Chapter 33.5 – How We Got Together

Alex’s Side

As I hold the phone to my ear, I can hear it.
Her voice—soft, teasing… and smiling. I can’t see it, but I feel it.
Warmth flows through the line like light through an old window.

And then it happens—
The past peeks through.

Flashback: 1994 – Malaysia
Three years after that moment—the day Frederica left this world.

I’m only nine. And like every stubborn nine-year-old, I’m in full rebellion mode.

“ALEX!!! SCHOOL!!!” Mom’s voice pierces through the living room like a megaphone made of thunder.

“Huh!? Why the heck do I have to go to that stupid school!?”

BIG MISTAKE.

WHAM!!!

A slipper—a flying slipper—nails me in the back of the head.

“OWWW!! What the hell was that for!?”

“Language!!!” Dad’s voice booms from the front gate. One second later, his hand lands clean across the back of my head like divine judgment.

“Who taught you that word!?”

Mom and Dad start arguing over parenting strategies.
Meanwhile, I’m sulking, rubbing my head.

“Fine! I’m going already!! And sorry!!”
I stomp toward the gate, grumbling.

“GET BACK HERE!” both of them yell at once.

“Huh?!” I whirl around—and immediately feel my soul leave my body.

I’m still in… my pajamas.
Cartoon sheep. Bright yellow.
A complete disaster.

“GAAHHH!! WHOSE FAULT IS THAT!?”

“YOURS! Now go change!” Mom’s on warpath mode. Dad sighs, muttering something about karma.

Ten minutes later, Dad helps me button up my school shirt and fix my collar.

“You need to be careful with your words, son… understand?”

That voice... steady. Kind. It’s the same even now, after all these years. I nod.
“Yeah… got it, Dad.”

Before leaving, I kiss his hand—a gesture of respect we’ve always shared.

Mom’s already waiting with two-year-old Hana in her arms.

I hug her too, then plant a kiss on Hana’s tiny forehead.
She babbles something and tries to grab my nose.

“See ya, Mom! Dad! Later, squirt!”
I run off toward school.

The sun’s up. The morning’s stupidly hot.
But I remember thinking—

"This... is a good day."

Natalie’s Side

1994 – Phoenix, Arizona

Snow’s not falling yet, but the desert chill still slips through the window.

BOOM!

“WAKE UUUUP, SQUIRT!!!”
Phylis. My big sister. Loud. Dramatic. And way too much energy for 7 a.m.

I groan, still tangled in blankets. “Just five more—HEY!!!”

Suddenly, my blanket’s gone.
So are my pajamas.

Wait…
SHE STOLE MY PAJAMAS?!

I scramble off the bed half-naked, clutching the nearest pillow.
"PHYLIS, YOU PSYCHOPATH! I'M NAKED!!!"

She laughs like a villain. “Not my fault you slept through your alarm! You got school, genius!”

I scream and bolt for the bathroom, almost tripping over the dog.

“MOM!!! PHYLIS STOLE MY PANTS AGAIN!!!”

From downstairs, Mom casually yells back, “Just take hers!”

“No way!!!”

But as I slam the bathroom door shut, hiding behind the sink…

Mumbling at myself….

“stupid…Phylis….”

While getting ready...

Ugh... it’s one of those mornings. The kind that starts with me arguing with my hair.

I stand in front of the mirror, biting my lower lip, trying to tame the jungle of tight brunette curls spiraling out like a rebellious symphony. Great. Just great.

“Curly-haired disaster strikes again,” I mutter to myself.

From outside the bathroom door, my older sister Phylis yells, “Hurry up, slowpoke! You need, like, an entire geological era to prep that hair!”

“Shut up, Phylis!”

She laughs like the wicked big sister she is, already halfway through her double major in archaeology and global history at the University of Arizona. Did I mention she's ten years older than me? That’s right—ten years of nonstop teasing and zero mercy.

Whatever. Hair’s not my concern.

I slide into my outfit—dark denim overalls, a crisp white tee, and my trusty black lace-up shoes with frilly socks. A little retro. A little Paula Abdul. And totally me.

On my way out, I grab my most prized possession—“Island of the Blue Dolphins” by Scott O'Dell—dog-eared and filled with sticky notes and highlighted thoughts. I clutch it like it’s a part of me. Because in a way, it is.

My bedroom walls are covered in my sketches of fashion, patterns pinned, layered with color theory, and even cultural influence notes I took from Dad’s library. It’s my little sanctuary. A blend of books, fabric, and dreams.

