Safiah's Smile (11 page)

“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.