Free In the Language of Miracles by Rajia Hassib Page A

grandmother’s earnestness in accepting the invitation to talk to Garrett.Khaled never understood why Garrett had hit it off so well with Ehsan. Ever since Garrett was a kid Ehsan had fascinated him, swirling her incense above his head and chanting prayers to protect him from all evil because he was a good American boy who had befriended her grandson. Garrett’s mother believed Ehsan was the reason Garrett had walked into her bedroom and declared he would one day tour the world—a trip he had been saving for since he was ten. Today, Garrett had planned to interview Ehsan for a piece he was writing for the school newspaper. Khaled had not asked what the piece was supposed to be about. Knowing Garrett, he was certain he could turn any subject matter into a tirade advocating multicultural understanding.
    â€œSo how come you changed your mind, then?” Garrett asked
    â€œI just didn’t think today would be a good day.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œMy parents had a fight yesterday. Mom is probably scrubbing bathrooms or something. I didn’t think you’d be comfortable.”
    â€œHey, man, I don’t care. I just wanted to talk to
Setto
,” Garrett said, shrugging. Khaled smiled. He always liked how Garrett, too, called his grandmother
Setto
, pronouncing the Arabic nickname as if it were second nature.
Setto.
    â€œWe can still go, if you want to.”
    â€œNah, that’s fine.”
    â€œDo you want to go to the city tomorrow?”
    Garrett shook his head. “Can’t. We’ve set up a basketball game for tomorrow.” Then, after a pause, “You should come. We can go to the city together on Saturday.”
    Khaled reached for the laptop again, opening it. He said nothing.
    â€œThe guys all ask about you, you know,” Garrett added.
    Khaled nodded. He hoped his school friends truly were asking about him, though he suspected Garrett might have made this up. He stillremembered the days following his brother’s death, when even Khaled’s closest friends would pass by him in the school’s hallways and turn to look the other way. “They’re just embarrassed,” Garrett would reassure him. “They don’t know what to say to you
.
” Even if Khaled had believed Garrett’s assertions, he was still hurt. It had taken weeks for some of his friends to nod a greeting when they saw him, for anyone other than Garrett to join him at the lunch table, for Bud Murphy to get tired of aiming a thumb-and-pointer gun at him whenever Khaled passed his way, his hand rebounding with the shock of the imaginary shot, his lips pursed as they whistled the sound of a flying bullet amid the cheer of Bud’s entourage. Even now, a full year after what happened, Khaled still felt that his presence among people who had known Hosaam and Natalie increased the collective awkwardness. Garrett was the only one of his old friends he still felt comfortable around; Brittany, the only new friend he had made during the previous year. If it were not for these two, Khaled would have spent his entire previous year online, toggling back and forth between his blog and his new Facebook account, both digital portals connecting him to an outside world that rejected Khaled but seemed indifferent to his alter ego, K.A.
    He had started his blog on a sleepless night a month or so after his self-imposed exile from a Facebook that had become hostile after Hosaam’s crime. Sitting alone in his room, Khaled had realized he could counter the Internet’s potential hostility by taking advantage of the anonymity it offered. His blog was simple: daily entries about lepidoptera and, occasionally, beetles and caterpillars he came across either on websites or on his hikes. Nothing personal. Even simpler was his signature: K.A. No way to identify him. Letters revealing no ethnicity, no identity, and no connections.
    Though the signature came as an afterthought, he had used it