed with frustration at the person who ridiculed her dedication. She who had lost everything for her country. Beth's mother. Sam. How could he question her loyalty? "Me and Safiah... we're more loyal than you will ever be." She immediately regretted her words. Who knows what he had to contend with in Afghanistan? He was braver and more loyal than both her and Safiah combined, she knew. But she had to make her point. He had to understand. She knew that their friendship and her sanity depended on his ability to empathize with Safiah. Why can't he see? she repeatedly asked herself in frustration.

"Malia, come on," he softly urged. "Let's go get some coffee. This is ridiculous. You're being ridiculous," he smiled jokingly. She didn't return the favor. She wriggled free from his gentle pull and shook her head nervously, sensing her entire world crumbling to pieces all over again. Except this time, Sam wasn't here to save her. And Danny, certainly, could not rescue her from her inevitable demise. Only Safiah. The girl, and the idea, she was willing to defend and for whom she was willing to jeopardize everything. And here Danny stood tearing her heart to pieces. Safiah had made her believe, had brought her faith. How can Danny ridicule her? Who has he become? the thoughts shrieked in her mind.

"Danny," she whimpered, "I hate myself." He looked at her perplexed. "I really do."

"Malia, why?" he looked at her, confused. "How can you say something like that?"

"Because I... I just wish," the tears flooded from her eyes and mascara smudges stained her pale cheeks. "I wish that Sam was here," she cried. "Almost... almost." She looked at him. Who is he? She just wanted her old friend back. "Instead of you," she whispered. "I wish he was here. He wouldn't be like this. He would never be like this," she confessed.

Danny lowered his head and nodded in resignation. He wished more than anything that Sam was here, too. And that he was back there. In Sam's place. Fighting for his life. Or, possibly, already defeated. The battle already a lost cause.

– **Chapter 8 –**

"Come on, Safiah," Malia pressed quietly. "Let's go."

Safiah obediently followed, her eyes fixed on the tips of her suede moccasins. And there Danny stood – defeated and broken. His head drooped, and his frail body crushed to the red armchair. In the end, all those he truly cared for had left him entirely alone and abandoned.

Safiah and Malia strolled slowly through campus, side by side, not speaking. Suddenly, Safiah paused and turned to face Malia. "Malia, you shouldn't have done that. Danny is your best friend. I'm not worth it." Malia was appalled. Danny was not her best friend. Beth was. But that was high school. Was she still her best friend? They had barely spoken in months. What kind of friendship is that? "You have to go back."

Wait. How can Safiah say that she's not worth it? "No. Of course you're worth it, Safiah," she shook her head. "How can you say that?" Frustration and confusion were carved into Malia's face.

"But Danny and you... you've been friends for so long. You've just met me. You can't give up a friendship like that for me, Malia. I can't allow you to do that," Safiah asserted. "You have to go back. I'm sure Danny's still there," she waved her arms flimsily in the direction of the freshman dormitory where Danny sat gloomily contemplating his life.

Malia simply shook her head. "Safiah, I've lived like that for far too long. I've given in to things that I don't believe in for too long, now. I can't do it anymore. I just can't." And with that, she circled towards the cafeteria, her stomach growling for a batch of freshly scrambled eggs and plates of crusty waffles drizzled in chocolate syrup. So it is true what they say, she thought. College students do have rather large appetites.

"Malia? Malia," Safiah's fingers were pressing gently against her arm. Trying to get her attention. She immediately escaped her daydreams and returned to reality. "Malia, there's someone here who wants to speak with you."

Malia lifted her eyes to the five foot-four figure with straight red-auburn hair and ocean blue eyes. She was attired in a pair of tattered skinny jeans and a light pink sweater set. Malia looked down at the girl's feet. Brown leather cowboy boots. She finally looked at the girl's face. It was thin, but glowing radiantly with an auburn tan. The freshly glossed lips were curved into a smile. No, not just a smile. She was laughing.

Beth.

"Oh my goodness!" Malia shrieked, leaping to the giggling girl and hugging her warmly. "What in the world are you doing here?" She eyed her cashmere sweater set. "And what in the world are you wearing?" Beth had always been the rebellious country-girl type. Not even close to the girl who wore button-down sweaters and actually tucked in her James Madison High uniform. Despite how often Mr. Matthews threatened to give her detention.

"Ms. Walters, honestly, we are not a rodeo. We are a reputable preparatory school," Mr. Matthews had scolded. "What is on your feet?" He squinted at her shoes – magenta cowboy boots that reached her knees.

