Part 2 of 3

By Troy Hornsby

2

The morning air was still fresh by the time she reached Willy’s house. He was mowing the lawn with his earbuds bouncing against his chest. He nodded his head to whatever song he was listening to, sweat and grass glistened against his exposed arms which showed the tiniest bit of muscle. 

Nasreen despised the scent of cut grass, but she endured it as she waited at the sidewalk where the tiny green blades were scattered. The sun overhead torched her until small beads of sweat protruded from her skin.

When Willy turned the lawn mower (while muttering a song with a smile on his face) he met Nasreen’s eyes. His smile faded and Nasreen’s heart dropped. He pulled out an earbud and cocked his head.

“Are you stalking me?”

She had already prepared an apology, but was stunned at his sudden question. “I—uh, huh—what?”

“Are. You. Stalking. Me.”

“No, Willy, I am not stalking you.”

He squinted. “You sure? You s-seem to be the person to c-cuss someone out then stalk them.”

“That’s offensive.”

“Am I wrong?”

“Very.”

Willy smirked. “You’re right. You wouldn’t stalk someone with that outfit.” His eyes traveled up her body, analyzing her red Converse, gray basketball shorts, and oversized Slipknot shirt. “You’d probably wear skinny j-jeans and something stupid from H&M.”

“Fuck you. It’s comfortable and I look good.”

“Never said you didn’t. I said you wouldn’t stalk someone in that.”

Nasreen attempted to fight her smile but failed in the process. She sank in the grass as she walked slowly to Willy. “What would you say if I was stalking you?”

“That I’m right,” he laughed.

“Then I guess you’ll never know, William.”

“William? That’s certainly overstepping a boundary, Miss N-Nasreen.”

She stood in front of him. His soft eyes were now lowered on her, two brown spotlights that cooled her with their presence. “I’m sorry for yesterday.”

“Don’t sweat it. Guy’s just a jackass, and I’m sure you’ll be laughing in his face at the end of it.”

Nasreen cocked her head. “You’re not stuttering? You’re not nervous around me anymore?”

Willy chuckled. “I am, just can’t be s-st-st— goddamn it.” He broke out into a stomach-bursting laugh. “God, I hate you.”

“Hate you more,” she playfully punched his shoulder. “Do you forgive me though? Completely.”

“Of course I do. Hard not to with a face like that.”

Her face warmed. “Thank you, Willy.”

“Always.” He smiled at her. It reminded her of Papa.

* * *

Willy was hesitant as he climbed the driveway to Nasreen’s house. She smiled and pulled on his arm that was now wrapped in a yellow Wu Tang Clan hoodie; he followed along with concrete feet. Nasreen pulled out the silver key from her pocket and stuck it into the lock with a loud click. She pushed the door open and the warm scent of lunch pierced her nostrils with its gentle blade.

“Papa, I’m home, and I brought a guest.”

“In the kitchen. I made us some falafels.”

Nasreen smiled and gasped, “have you tried falafels, Willy? They’re sooo good.”

Willy shook his head. “C-C-Can’t-t s-say I have.”

Nasreen bit her cheek, but continued to drag her friend to the kitchen where the tender smell lingered. Papa was plating the falafels, leaving a third white plate empty. “So who’s our special guest?” He turned and his smile fell.

Nasreen tightened her grip around Willy’s wrist. “Papa,” she grinned, “this is William, the boy I told you about.”

Papa’s smile was rejuvenated with Herculean strength. “Oh my. Where are my manners? William, my name is Nasir, it is splendid to meet you.” He reached out his hand.

Willy met it with a deafening clap, Nasreen noticed the two bulging veins from the men’s hands. Why do men do that? She chuckled to herself as she grabbed her pink plastic plate from the granite counter. 

“P-P-Pleasure to m-m-meet you, s-sir.” He smiled with fidgeting fingers.

“A stutter? Understandable, I’m quite a nervous talker at times.” He then spoke in Arabic that Willy did not understand. 

“Our home is your home,” she chuckled. “So get yourself a falafel, Willy.”

* * *

Willy laid on her carpet with wide eyes and gaping mouth. Nasreen admired him in secret, his gracious laugh and a million thanks seemed to impress Papa, and even led to a secret text reading: He would make a great husband for you sweetie, with a winking emoji. She chuckled at the statement, but his own mannerisms reminded her too much of Papa. ‘Men marry their mothers, daughters marry their fathers,’ an old friend from high school told her after she had broken up with her first boyfriend. The man-child was nothing like her father, an intolerable douche who laughed at her dreams and wished for her to do something more realistic. ‘Writers don’t make money unless your name is Stephen King,’ he laughed one day while loudly chewing his bubblegum, ‘why not software engineering, or being a nurse, y’know?’

