"Do you, like, shower with it on?"   

I sigh. "No. It's made of cloth. I only wear it around men I'm not related to."          

"So, your dad can see your hair?" Matt asks.

I nod.

"Can I see it?"          

"No, Matt, you can't."          

Before Matt can convince me to give him a peek, Mina swoops to my rescue, finally finished with her chemistry class. "Dude, beat it!" she tells Matt. "It's a hijab, not a museum exhibit."  

Matt rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Bet your hair isn’t even that great.”  

At Mina’s murderous glare, he quickly leaves our secluded corner of the noisy high school. We unwrap our lunches on the rickety table. Mina has her phone out, undoubtedly texting her latest crush. When she sees me pull a book from my backpack, she stops me. “Don’t even think about it.”          

 “How come you can text and I can’t read?”          

 “Texting takes a second. When you read, you vanish for ages. There, see, no more texting.” She tosses her phone into her bag and waits. 

Reluctantly, I put my book away and turn my attention to the turkey sandwich I’d made this morning. Mina chatters about the latest trend sweeping the school.  

Something about black skinny jeans and high tops. “The Kardashians can wear them, but I definitely can’t. Have you seen my butt? No way can I pull those off.”             

I take a bite of my sandwich and wait for her to pause before offering my opinion. “I think you look great in your normal pants.”          

“Samar, I love you, but you’re not really a fashion expert.” She glances meaningfully at my slacks.          

I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean? These are comfortable.”             

“You look like a middle-aged lawyer.”             

I smooth my hands over my legs and shrug off Mina’s remark. I’ve only been back in America for three months, but I’ve grown used to her little comments. The only reason I tolerate them is because I know she doesn’t mean any harm. Unlike the Egyptian students I’d spent the last two years with, American kids are shockingly impolite.             

My father had moved my family to Egypt after I finished the sixth grade. It wasn’t a real surprise, although it had caused friction between my parents. Both were Egyptian, but only my father felt ties to his homeland. In the short two years I’d spent there, I’d donned the hijab and met more family than I knew I had.             

When Arab Spring broke out and it was obvious we would have to return to California, I hadn’t known how to feel. I was glad to go back to America: I spoke the language perfectly and understood the ins and outs of the educational system. But on the other hand, I wasn’t prepared to lose the love and warmth I’d gotten used to in Egypt.             

Mina had tried to absorb me into her friend group when I’d returned, but it was no use. I simply couldn’t sit at the table and listen to their petty whining. Instead of listening, I'd wonder whether the state-wide curfew in Egypt had been lifted, or if my friends were safe at our old school.  

Though I'm grateful for Mina's friendship, and her efforts to help me socialize, I can't decide where I belong.        

As I get up to toss my lunch away, I bump into Faith Jackson. “Sorry,” I say automatically, stepping back. She flashes me a tight smile, throws out her lunch, and hurries back to her table.             

“Ugh, she’s so rude,” Mina snaps when I return to my seat.             

I arch a brow. “For throwing away her lunch?”               

“She didn’t even apologize. Or acknowledge you.”           

“I think you’re making too much of it.”             

Mina leans in and says quietly, “You know she’s Christian, right?”             

“Uh, most of the school is.”             

“Yeah, but she’s one of those Christians. Evangelical. The psycho ones."  

I make a mental note to research "Evangelical" later, but I don’t want to appear even more out of the loop with Mina, so I shrug. The bell rings, and I hastily make my goodbyes before darting off to Spanish.             

Taking my normal seat at the back of the class, I extract my book and flip to where I’d left off. I’m only halfway a page when I hear the question I always dread: “What book is that?”             

I look up and freeze. It’s Faith Jackson. She has turned around in her seat, directly in front of me, and is waiting for my answer. I'm astounded. We’ve both sat here the last three months, and I can’t remember her ever talking to me.             

“Um, it’s a romance. Fantasy, too.”             

“Can I see the cover? Maybe I’ve read it.”             

I mechanically lift the book and wince, waiting for the flash of judgment to pass over her eyes. I doubt that the boy and girl gazing longingly at each other on the cover appeal to her Christian values. They don’t appeal to my Muslim ones, either.             

Faith brightens. “Hey! That’s on my to-read shelf. Is it any good?”             

We make small talk about the book. I try not to sound robotic or wooden, but it’s difficult. I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing, of seeing the psycho Christian side of Faith that Mina warned me about.             

But if the psycho is there, I never see it. Mr. Monroe starts class, and Faith shoots me a friendly smile before turning to the front of the room. I put away my book and wonder whether or not to tell Mina about this conversation. I ultimately decide against it. I may not know much about the pants the Kardashians wear, but I do know how to read people, and something about Faith Jackson makes me want to flip the page.  

I lie to Mina and have lunch in the locker room the next day. The turkey sandwich I’d made lies untouched on the wooden bench. I force back the tears I’d been fighting since last night.  

Mom had insisted on taking my siblings and me to the mosque every family night, no matter how many times I begged to be left at home. I loved going to the prayer room, absorbing the peaceful environment of people reading the Quran, and lifting my hands to make my own prayers.  

What I hated was the youth group. Everyone knew each other, and they tried to include me. But I didn’t understand their references, and I wasn't interested in their drama. I felt more uncomfortable with them than I did with Mina’s friend group. At least Mina's friends just mocked me for being an out-of-place teenager. At the mosque, however, their mockery targeted my Islam, and that was worse than any comment about my pants.             

A sound at the door of the locker room captures my attention. I wipe under my eyes as Faith enters, gym bag in hand. Quickly glancing at my sandwich, I debate whether to say hi or to pretend we’re strangers.             

She takes the matter out of my hands. “Are you okay?”             

To my horror, a rush of tears overwhelms me. They stream down my cheeks, and I cover my face. “I’m f-f-fine,” I stammer.             

I hear a shuffling. Peeking between my fingers, I see Faith move my sandwich aside and straddle the bench in front of me. She waits until I’ve calmed down.  

“What happened? Something with Mina?” she asks.             

I shake my head. “It’s not important. Sorry, I’m a mess.”             

“We’ve all been there. Heck, I was on this bench crying last week. They really should build a separate room for emotional cry-fests, don’t you think?”             

I’m intrigued by the first personal piece of information she’s shared. “Why were you crying? If you don’t mind my asking,” I say.             

Laughing lightly, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and blushes. “It’s stupid.”             

“I’ll tell you if you tell me," I offer.             

“Boy, you’re stubborn,” Faith says. “I thought you were supposed to be shy.”             

“I’m not shy. Just quiet.”             

She nods slowly. “I didn’t think of it that way. Ok, you’ve got yourself a deal. Well, I was crying last week because we’re moving. I’m not even switching schools or anything. It’s only a few miles away, but I didn’t want to leave the house I grew up in. See? Stupid.”             

“Not at all. Leaving your home can’t be easy, regardless of where you’re moving.”             

“I guess. I feel silly telling you this. Didn’t you move here from Egypt?"  

I blink. I didn’t expect people to know anything about me other than that I’m the only kid at school who wears a scarf. “Yeah, but I lived here originally. I was only in Egypt for two years.”             

Faith seems interested. She props her chin on her hand. “So you not only moved out of your home, you moved out of the country. What was it like? I’ve never left California.”             

I glance at my watch. There’s not enough time left of lunch to find the words to describe the rollercoaster that was my life in Egypt. “Wait!” Faith exclaims before I speak. “You never told me why you were crying. Fair is fair.”             

The bell rings before I can answer. I smirk at Faith, but she’s not letting go easily. “We have Spanish together. We can walk and talk.”