Beth looked down at her feet. "Mr. Matthews, I have always believed strongly that clothes are a physical representation of a person's character and personality. Really, how can you argue with individuality and self-expression?" Beth always knew how to baffle her teachers. Mr. Matthews stood dumbfounded, paused momentarily, and then waltzed away with a sigh.

Beth looked at Malia and laughed. "I guess you can say NYU taught me a little something about conformity. But," she pointed to her feet, "I've still got the cowboy boots," she chuckled. "And the southern accent." Beth hadn't stop smiling ever since she'd approached Malia and Safiah outside the glass doors of the Washington University cafeteria. How can she smile like that? Malia thought. How can she be so strong? She hoped desperately that someday she could be as strong as Beth. And as Safiah. She scorned herself for possessing so many weaknesses. For not being able to endure things with pride that so many others could.

As Malia and Beth conversed, Danny inched slowly towards the cafeteria. No one recognized his presence.

"Beth, how are you doing?" Malia turned serious. She had to make sure. Before they could laugh and chat and behave as if nothing had changed. She had to know that Beth was okay.

Beth's lips automatically slid downward in a frown. But her eyes still glimmered with energy and radiated with life. "I'm okay," her voice was quiet. "I mean, it gets hard sometimes," she confessed. "I've joined some clubs and groups and stuff..." her eyes searched the campus for something. For anything. But she couldn't find what she was looking for. She feared that she never would. "But I'm doing good," she smiled at Malia. Then she turned to Safiah, "Who's your friend?" she inquired curiously.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Beth, this is Safiah." She pointed to the reticent girl who stood shyly on the sidelines, observing their conversation in awe.

"It's so nice to meet you," Beth smiled warmly, extending her hand.

Safiah was startled, but gladly accepted the gesture. "You too," she beamed, daintily shaking Beth's hand. Beth's gold rings and silver bangles scratched Safiah's slender wrist. "Malia talks about you all the time. It's so nice to finally meet you." The beaded fringes of Safiah's white gown swayed gently with the wind. The sun flared on her golden headscarf, and her chocolaty brown skin glimmered with the break of day.

"Wow, so are you from another country or something?" Beth innocently asked.

"Yes," Safiah bit her lip. "I'm from Afghanistan. I moved to America about two years ago," she tugged lightly on the sleeves of her silk gown.

Beth looked wildly engrossed in Safiah's words. "Wow, so you're from Afghanistan. That is so interesting," she beamed. "You have to tell me all about it." Her eyes were animated with excitement and her heart flamed with interest.

"I would love to. There is so much to tell. It is an exquisite country," Safiah buzzed.

Danny jumped in astonishment at Beth's instant acceptance of Safiah and her culture. "Malia," Danny timidly approached, limping. "Hey, Beth," he grinned awkwardly at Beth out of politeness. He turned to face Malia. "Can I speak to you for a minute? In private." His face was solemn.

Malia breathed, nodding cautiously. "Sure," she consented. "You guys go on," she directed to Safiah and Beth – the two newfound friends. She always knew they'd get along. "I'll be right back."

"Danny, I'm sorry about before," she blushed. "I shouldn't have said those things. It was so harsh... it was so unnecessary.... But, if that's the way you feel, then I don't think we..." He slowly lifted his hand to halt her speech.

"Malia, no. That's what I wanted to talk to you about." She crossed her eyes in confusion.

"You've changed your mind?" Hope suddenly sprung within her, and her heart raced violently in her chest.

He slouched to a vacant park bench and leisurely brushed clusters of potato chip crumbs, brown autumn leaves, and withering rose petals from the seat beside him before gesturing for Malia to sit.

"I have to tell you something," he declared, his voice hoarse. He sounds ill, worried thoughts raced hysterically through her mind. Does he have a cold? Is it something worse? In spite of everything, she realized, she still cared. Desperately.

"About a month ago, me and Sam... we were in the trenches. And something happened," he looked at her now, his cheeks red. "I think we both knew it would happen eventually. It's really inevitable, Malia. No matter how much we didn't want to believe it. No matter how much I wanted to hide it from you." He looked embarrassed. His face was stern and pale and his eyes stone-like.

"Malia, I've never cried before. Never. In my entire life. But when I saw a soldier go down... I cried like a baby. I cried until it hurt to cry anymore. And even then, I didn't stop crying," he confessed. "I couldn't stop." He paused, reflecting. "It was horrible, Malia. Horrible."

Malia frowned. _How could I be so heartless? How could I be so selfish?_ Thoughts of self-criticism raided her mind.

"One second, I saw a nice, friendly Muslim family. A woman who looked like Safiah and a young husband and child," he continued. "And then the next, they were all gone. Smothered to pieces." She saw tears in his eyes. For the first time. "Along with Eddy Parker," he coldly added.

