Tracy
In our town, change is a stranger we don't invite in.
It's the kind of place where the streets remember your name, and so do the neighbors — even if they never say it kindly. We have one main road, two churches, and a single school that's been here longer than most of our houses. No movie theaters. No malls. The loudest noise comes from the bell tower on Sunday morning.
New people don't move here.
They pass through. If they're smart.
So when the Ibrahim house lit up for the first time in years, it was like someone had thrown a stone into a still lake. Everyone noticed. Everyone talked. They always do.
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I first saw her in homeroom — head down, scarf pinned tight, sleeves long. She sat at the edge, near the window, like she was trying to stay out of the way. She didn't say much. Didn't look around. The teachers introduced her, but I forgot her name before I even heard it.
"The new girl," someone whispered.
"She's Muslim," someone else said, like it was a warning.
I didn't join in. I just turned the page in my notebook.
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I've always known what I wanted.
To serve God. To become a nun.
It sounds strange to people outside towns like ours, but here it's almost expected — especially if you're the pastor's daughter. Which I am. And being an example isn't just a hope; it's a burden that gets heavier with every year.
So no, I didn't look at her twice.
Didn't speak. Didn't smile.
Not because I was cruel. Just careful.
That's what I told myself.
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At lunch, I passed her by her locker. Her books had slipped. She was gathering them quietly, like she'd done it a thousand times before. A boy brushed past her without helping. I hesitated — then walked on.
I didn't even realize I was holding my breath until I reached the stairs.
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That night at Bible study, Dad read from Corinthians — something about being equally yoked, about avoiding temptation. I sat in the second pew, hands folded neatly, eyes forward. Everyone around me murmured their "Amens."
But somewhere in the back of my mind, I saw her again. Not her face, really. Just the way she moved like she was trying to take up less space.
Not in a deep way. Not in a dramatic way.
Just a small hum I couldn't quite silence.
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