No. William wasn’t like that. He was much kinder, a bit goofy, but much more tolerable of her wild dreams. 

“That was so good,” Willy said dreamily, “your dad is one h-helluva cook. Now I have to make you try chitlins.”

“Chitlins?”

“Yup. Pig intestines. Or maybe some oxtail, my mom can cook those two like nobody’s business.”

Nasreen chuckled as she turned to her computer. “I’ll take you on that offer then.” She turned on her computer and went to her folders. “I want to show you something, Willy, something I’ve never even shown my father.”

Willy jumped to his feet and walked beside her. His hands rested behind his back as he lowered his head beside hers. Nasreen opened the file titled: Pal-Is War Fantasy. Her friend cocked his head but didn’t say a word. The document was only three pages, three stupid pages that tortured its writer endlessly.

“Can you read this for me?”

Willy was silent, his pupils darted with the black words dancing in his eyes. He smelled of the cut grass from hours before, but it no longer bothered Nasreen. Her heart skipped many beats as her eyes bounced between her stagnant story and the man beside her who analyzed her story so intently, perhaps dissecting it, realizing it, answering questions with his own experience. The shining glare of the afternoon entered in slits through the curtain, illuminating separate sections of her room. 

By the time he reached the final page he was smiling. And when the final word was read he lifted his face and sighed.

“What a shame, it was an intriguing premise.”

“You liked it?”

He nodded. “I understand it comes from the heart, and so you wrote the truth in such a format. Why don’t you continue it?”

She shrugged. “Don’t know how.”

“Well did you finish your satire story?”

She nodded. 

“And how?”

Nasreen shrugged. “One word at a time, I guess.”

“That’s your answer,” he smiled, “it’s a premise that I can back, you just need to bring the damned axe and execute the rest.”

“Thanks Willy,” she smiled, “I’ll try.”

Her friend smiled, “that’s all I need you to do. I have faith your stories will transcend time with the right support.”

“That’s why I have you.” Her face warmed. 

“And that’s why I’ll stay h-here.”

Nasreen’s hands rubbed against her own smooth palms. Her gut sank as she met Willy’s smile with her own.

“Hey,” he said, “I was wondering if you can send The Border of Terror to me, I want to do something for you.”

“Willy, you can’t do anything for me, you’ve done enough.”

“Nope. Not hearing you until you send me the story,” he chuckled.

Nasreen obliged with a chuckle and Willy thanked her with an exaggerated bow. For the rest of his stay they sat on the scratching carpet with the cold room attempting to soothe their visible anxieties. Their joy ended when Willy’s mother called to warn him of his cold dinner. He quickly said his goodbyes and thanks and left her alone again. Nasreen did not frown at his departure, she only smiled and spread out across the floor, counting the minutes where their presences would meet again. 

* * *

Ashly and Willy sandwiched her, their seats at the center of the class were close enough to witness Professor White’s irritated expression. He knows, she thought. The transparent lights seemed to heat her entire body, she was living in an oven, and slowly it grew hotter, and eventually she’d explode or melt.

“Hey,” Willy took her hand that was shaking on the desk, “it’s okay.” His smile was clean, his face was freshly shaven, and his eyes were only focused on her.

She nodded and took a deep breath.

Professor White looked at his watch and with a swift nod he clapped his hands three times, signaling the class to pay attention. “Good afternoon beautiful ladies and gentlemen on this floating hunk o’ rock.”

There were scattered good afternoons.

“I hope you all have garnered a good rest as today we will be reading aloud our satiric stories.”

There were groans, but Nasreen didn’t know if Professor White heard them—or if he just didn’t care. There were ruffling backpacks and the tapping of laptops sitting on their desks. Nasreen was already prepared, her printed story was laying in front of her without a hint of fear. Once the tapping of computers and the shuffling of papers had ceased—and there was only the sound of quiet, blade-like breaths—Professor White smiled and looked over the sea of students. He raised his thin hand and pointed directly at Nasreen with a sardonic smile.

“Nasreen, why don’t you open our readings for today.”

Nasreen stood with a still face. The oven was growing hotter. Her knees wanted to buckle, her hands wished to drop the paper and hide her face from the shame she’d face. No, she thought, don’t stop. Her frown was forced into a smile. 

“My name is Nasreen Ismail, and I’d like to present my story: The Judge.”

* * *

Nasreen had hoped that Professor White would be speechless at her story, and that those two words that had bothered her so (too political, fucker) would be wiped clean. While he was speechless with the exception of a mutter about the lack of sensory details, an unexpected factor in her day occurred: there was applause. True applause that almost seemed imagined rather than a true occurrence. She was floating, the pain in her mind and body no longer mattered, her peers admired her story and Professor White—if he was as smart as he believed he was—would’ve understood the meat of her tale six feet under. The third factor that brought joy to a rather depressing few weeks, was the warm hand of Willy that held onto her as she finished her story. He continued holding her hand all through class, and even as they walked out of class together their fingers were interlocked; they continued without a word. 