"I guess you can call me in injured soul," he swallowed. "I've seen so much... so many horrible things that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I guess all of that... it just clouded my mind from the truth. And the truth is..."

Malia knew what was coming. She had anticipated it ever since Danny had first questioned her loyalty to America. To a country she was willing to risk everything for. To a country Safiah was willing to depend solely on for her survival.

"I was wrong. I'm a jerk. I'm an idiot," he continuously bashed himself, his fingers running through his muffled hair in frustration. _How long has it been since he's slept?_ she wondered sadly. "I'm here abusing something I'm supposed to be defending. That it's my job to defend."

"And what's that?" she asked, curiously.

He looked at her confused, as if she already knew. As if he questioned how she couldn't know. As if it were her life's mission to defend what he was paid to defend as a soldier. "Honor. I'm supposed to defend honor. And justice. That's what I pledged to do. And that's what I will do." He paused, noticing a loose leaf glide gently from a branch and flutter to his lap. He lifted it before his weary eyes and stared at it for a long time before setting it free with the smooth autumn breeze. "What I will always do from now on."

"I'm really happy to hear that, Danny. You don't know how much that means to me," she gazed at the tree opposite her, almost all of its leaves gone. Some lay lifelessly on the grass beside it, while some, she knew, soared to the distance. Finally free. "You had me worried there," she laughed freely, no longer fearing happiness. No longer deeming laughter unwarranted. She _could_ be happy. She deserved to be happy. She just had to let herself experience it.

"You know, Sam didn't take it too well at all. That was the one time when he really broke down, Malia." Her spirits fell at the mention of Sam's name. How could she even consider happiness with Sam lost? Missing or even potentially gone forever?

"Danny, I hope you don't mind," she stood elegantly. "But could you please tell Safiah and Beth that I needed to rest for a little while. I'm exhausted." Her arms dangled limply by her sides while her legs went weak with fatigue.

"Well, that makes sense," he stood with her. "You've been up all night talking to some veteran," he smiled. "I heard they can be a drag."

She laughed at his ironic sense of humor.

"You know, Malia. No matter what, I'll always be there for you," he assured her. His eyes were deathly serious. No hints of humor.

"I know," she whispered. With that, she gently squeezed his hand and walked away.

Sinking to her bed in exhaustion, she enfolded her slender shape in her covers. Her lids clasped shut, and the soft cotton of her quilt tickled her arms and neck. She swiftly snatched her hairbrush and ran its bristles smoothly through her frizzy strands. Gently returning the brush to its place on her nightstand, she flipped open her brutally scratched cell phone. No calls. No messages. Heaving a sigh of relief, she sealed her mind from the outside world and dreamed of better days.

"Malia." Safiah approached her meekly the following morning, her limber elbow carrying the weight of a large brown faux leather sac. "Where are you going?"

Malia abruptly turned and swallowed hard at the sight of the radiant Muslim girl with the thin voice who was evidently interested in her plans for that crisp September day. Malia saw the words _The Middle East_ etched onto the spine of the thickest of the three textbooks that bulged from her oversized purse and gazed at it curiously. _How can she speak to me after what Danny did?_ For days she had boasted of Danny's kindness, of his heart of gold, and of his selflessness. Her cheeks burned as she recalled Danny's ludicrous prejudice towards Safiah just the previous evening. The night that had held so much promise. A hopeful night turned to dust.

"I...," she was startled. Safiah's hair was covered by one of her many stunning silk headscarfs. But this one was different; it was sheer. Malia could see her sinuous black locks. She imagined that they reached the center of her slender back. "I signed up for cheerleading," she confessed. "I needed a distraction." A portrait of her brother, staring at her nobly in his soldier's uniform, was painted slowly in her mind. But within moments it vanished. Missing in action. The thought brought a sharp twang to her arm and her chest trembled. Yes, she needed a distraction. Desperately.

Safiah bit her lip, contemplating. The vibrant red of the portion of Safiah's mouth that was crushed by her teeth turned a sickly white. She opened her mouth to speak. "What time is the um..." she paused, her naturally pink cheeks colored several shades darker, "the cheerleading practice?" she innocently inquired.

Malia automatically brightened. _This would be good for her,_ she thought. _She needs this more than I do._ "Promptly at four-thirty. Safiah, it would be great if you could come." She didn't even consider the issue of modesty. Her tired mind failed to even consider it.

"Great," Safiah exclaimed. Her brown sac swayed violently with her enthusiastically gesticulating arms. She retreated towards the library. Tomorrow was her exam on the Israel-Palestinian conflict in the post World War II era. Maybe she would find a study group. But, in reality, she most likely would not, she knew.

