The Girl in The Green Scarf

F i v e

CHAPTER FIVE
HAMSA

"Be wise enough not to be reckless, but brave enough to take great risks."
―Unknown

I feel warmth on my cheek and a smile slowly grows on my face; I love being woken up by the rising sun rays.

I yawn, rolling over to stretch my hands and suddenly I find myself midair before my butt greats the ground with a loud thump.

"Ouch!" I exclaim, rubbing my bottom.

I completely forgot that I went back to sleep in the tree after Salat AlFajr (a prayer conducted before dawn.). I flex my arms, and touch my back; it aches less this morning since I took some of the herbs Madame Moneera gave me last night. Alhamdulillah.

I try to untangle myself from the blanket that is wrapped around me but with no use. I only make it worse since I'm still half asleep and bleary eyed.

"Nice landing, " someone says, laughing and clapping.

I turn to see Zayn leaning on a couple of boxes atop each other, a cocky smirk on his face. My eyes go wide as I realize I'm not wearing my hijab (head scarf) or suitable clothes and I clumsily rush to cover up with the blanket I was shoving away a second ago.

What in the world is he doing here this early? Did he just have to witness that?

"What are you doing here?" I shout, voicing my first thought, and then add more forcefully, "go away."

Holding the blanket over myself with a hand, I pick up a stick with the other and throw it at him. He dodges it easily still laughing.

"Lousy hand you got there," he says, stepping away from the boxes. I shoot him a death glare, picturing the flesh falling off his face and seriously think of tackling him if it isn't that I can't touch him (A Muslim girl shouldn't have contact or touch a non-mahrem - a guy she could marry).

"I beg Allah's protection from the accursed devil (said when one is angry)," I mumble with a heavy sigh.

I'm not really mad at Zayn, it's not his fault I fell off a tree, or that I'm grounded.

The word tastes like venom in my mouth. Not that I ever tasted venom.

I stand up making sure the blanket is covering me well, which isn't an easy task, and pass Zayn by to the kitchen's backdoor.

"How about we get married so you can stop covering up in front of me; it'll save you a lot of trouble," he says, following me.

"Wow, what an amazing idea? How about I marry every man in our province and roam around free all the time?" I ask sarcastically, giving him a tight fake smile.

He wrinkles his nose in disgust.

"Well, that's not a visual I enjoyed, Allah yisamhik (May God forgive you)," he says with a shudder.

I crack up, and he smiles softly. A kind smile and not the mocking smirk he has on all the time.

"Now that's more like it," he says and I feel blood rushing to my face.

I fidget with the blanket, giving him my back quickly and clear my throat. Astaghfirullah (Arabic for I seek forgiveness from Allah) I shouldn't be feeling this way.

I take two steps to the sink and lean on it. There are a couple cups and a plate in it and it's my turn washing the dishes today. But instead of washing them, I pick them up from the sink and carry them to the broken oven; hiding them inside. I'll take them out tomorrow when it's Yahiya's turn.