sense of pride and purpose. There was an infinite number of choices for these young women.
At home, Afaf watched Azmia at the kitchen table, her head buried in a textbook, hair pulled into a bun, marveling at this magnificent creature who was nothing like Afaf had been at her age, wrecked and lost. Azmia was an extraordinary surprise at the saddest part of her life, growing up bold and assertive, her brothers fretting over her, though she constantly pushed them away, making room to spread her wings, to chart her own course.
When she was nine years old, the girls in her Brownies troop told Azmia she was lucky she didn’t look Muslim. She’d come home fighting tears and begging Afaf’s permission to begin wearing hijab.
Afaf had gathered her in her arms. Why, my love? You’re still so young.
Azmia’s eyebrows furrowed like two wings intersecting as they always did when she was about to cry—a rare occasion, as tough as she was.
I don’t want anyone to make a mistake about who I am.
Hadn’t every muslimah asserted this collective identity to the world? There could be no mistake about who they are, what they believe. Her daughter’s brazenness still amazed Afaf; Azmia was so unlike how she herself had been at her age, a mousy girl with no sense of self, an invisible child. It’s what your children did: erased your flaws, your tragedies.
Outside her office, Lou, the school security guard, sat at a small wooden table, spectacles propped on the bridge of his freckled nose, reading a newspaper. He didn’t look up, the bill of his White Sox cap shadowing his eyes. He raised his two-way radio in greeting.
Afaf remembered his skeptical look when she hired Lou last year.
“I’ve been retired from the force for five years. I’d never worked with a Muslim population.” He pronounced it Moo-slim and looked like he wouldn’t have been disappointed if he didn’t get the job.
And yet Afaf had wanted him. He had that self-assured way that white people oozed because they believed you counted on them to improve matters. After a series of bomb threats, a jittery school board swiftly approved the full-time hiring of Lou, an ex–Chicago cop.
She turned down the corridor past the cafeteria, where laughter and chatter rose and fell. Young girls—twelve through eighteen—ate turkey sandwiches and sipped from water bottles, their heads swaddled in the compulsory white hijab, their bodies hidden under shapeless forest-green uniforms.
The head of the cafeteria staff waved at Afaf with her metal tongs. Um Khaddar was a widow, ancient and ageless all at once, with nine grown children. She’d pleaded with Afaf for a job in the kitchen to fill her empty days. The students adored Um Khaddar; she was like a mother hen, plump and fretting over wasted food.
“Mashallah, ya sayidah Rahman!” Um Khaddar would proclaim. “These girls have every liberty nowadays. How I envy them!”
Afaf would nod and smile, hoping progress would continue and every one of her students would reach her full potential. They were no longer swayed by fancy marriage proposals and dowries of gold. Careers in law, medicine, and political activism glittered on the horizon of their young lives more brilliantly than diamond rings. Her own teenage years were a blur of indifferent white boys, a deep loneliness engulfing her.
Afaf waved back at Um Khaddar with her two-way radio, moving past the glass-plated window of the Student Services Office, past posters on good citizenship and high expectations. A framed photograph of President Obama smiled down on her. She would miss the noon prayers if she didn’t hurry.
“Ms. Rahman! Ms. Rahman!”
Afaf halted, sighed, and spun around. A short and stocky girl with a round face beamed up at her. Najwa Othman, a senior. She was neck-and-neck with another student for valedictorian. Her mother and Afaf had been in elementary school together. She was shocked to see how well Afaf had turned out in the end.
“Salaam alaykum, Ms. Rahman! Have you had a chance to look over my proposal for the blood drive?” Najwa didn’t draw breath, batting her thick black eyelashes in expectation.
“Not yet, Najwa. I will—”
She cut Afaf off. “The deadline is in three weeks, Ms. Rahman.” Najwa bounced on the balls of her feet as she spoke, her excitement contagious, or annoying, depending on your mood.
“Three weeks is still plenty of time to—”
Najwa threw her hands up. “Inshallah I’d like to begin promoting as soon as possible, Ms. Rahman. I need your approval.”
Despite herself, Afaf smiled. “Inshallah,” she said. Exchanging