Malia paced to her dormitory, and snatched her uniform from the top drawer of her wooden dresser. The knob was a small sphere of rusty gold. A fake gold, Malia guessed. Chips of gold paint stuck to her palms, and she swiftly pricked the poisonous paint from her skin. She then looked down at the uniform lying limply in her arms. It bore thick red and white stripes. Crisp and clean, no wrinkles, and freshly ironed.

She had always considered joining the squad in high school. But at James Madison, cheerleaders were perceived as immature and naïve. Superficial and, oddly enough, untrustworthy and disloyal. She thought of Haylie, the innocent cheerleader who had fallen into the arms of the heartbreaking quarterback, Corey Simon, and rolled her eyes. High school seemed so distant now. So distant and, simultaneously, so incredible. If it were possible, she would go back in an instant. Just to relive it. To appreciate the simplicity. To gloat in the lack of responsibility that hid behind the apparent overflow of responsibility that they had so earnestly despised.

Swiftly slipping on the dress and her white Nike sneakers – the ones with the glossy red swoosh sewed to its sides, Malia pranced to the football stadium, her mind spiraling with both numbing anxiety and thrilling anticipation all at once.

Stacey Gross was poised flawlessly in the center of the field. The other cheerleading aspirants observed and imitated her every move. Malia eyed a freshly baked batch of chocolate- chip cookies lying flatly in a glass dish by Stacey's feet. Betty Crocker, most likely. A weak attempt at flattery, she assumed. Stacey rotated to face Malia, her foot conveniently crushing a cluster of cookies in the process. The doughy pieces blended with the wet grass, dying the creamy chunks an unappetizing shade of green.

"Malia," she smiled, revealing a set of artificially whitened teeth. The loose strands of her blonde hair were tucked daintily behind her ears, from which a pair of crystal chandeliers dangled with the soft breeze. The sun struck the crystals and changed their tint from a snowy white to a pale pink and then to a sky blue. Malia breathed. "So glad you could make it."

She opened her mouth to speak but never got the chance.

"Okay, girls," Stacey tactfully turned away. "Cheerleading isn't just about encouraging our school's team during game time. No, it is something much greater," she paused, intensifying the suspense. "It's an athletic sport in itself. It's about gymnastics, dance, and endurance. So," she lowered her voice, twitching her eyes. "Can you all endure it?" she looked at Malia, and twirled towards the bleachers. Every girl gazed at Stacey, their mouths awkwardly open, their nerves accelerating. "I guess we'll just have to find out."

_Gymnastics?_ Malia's legs trembled. _Dance?_ Her mind spiraled. _Endurance?_ _Could_ she endure it? Would she have the strength? Her senses told her to run, to sprint to the safety of her dorm. Why was she trying to be someone she wasn't? It was a mistake. A horrible mistake.

_Come on, Malia,_ a voice echoed in her mind. _This girl is no good. Trust me, I know._ It was a familiar voice. A male voice. _This isn't you, and you know it. Just go try out for Mathletes or something,_ the voice laughed. _That's more your style._

Malia grinded her teeth in frustration and pranced to the join the bundle of girls who worshipped Stacey Gross as their queen, repeating each cheer with a forced smile. The chirpy chants resounded eerily in her mind. A useless attempt at enthusiasm.

She lightly closed her lids, inhaling the invigorating scent of white paint and wet leaves. A man wearing a pair of denim pants cut into shorts, evidently with scissors, cheerfully whistled as he painted the vivid white lines onto the field. The pungent odor caused her head to spin, and her mouth went dry.

Malia opened her eyes to a young, dark-skinned girl. Her slick black hair was parted artistically in the center of her scalp and she sported a red and white cheerleading uniform that exposed her smooth shoulders and bare arms and legs. "Malia?" The girl was talking to her now. The voice was deep and rich; the tone sounded familiar. And the eyes, they sparkled with the sunlight of dawn. The rays bounced off of her white leather sneakers and reflected onto her auburn cheeks. Then the girl did something strange. She smiled.

Safiah.

– **Chapter 9 –**

"Oh my goodness. Safiah, what have you done to yourself?" Malia breathed, gaping in astonishment at Safiah's radically altered appearance. She nearly mistook her for a cheerleader. Another symbol of conformity. Just another soul within the crowd.

Safiah looked down, analyzing her attire. Her smooth hands, her freshly polished fingernails, and her shiny leather shoes. Then she looked up at Malia and smiled again. "Malia, I told you I was going to come to the cheerleading practice," she innocently explained.