“Natalie Felicity Hawk!” my mother calls from the kitchen, her French accent sharp. “You are not skipping breakfast again!”

Dad adds in a calmer, deeper tone, “You’ve got a long day ahead, squirt. Eat something.”

I rush downstairs. My father—Professor Hawk—a respected cultural anthropologist, and a proud Navajo, sits at the table with his black coffee, thumbing through a thick folder probably filled with lectures.

Mom, of course, is French-American, originally from Boston, with the sarcasm of New England and the warmth of a Paris café. Together? They’re a chaotic force.

I snatch a slice of toast, chug a cup of milk, and kiss both of them on the cheek.

“I’ll be late! Love you both!”

Dad yells after me, “And don’t let anyone tell you curly hair isn’t powerful!”

A few minutes later...

Desert Primary School, framed by red rock and pale sand, isn’t that far from our house. The Arizona heat is already creeping in, but it’s a dry warmth, like it always is.

I take a deep breath.

Just another day of middle school hell.

As I walk toward the front gate, I hear the usual whispering. Then—bam!

Two girls shoulder me aside like I’m invisible.

“Hey, freak! Still playing cavewoman with that hair?”

“You should straighten it, you’d look way less gross.”

I grit my teeth. My hand clutches the strap of my bag tighter.

“Stop it.” My voice is soft, but firm.

They just laugh and walk off.

I look down.

Jeans? Fine. Shirt? Normal. Hair? Just... me.

I glance at my book again. Karana survived alone on that island. I think I can handle two mean girls and a math test.

I step inside the school building, my heart beating steady now.

A normal day.

Or at least, what passes for one around here.

The bell rings. The usual Arizona desert sun filters through the classroom windows, casting long shadows over neat rows of elementary school desks. The chalkboard squeaks as Mrs. Carson scribbles a math problem about fractions.

I already know the answer before she even puts the chalk down.

Three-fourths minus one-half equals one-fourth.

Easy.

I lean on my hand, barely paying attention, tapping my pencil against the corner of my desk. This is just another number game.

But my peace doesn’t last long.

Whispers. Again.

“She’s so weird…”

“Is she Native? Or, like, from France or something?”

“Her hair looks like a tumbleweed…”

The snickers echo just under the teacher’s voice. My throat tightens, but I don’t let it show. I’ve heard it all before—a freak of nature. That’s what they call me. A half-Navajo, half-Boston French-American girl, with wild curls, bright grey eyes, and a name that doesn’t fit neatly on the roll call sheet.

My pencil digs into my notebook.

Then—bam.

A desk screeches.

A girl in platform sneakers stomps down the aisle, her glittery butterfly backpack swinging like a weapon.

“BACK OFF, YOU RAT-BRAINED DUST MITES!!”

Luna.

Luna Torres. A Spanish-American spitfire who talks like a gangster and fights like a cornered alley cat. Even her frilly pink headband looks like it's been through five street brawls.

She plants herself between me and the kids whispering.

“She’s MY buddy, got it!? Any of ya call her ‘freak’ again and I’ll use your face as a punching bag!”

The class falls dead silent. Even Mrs. Carson blinks twice like she’s forgotten what page we were on.

I sigh, resting my chin on my hand again.

“Luna,” I whisper through gritted teeth, “you can’t threaten people every day...”

She flashes a feral grin over her shoulder.

“Watch me.”

One of the boys mutters, “Tch. Crazy bitch…”

Luna whirls around like a rabid chihuahua with attitude.

“You say something, pipsqueak!?”

The boy practically dives under his desk.

She saunters back to her seat beside me, flipping her ponytail like a matador’s cape. Her frilly dress swishes with every strut, totally out of place for a fifth grader—but somehow, it fits her.

“You okay?” she asks, sliding me a piece of bubblegum and a scribbled doodle of a tiger punching the word losers.

I tuck the gum into my desk. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“No problem. You’re my weirdo, not theirs.”

I laugh.

This weird, wild girl… she’s the reason I don’t mind being weird too.

Well thats is what life in my school now…for now…

Malaysia — 1994.

For now.

The world’s just a little more yellow in this heat, and the concrete burns under the soles of my shoes.

But right now—that’s the least of my problems.

“Oi!! You got some guts, huh!?”

The bigger kid lunges at me, fist cocked, mouth foaming like he’s possessed.