* * *

Papa was drinking his ginger tea and watching a show from the 50’s when Nasreen had told him about the elicit reaction she garnered in class. Papa laughed at her mentioning of Professor White’s reddening face and petty mumbling. 

“Serves the bastard right.” He sipped his tea and exhaled loudly, “I’m proud of you, little one. Your mother would be proud of you, too.”

Nasreen lowered herself to the couch and wrapped her arm around Papa’s bony torso. He rubbed her back and held her tighter. Her shoulder grew wet where his eyes resided. She pulled herself away and wiped away Papa’s tears from his wrinkly skin. His eyes were red and his lip quivered as he rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. 

“My baby girl, I’m so proud of you.”

“For what, Papa? I haven’t done anything yet.”

“For standing up for what you believe. You did not let that bastard’s words stop you from doing what you love, you hit him with your own words, and you won in the end. For that I’m proud of you.”

Nasreen’s eyes watered. “Thank you, Papa. But it’s only because of you and Mama that I was able to do this.”

Papa smiled, his handsome face, despite his age, brought a familiar warmth. A warmth that reminded her of happier times, when he and Mama would fly her to Florida to see the star-sprinkled beach, or New York where the buildings were like giants.

“I love you, my beautiful girl.”

Nasreen chuckled, “I love you too, Papa.”

They both hugged once more, both of them allowed five invisible fingers to caress their backs with yearning love resting amongst them.

3

The drawer continued to call to her with its silent voice. Even in bliss, Nasreen turned away from the closed drawer, covering her ears from its sweet voice.

* * *

“Do you think Professor White will try and make my life harder?” She asked Willy as they ate their crispy sub-sandwiches.

“Most likely,” he spoke with a full mouth, wiping the marinara sauce from his chin, “he can’t get you kicked out, but inside our bubble he’s going to try and make your life Hell—more than he has before, I suppose.”

Nasreen nodded while taking a soft bite of her sandwich. “You realize we’re like little revolutionaries,” she smiled, “fighting the power.”

Willy laughed, “you’re right. Coincidentally, it’s always an old white guy trying to tell the ‘erratic’ and ‘impressionable’ colored children what two plus two is.” He scoffed, “seems like our school is in need of a few revolutionaries.”

The twilight sky dimmed further. The horizon burned pink with its tendrils spreading through the sky. Its temporary beauty would fade within minutes, yet Nasreen hoped to remember it in her dreams, hoping for it to replace the anxiety that sped her heart. 

“Rosie is having a party tonight, do you want to go?”

Nasreen rolled her eyes. Her tongue wanted to say NO, but it betrayed her. “Sure,” she bit her traitorous body part.

“Cool,” Willy smiled, he seemed unaware of her visible irritation, “I’ll probably go like this, no need to impress.” He was dressed in ripped black jeans, his bright yellow Wu-Tang Clan hoodie, and a Pittsburgh Pirates snapback.

“I think I’m a little underdressed.” She was dressed in a long red sundress with three inch heels.

“You look better than I do,” Willy responded without looking from his sandwich. His eyes sparkled as he took a bite from his meatball sub.

“You love that sandwich, don’t you?” Nasreen joked.

Willy met her eyes and he smiled, “yeah, I do.”

* * *

Rosie’s house was a large two-story, had Nasreen not visited actual mansions, she would have assumed this house would be one. A long crescent driveway lined with bricks surrounded a marble water fountain. Cars were parked and some rhythm and blues track was echoing from the backyard. Telestic laughter filled the bright-colored night; the lights reminded Nasreen of Christmas, such joyous colors that would glow in her home as an innocent, doe-eyed child. 

“You okay?” Willy asked, squeezing her hand softly. She didn’t even notice his large fingers interlocked with her own small ones, but she didn’t care. 

She nodded.

“Sure?”

She nodded.

“If you want we can go. Get some pizza, or go back to my place for some dinner. My dad made some steaks so I’m sure—”

“WILLY!” A high-pitched shout rang in Nasreen’s ears.

Willy grimaced as he smiled (weakly, Nasreen noticed) at Rosie who ran out the stained glass doors with a red solo cup in her hand. Her pink skirt nearly touched the top of her thighs, her short black shirt showed the underside of her boobs, and her red lipstick was smudged across her chalky cheeks.

She jumped into him and wrapped her long arms around his neck, forcing his hand to slip from Nasreen’s. “Oh, Willy, you actually came. That makes me sooooo, happy, thank you, thank you. I—” she burped, “have some Gray Goose, some—um—Don Julio, and…” Rosie twisted her head to Nasreen who stood with the cold wind blowing through her thighs. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m here with Willy,” Nasreen answered.