Meghan and Julie, two inseparable girls with identical hair styles – layered black strands with red highlights – grinned and nodded at Safiah, chatting about nail salons and high-end fashion. Malia heard the words Gucci and Louis Vuitton.

Only several days prior, Malia had observed Meghan and Julie buried in the corner of the freshman party; she had recognized them as the odd girls from her creative writing course with Ms Lany – untamed blonde hair, neon green glasses, and wildly passionate about poetry. But neither of them seemed to recall that Safiah was the Muslim girl who was debased and humiliated before her peers. Forced to leave the party rather than suffer the stares and detestation of her classmates. But now, they instantly accepted her. She was no longer a thorn wilting among a flourishing rosebush. Miraculously, she had blossomed in the loveliest rose of all.

Malia shook her head. "Safiah," she whispered, slowly approaching Safiah and pulling her to the sidelines. Malia inadvertently smeared the white lines the man in the denim shorts had meticulously painted several minutes prior. The paint was still wet. Frightened, she turned to the man, now on the opposite end of the field. He was glaring at her. "Safiah," she repeated, "you don't have to change yourself. You shouldn't have to."

"Malia, you don't know what it's like," Safiah whimpered.

Malia shook her head once more. "It's not right. You shouldn't have to sacrifice your beliefs," she pressed. She looked down in agitation, sighing. Her left sneaker had become untied, and the right sneaker was discolored in its center by a splotch of mud.

"Malia," she sobbed, "you don't know what it's like."

Malia lifted her gaze towards Safiah. Her eyes were outlined by a heavy black liner. Her lids were powdered with a sinister red shadow. Malia had always appreciated Safiah's modesty. How she never desired to boast herself to the world. Why the drastic change?

"Safiah, why do you want to change yourself? You were amazing... no, you were perfect. Just as you were," Safiah's eyes glimmered with appreciation for Malia's words of kindness, and she grinned. Malia sprung upon this spark of hope. "This isn't you."

But, wait. There was no hope. Safiah's eyes weren't glimmering with gratitude. They were glimmering with anger. "Malia," Safiah shouted. Her voice was no longer thin. It was burning with passionate fury. The veins in Malia's eyes turned red. The misty pupils no longer hazy but fiery. The cheerleaders fixed their attention on the two companions, their eyes wide with curiosity. "That is not your decision. It is my life. Not yours." Safiah's tense stare softened and her eyes fell. "I... I'm sorry, Malia," she mumbled, her cheeks pink with regret. "I'm sorry, but you really don't know what it's like," she whispered and returned to Meghan and Julie, nodding in agreement as they confessed their frantic obsession with boots. Strange, Malia thought, it wasn't even winter.

For the remaining two hours, Malia observed as girls performed flawless somersaults and cheered with undeniable energy, their throats never sore nor hoarse. After she memorized their various jingles and properly learned how to bob her pompoms at the correct angle, she trekked light-headedly from the field, her mind spinning in confusion.

"Malia," Stacey scurried from behind, her shoes crunching the freshly trimmed grass like a sneaker on a cracker. "Tonight. Bleachers. Be there," she commanded. She then did something strange – she burst out wildly with laughter and walked away. Not once looking back.

The remaining hours of the dwindling day passed as swiftly as lightning. Inevitably, Malia found herself obeying the commands of Stacey Gross, captain of the varsity cheerleaders. As the sun set and the sky turned pink, the girls huddled beneath the metal benches. Malia recalled the time she found herself seated on benches similar in appearance. Just one year ago she had attended her first football game to witness Corey Simon battle the Truman High School's all-star team. She wondered where he was now. What had life brought the star quarterback and most popular senior at James Madison high school?

"Here, Malia," Stacey shoved a bottle into her trembling fingers. "Enjoy," she grinned.

Malia shook her head. "Oh, that's okay. I don't drink." The others girls gaped at her. In astonishment but mostly out of curiosity.

"Malia. It's just one drink. It can't be more than three ounces," Stacey encouraged. Her brown hair was brightened with beach blonde highlights and her eyes were exaggerated with heavy black eyeliner. "Really." Her voice was hoarse, possibly from smoking, Malia guessed. She had seen her slumping behind the metal bleachers of the school's football stadium with the same group of burnouts for several weeks, although she was a cheerleader. More specifically, the top-of-the-pyramid kind of cheerleader. But, nonetheless, a cheerleader who smoked and drank leisurely.

_What has the world come to?_ Malia thought. She stared at the transparent glass Stacey dangled temptingly in front of her thirsty, chapped lips. _Malia,_ she heard a voice in her head. A male voice. A scolding voice. _Don't be stupid. Do not, under any circumstances, drink that stuff. You don't know what could be in there._

Her heart raced wildly in her chest at the sound of his voice. "I'd love a sip," Malia smiled, touching the rim of the glass to her lips. As Stacey turned to offer her fellow cheerleaders a taste of the golden poison, Malia abruptly spilled the drink from her mouth to the muddy ground, the taste too tangy for her to handle.