“Yeah!? Come get it then!!” I yell back, blood dripping from my nose but fists still clenched tight.

Ten against one.

Standard odds.

My shirt is half-torn, and my knees are scraped raw—but I’m still standing.

The other boys circle around like hyenas, bruised but not brave enough to come again. Not yet.

Because I don’t fall.
Not when they kick me.
Not when they gang up.
Not even when the teachers give up trying.

Because I know how it feels to fall.

“Oi, oi! What’s going on here!!?”
A firm, righteous voice slices through the air like a whip.
We all freeze.

It’s her.

A nun in full white habit and black-rimmed glasses, charging like a drill sergeant with a wooden ruler in hand—Sister Janice, the headmistress of Stella Theresa Primary.

“Alex!! Again!?” she shouts, dragging me by the ear before I can even blink.

“H-Hey!! That hurts!!” I snap, but she doesn’t flinch.

We’re all marched out under the blistering sun, told to squat with both hands pinching our ears—a classic punishment. My thighs burn. The sweat trickles down my back. But I keep my glare fixed forward.

“Let this be a lesson to you delinquents! Especially you, Alex.”
“Whaddya want from me!?”

The nun huffs. “Ustazah Marizan’s looking for you. Again.”

I stay silent. That’s never good news.

Around me, the other boys whisper.

“He’s still not tired!? Freak!”

“Yo, this guy’s made of steel…”

One of them mutters, “That’s some kind of superpower…”

I finish the punishment squats before all of them—again.

And to prove a point, I grab the garden hose and turn the cold spray on them all.

“WAAAAGH!!!”

They scream like cats in a monsoon.

“ALEXANDER BIN IMRAN!!!”
Sister Janice storms in and yanks my ear like a vice clamp. “That’s IT!! No more monkey business!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever…” I mutter.

Suddenly—SMACK!

One of the soaked boys kicks me in the cheek.

And the second round begins.

Fists fly. Yelling echoes across the school yard. Shoes fly. Kids run. Teachers scramble.

And I smile.
Because this is normal.
This is me.

Just a 9-year-old punk from Stella Theresa, too stubborn to fall, too wild to be tamed.

And no matter what they throw at me—I always get back up.

The bruises sting like hell, but I’ve felt worse.

I stand at the entrance of the surau, my knees scraped, knuckles scabbed, and my shirt half torn from the earlier brawl.

Ustazah Marizan stands firm, arms crossed. She’s small—barely past my shoulders—but her gaze pierces deeper than any teacher’s ruler ever could.

“Alexander bin Imran…” she sighs, her voice calm but heavy. “We prayed together today… Did you?”

I stay silent.

One of the other boys, still nursing a black eye, mutters behind her back, “Ustazah… that kid’s got a demon inside him…”

Another nods quickly, “Yeah! He’s like the devil in school uniform!!”

I shoot them a glare.

“YIKES!!! HE’S LOOKING AT ME!!!” they yelp in unison, ducking for cover.

Ustazah doesn’t flinch. “Alexander. Front. Now. Recite Al-Fatihah.”

I clench my fists, step forward, and begin.

My voice is steady. Calm. Each word is sharp, clear, deep from the chest—more like a soldier’s chant than a student’s recitation.

“…Aamiin.”

She nods. “That’s the boy I know. Now go back. No more fists. Okay?”

“…Yes, Ustazah.”

That’s me. One second a brawler. The next, a disciplined boy reading the Quran like I mean it.

Later, in the last class.

Mr. Muhammad calls me up after the bell rings.

“Son, come here.”

Great. What now?

I drag my feet to his desk. “Yeah, yeah. What is it, teacher?”

“You did well on your work,” he says, flipping through my workbook. “But your Bahasa… it needs polish. You write like an American mercenary.”

“Fine. I’ll try harder.”

He lowers his tone.

“I talked to your mom. She told me about… your friend.”

That friend.

My spine goes rigid. My hand curls into a fist.

“Don’t.”

He looks me straight in the eye.

“You have to face it, son. That’s part of strength, too. Not just fists. Sabar. Patience.”

“………”

He places a firm hand on my shoulder. “You’re tough. But you don’t have to carry pain alone.”

I bite my lip, then slowly nod. I give my salam, and turn to leave—

—and that’s when I see them.

The gang from before. Outside the school gate.

Not just them. Their older brothers are here now.

Teenagers in oversized shirts and cocky sneers. One of them cracks his knuckles while holding a plastic bag.