Rosie unhooked from Willy and scoffed. The wincing man wiped the white powder from his cheek. “Why? At the end of the night he’s just going to sleep with me and leave your ass with an Uber.”

“Rosie,” Willy snapped, his angled brows and fiery pupils sent a shiver through Nasreen’s body. “Shut up.”

“Um…excuse me? You know it’s true, we’ve done it before, I don’t see how it could change.”

“Yeah, it happened. One fucking time. We were drunk and I was stressed. Don’t try to make this whole thing something it ain’t.”

Rosie laughed. “Stop, Willy. You’ve lied to the poor girl enough. You love me.”

Willy’s cheeks puffed. His hands squeezed into balls as he stared at the laughing woman. Nasreen took a step towards her friend and put a soft hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay.”

“You’re just like those hoes inside, Rosie. Don’t know why I couldn’t see it before.”

“Excuse me? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Her voice heightened. 

“You know what you want me for, Rosie. It ain’t like, it ain’t love, it ain’t even admiration. You just want to flaunt me around like a trophy, that’s all you ever wanted from me. You were proud to have your virginity taken by Jamal in high school, proud to sleep with half of the football team. You know what you’re doing, and I know what you are.”

Rosie dropped the red solo cup and nodded. Her pursed lips fell to the ground, defeated.

“Don’t disrespect Nasreen like that again, and don’t come bothering me either.”

He grabbed Nasreen’s hand and pulled her away from the colored house where the R&B had changed to a booming rap. Nasreen forced her smile away as she rubbed Willy’s arm, his face still contorted with anger but was slowly beginning to cool.

“I wouldn’t mind reheated steaks,” Nasreen finally said when they left the house’s perimeter. 

“Me neither,” Willy didn’t smile.

They continued down the street, underneath golden streetlights and distant flickering stars. Trees rustled around them, sending crispy leaves and small sticks at their feet. The neighborhood was silent with the exception of a meowing cat that sounded from some mysterious crevice. Willy held tight to Nasreen’s hand as their footsteps crushed the gravel and stones underneath their feet. Her ankles ached and eyes hung slightly.

“You okay?”

She nodded. “A bit tired.”

“You wanna sit here?”

She nodded. 

The two of them sat on the hard curb with the flicking noise of an active sprinkler firing across the street. A lingering smell of barbecue found itself between them, worsening Nasreen’s rumbling stomach.

“Are you okay?” Nasreen asked Willy who stared into the empty abyss of the road.

Willy sucked his teeth. “I’m trying.”

She understood. “Do you want a hug?”

He shrugged.

“If it means anything: I don’t see you as a trophy. I really enjoy spending time with you.”

Willy nodded without a smile. “Thanks.”

Nasreen slid her arms around her friend, marinara lingered in her nose. “Thank you for looking out for me, it’s more than anyone else has done in my life.”

His tense shoulders softened. “Of course.” His phone dinged inside his hoodie and he scoffed. “Sick of the damn questions.” He pulled out his phone and mid-breath he stopped.

Nasreen enjoyed the soft cotton of the hoodie and closed her eyes. The weight was too great to want to lift. She smiled and listened to the fast pace of his heartbeat from his back.

“Nasreen,” he chuckled, “remember how I asked you to send me your story?”

“I do.”

“What if I told you I submitted it for the school’s paper to print it?”

Nasreen’s eyes shot open. “Did it get rejected?”

“Answer my question first.”

“I don’t have one.”

“I have a friend who works for the paper so I asked him to take a look.” He turned to her with a smile, “everyone accepted it. So it’ll show up with the other stories in the paper.”

Nasreen’s heart beat against her sternum like a drum. She was close to falling on her back against the cold sidewalk, but remained upright with an aching smile. She wrapped herself around Willy and met his lips with her own. They were smooth and warm, and he accepted her greeting with elation. 

* * *

What could he do? Nasreen asked as she paced around her room in the darkness. The changing lens of her concerns continued to flip in her mind. Her stomach bubbled with admiration for the man she had kissed only an hour before, but it also boiled at the thought of Professor White’s grinning face attempting to best her in whatever game he was conjuring. But a story of hers was published—but Mister White could fail her and drop her from his class. There was no conclusion to her ceaseless thoughts. She folded her pillow over her ears and bit the cover of her mattress as she sunk into her bed. Why is this happening to me? Why is it just me? Rosie doesn’t deal with this, Adam Jeanson doesn’t deal with this. Why is it just me? 

---

Troy Hornsby is an African American author of three books (a novella, a short story collection, and a full length novel) aw well as a contributor to Pulp Lit Magazine. In addition to his writing, he is also pursuing a degree in English and Creative Writing to spread his love and knowledge for the written art.