_Wow. You actually listened to me. I think this is the first time you actually did what I suggested._ It was the voice again. _I'm shocked, Malia. Really,_ it said sincerely.

She was trying her best to disobey the commanding voice in her mind, but she had failed. Dreadfully failed. She rolled her eyes and tried again.

The liquid sizzled down her throat, as she swallowed it noisily. Coughing hysterically, she felt her throat become clogged, as if with detergent. The liquid once again surged from her lips and she surrendered.

Her face grew hot with humiliation. _Well, I wouldn't say it's the best way to listen to me... But, at least you didn't end up swallowing it, right?_ the voice laughed casually. A figment of her imagination. It had to be a figment of her imagination. It couldn't be real. Could it?

Stacey was looking at her amusedly now, her eyebrows raised. "Are you gonna be okay, Sanders?" The other thirteen members of the cheerleading squad were staring at her, smirks planted onto each of their tanned faces.

Malia slowly nodded, "Yes," she whispered. "I'm fine... I just... I'll see you guys at practice tomorrow." She struggled to find the exit to Stacey's dorm room, and once she reached the pavement, trekked to the library in resignation.

At the library, a large group of boys, and several girls, were perched in metal seats, their eyes intently locked to a group of men in uniform, their spines straight and their chins high, who stood solemnly at the front of the room, their hands tied tensely behind their backs. The chunkiest, most muscular soldier of the group stood before a podium, his rich voice advertising the army in an almost irresistible manner. Tiny specks of black hair dotted his scruffy chin, and the strong bones of his face were vibrated tensely with each word he spoke. He conveyed the honor of war. The priceless lessons that could be learned. The everlasting friendships that could be established.

Malia closed her eyes. If only each student knew of the everlasting pain that could possibly result. But, no. It _was_ an honorable thing. A thing of value. She knew that.

"Hey, kid." Malia jumped at the scratchy sound of his voice. A man in uniform standing in the corner of the room, five-feet to her left. She hadn't realized, but she had been standing there intently watching the ROTC meeting with eager interest for at least thirty minutes. The appeal, as she suspected, struck her as undeniable. Almost like an infant who reaches for a bite of a mouthwatering toy truck, only to find her teeth in wretched pain just moments after she grinds her teeth into the mercury-infested paint that she thought resembled strawberries. He couldn't have been older than twenty-five. He sported a buzz-cut and a pair of denim overalls that were thrown over his uniform. A European cigarette hung loosely from the corner of his mouth. His hand clutched a wooden clipboard that carried a slip of paper with the messily scribbled signatures of young soldier hopefuls.

She waited.

"Let me guess. Your boyfriend in the army or somethin'? Wanna go see him, so you thought you'd sign this roster here and get yourself a first-class ticket to see him, that it?"

She stared.

"You thought the ole' government here'd pay your way to see 'im? That right?"

Her lips quivered noiselessly and her fingers twitched in fear.

"Don't be afraid, girl. I'm not tryin' to scare ya," his lips broke into a bitter smile before he began roaring with laughter. She could see a piece of the red meat the cafeteria served for lunch bulging out between two of his yellow teeth. "This place ain't for you. Trust me. I've seen a lot of things in my day. Things that would probably end up killing you." He began walking away.

"I wouldn't be so sure," she dared to respond, her voice no louder than the sound of a thimble against a hardwood floor. But he didn't hear her; he simply continued walking. She saw him high-five one of his buddies, another man – this one slightly older, possibly thirty years old – who wore a pair of light wash jeans that were ripped at the knees and an old white tee-shirt.

Alarmed, she dashed from the library, the feet of her white-wash jeans sweeping the unwashed floor, inevitably becoming damp with soda spills and speckled with cookie crumbs. Stooping to swipe the grime from her athletic sneakers, she lifted her gaze to Safiah, who stood timidly before her. The first thing Malia noticed was that her eyes were wet.  
The second was Safiah's attire; she was clothed in a lavender floor-length dress and her hair was enveloped in a dark headscarf. Her eyes were clean, except for several stray tears on her cheeks. No make-up. Just Safiah.

Wordlessly, Malia and Safiah roamed in unison to their dormitories – Malia weary from the festivities of unruly and, she thought, juvenile cheerleaders and Safiah consumed by her failed attempt at masking her true identity.

