Safiah's Smile

by Leora Friedman

  – 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, girl
s,” 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.