– **Chapter 10 –**

Her dormitory blanketed Malia in a sense of freedom, oddly enough, from the unpredictable outside world. Like rolling a pair of dice, she thought. She never knew what would happen next. Whether she would roll a winning double sixes or suffer the consequences of two disappointing ones.

Life has been kind to her, she realized. In spite of everything, she had been granted her health, her family and her friends. From experience, she knew that life had a funny way of working itself out. So she relented, released the tension in her muscles, and let life take its course. Her heart was now bursting with faith. She clung to her faith desperately. It was faith, she knew, that would carry her through.

After several minutes of lying lifelessly on her mattress contemplating the fickle nature of life, Malia heard a light knocking. A strangely yet pleasantly familiar knocking. Moaning, she jolted from her mattress and stepped through her cramped room towards the door. After leaping over piles of dirty laundry, she slid open the lock.

"Malia!" a huge smile was glued to his face. Her jaw dropped, and she felt faint. Am I dreaming? she thought. This must be a dream, she assured herself. She tried desperately to remain asleep, wishing that Kate wouldn't return to the dorm for at least several hours of peaceful slumber. Blissful dreams with Sam as the lead actor.

"Malia! Hello? Anyone in there?" he laughed, forcefully shaking her shoulders with his hands. She looked at his fingers. There were bruises on them. There was an orange gash on his right cheek. It was almost healed, though, she noticed. It wouldn't leave a scar.

This is what usually happened in her dreams. Sam would try to speak to her but she would remain silent. She would try uselessly to open her lips and speak, but would only release oxygen. Not words. Not even simple sounds of joy or irritation. Just air.

"Malia," he looked worried. "What's wrong? Don't you remember me? I wasn't gone that long." He was wearing a soldier's uniform. Dark green camouflage. He had a black Jansport backpack strapped to his shoulders. She saw a Washington University sweatshirt bursting through the zipper. Why would he have that? she thought. This must be a dream. But wait. How can I smell him? His scent was of grass and of trees. Of nature.

"S..Sam?" she whispered. "Is it really you?" The tears stung her sore eyes. Her lips were pale, her cheeks icy. She touched her fingers to her face; there was a fresh sheet of sweat pasted onto her forehead. "How... how...?"

"Malia," he whispered soothingly. "It's okay. I'm okay." Somehow he never anticipated how much his family would suffer of worry. He didn't even consider it. He casually slid past Malia and bounced onto her mattress. It crackled under his weight, but he didn't seem to notice. He lay back restlessly, his head flat on her feather pillow and closed his eyes.

Malia tip-toed to his side, still completely breathless. He opened one eye and frowned at her. "Uh... Mal, are you gonna be okay?"

"Me? Oh, yeah. I'm fine," she assured him. "It's you I'm worried about." How can he act like this? she thought. So calm. "Sam," she breathed. "What happened?"

For the first time since his arrival, he turned somber. "Malia... I don't think I can talk about it."

She stared.

"It's just too much to handle. The important thing is I'm back," he grabbed her hand in reassurance.

"No, Sam. You have to tell me," she slouched by his side. He sat up next to her. "I have to know. You have no idea," she cried, "what I've been through these past couple of days. Sam, I was dying inside." She lifted her eyes to his concerned stare, her cheeks pink with humiliation. She had just disclosed to him her innermost agony. And it was all because of him. It wasn't fair.

He looked at her. Her green eyes were wet as a rainstorm and her cheeks were paler than stone. So young and innocent. He had nearly destroyed her, he could see. Thousands of miles away, terrorists savagely murdered innocent soldiers and civilians on a daily basis. But now, all that mattered was her. Sitting here feebly, her soul and spirits nearly annihilated with sorrow.

"I'm sorry, Mal. It was my fault. I tried to be brave. Too brave," he paused, noticing an unfamiliar pile of clothes on the bed beside Malia's. Heaps of vibrant orange pants, tee shirts, and shorts. Malia hated that color, he reflected in amusement.

"That's okay, Sam. It's okay to do something even if you're scared. Someone I know taught me that one," she smiled.

But he didn't smile back. Instead, he grimaced in disgust. "No, Mal. Not always. Sometimes, it's not okay."

Her mouth twisted in confusion. He felt a sudden wave of relief as the color crept slowly back to her cheeks and her breathe began to stabilize.

"A soldier was killed. It was the first time I had ever seen someone die, Malia. And I hated it. It was wrong," he buried his face in his palm. "Malia," he cried, his voice hoarse and scratchy, "he had a kid. Two years old. And a wife. Newlyweds. His whole life ahead of him." He breathed heavily. "And now," he shouted, "now that kid will have to grow up without a Dad. Just a mother. A broken-hearted, widowed mother," he finished his last sentence with painful slowness. His words were sluggish. As if he was pained just to release them from his lips.

Malia continued to stare, absorbing each word he spoke with utmost concentration. She would never disregard another word Sam spoke. Not since she realized how easily his words and he himself could be stolen from her life.

"So, I went after them. I went looking for the people who did it to him... to Eddy. That was his name, I think." He looked at her, worried she would reprimand him. Scold him. Or, worse, despise him. "And Malia, I got lost," he shrugged. "But I found my way back home. And here I am," he pointed in disgust to himself. "At least I'm in one piece, right?" he chuckled.

She looked at his arm. It was strapped firmly in a white cast. A cast that resembled Danny's cast. She hadn't noticed it before. How could I not have noticed? "Sam," she swiped the water smudges from her eyes. She could finally see clearly. Both physically and mentally. "That's what a soldier does," she whispered. "He takes risks and does what he thinks is right. I've never been more proud of you."

He stared at her, bewildered. For several minutes they sat there in the thick silence of the afternoon. The only audible sounds were the birds chirping cheerfully through her open window and lively college students frolicking to their next class. With a wave of worry, Malia hoped her teachers wouldn't mind her absence. But she didn't care. She basked in the glory and spontaneity of life, while he basked in astonishment at her words of praise.

Another knock at the door. A heavier one. A stronger, more fierce knocking. But the door was unlocked, so she sat comfortably beside Sam. Still yearning that this incredibly realistic dream would never come to an end.

"Malia," Danny entered, "There's a really familiar looking car right outside your...." he broke his speech and stared, his jaw nearly reaching the ground.

"Nice to see you, buddy," Sam jumped and patted Danny's shoulder in a brotherly manner. Safiah and Beth were by Danny's side. Both appeared dumbfounded and stunned for several minutes. Until, finally, they realized the immensity of the moment and both began to cry.

Danny was finally able to speak, Malia noticed. "Sam, how... what...?"

"He'll explain later," Malia rolled her eyes, smiling.

"Danny, I think we have to talk..." Sam looked serious. "About my sister. What," he looked at Malia and then turned back to face his best friend, "is going on between you two?" His hands were crossed tightly against the front of his muddied shirt. "I think I have a right to know. You know, as her brother," he pointed to Malia. "Your best friend," he looked at Danny.

Malia and Danny both broke into a clamoring laughter. Danny was blushing. "Sam," Malia finally spoke after wiping the tears of joy from her eyes, "there'll be time for that later. Right now, I just want to enjoy this." She bit her lip. Everything was falling into place. Just as it should.

Sam's view of Safiah came into focus now. "And who is this?" he asked curiously, not once removing his glance from her face.

"I'm Safiah," she confidently asserted, extending her hand to his. The pain in Safiah's eyes was softened, Malia noticed, but not completely evaporated. She realized at that moment that no matter what she had endured and would be forced to endure in the coming years, nothing could compare to Safiah's troubles. Her heart soared for the timid yet powerful young woman standing right here in her dorm room, and she was grateful for the opportunity to meet such an inspiring individual.

Sam and Safiah stood smiling at each other for several blissful minutes before he turned once again to face Danny and Malia.

"When did you guys get so grown up?" he looked at them both. "I guess we're not kids anymore, are we?" Sam laughed, looking at Danny. Danny was a brother to him, Malia knew. And he always would be. No matter what the future brought.

"How can you be kids?" Malia said seriously. "When you've already experienced more than I will ever experience in a lifetime?" she whispered.

"No," she continued, "You're something much better. You're soldiers."

Danny and Sam looked at each other with pride. Sam breathed. "Well, we were soldiers," he turned to Malia. "But, I think we need to go get an education now. I have so much more to learn about this world. But mainly about myself," Sam confessed. Malia thought of the Washington University sweatshirt she saw peeking from his backpack and realized that this simple piece of apparel held more significance than she previously determined.

"So, have you decided on a major yet? What are you gonna do when you graduate?" Sam turned to his sister.

"Well...." Yes, Malia knew. But should she tell him? Would he take her seriously? "I want to do something important. I want to make a difference in people's lives. Like you guys." She paused and took a breathe. "Sam, I want to work for the United Nations," she declared. He burst out laughing.

"Malia, for real." He was still laughing. "What are you going to do after college?"

Malia rolled her eyes. Maybe in a few years he'd believe her.

About the author:

Leora Friedman is a teen author who has been passionate about writing from a very young age. Next year, she plans to further explore her love of writing by studying English literature and creative writing in college and to continue writing in her spare time and for the enjoyment of others.

Connect with me online:

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/teenwriter18

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