“Oi, brat,” the leader growls. “You’re gonna pay for ruining my shirt. Imported, you hear?”

They spread out. Forming a circle.

I sigh, dropping my bag to the ground.

“Imported shirt, huh?”

I sprint straight at him—full throttle—and dropkick him in the chest.

His feet leave the ground. He crashes onto the pavement, groaning.

Pandemonium erupts.

“GET HIM!!”

Another fight begins.

It’s chaos.

My punches are precise. My kicks even more so. I twist, duck, slam one kid into another. My body’s moving on instinct—like a wolf surrounded by rats.

Then—

“ALEXANDER BIN IMRAN!!!”

The bellow echoes across the school field like thunder.

Everyone freezes.

It’s Mom.

She storms in like a wrathful ogre, slippers in hand. Her eyes are glowing red—I swear I see fire behind her.

Next to her is Dad. He’s calm. Too calm. Like an exorcist watching a spirit go wild.

The security guard tries to hold Mom back, but fails.

“You wanna fight? TRY ME FIRST!!” she yells, pulling me by the ear.

“Ow ow ow ow ow!!!”

Dad just sighs, arms crossed. “You’re lucky she got here before me.”

And that’s how the curtain closes.

Late at night, I sit near the crack of my bedroom door—barely breathing, just listening.

Mom and Dad are in the living room. Their voices are hushed, but the walls in this house have never been thick enough to stop anything.

“I think he needs space again…” Dad’s voice is calm, but I can hear the weight. “He needs to forget about her.”

Her. Frederica.

“To him… she’s special,” Mom replies. I hear her voice shake. “I don’t know if I can even make him go back to that school again…”

“InshaAllah… maybe someday, he’ll change.”

Dad stands up from the couch with a heavy sigh. I hear the jingling of keys.

“You going out again?” Mom asks quietly.

“Yeah… work.”

“I hope… it’s really work this time.”

The door opens. Closes.

Silence.

Then the soft scrape of a lighter flicking. I peek through the door.

Mom stands at the balcony, cigarette between her fingers, gazing at the stars like they’re supposed to give her answers.

Then she speaks on the phone.

“Mr. Hawk? How are you?” …Wait. Mr. Hawk?

“Yes… I think I’ll take your offer for the PhD. But I’m bringing my kids. Is that alright?”

“Mhm… he’s just a bit feisty, but… he’ll manage.”

My heart pounds. I barely understand what I’m hearing, but it sounds big.

She turns and looks toward my door, as if sensing me.

“Alex,” her voice softens.

I step out.

“What is it, Mom?”

She smiles, though her eyes are red.

“How about this? We’re going to move. A new place… a fresh start.”

“Uh huh…” I stare at her, blinking. “What about Frederica?”

I regret asking the second I say it. Her face crumbles. Tears fall—silent, heavy.

“Oh… Alex…”

Six Months Later

My last day in Malaysia.

The house is a mess of boxes and papers. Trouble at school hasn't stopped, but Mom pushed through every obstacle to get us to this point. She's determined to bring us to the U.S.

Dad… well, he’s still not on board.

“Is there no other way?” he asks again.

“He needs to be there. He has to change…”

Outside, I meet up with Zuan and Geoffry, my best friends since forever.

“Yo bro!! What’s up?” Zuan grins.

“I’m heading to the States…” I mutter.

“WHAT?! YOU TOO!?” Zuan nearly flips.

“We’re gonna miss you, man…” Geoffry says, kicking a stone.

“Yeah…” I scratch my head. “Guess this is it.”

“I’m going to Canada with my dad,” Zuan says.

Geoffry slumps.

“So everyone’s just leaving me, huh?” he mumbles. “I’m stuck here, playing babysitter…”

“C’mon,” I laugh. “You’ll charm the girls, right?”

“Yeah right,” Zuan snickers. “Maybe if they’re blind.”

We all laugh, but there’s this tightness in my chest. Something final in the air.

“My cousin’s staying with us,” Geoffry groans. “Little troublemaker. I have to look after her.”

“Cousin?” I tilt my head. “Who?”

“Sylvia.”

Sylvia...?

Then, a car pulls up.

A man leans out from the window—Uncle Michael, I recognize. Beside him, a tall woman with bold makeup and a baby in her arms—Aunt Ling.

“Yo Geoffry! Is it now?” Uncle Michael waves. “This is Sylvia. Help us look after her, okay?”

The door opens.

A small girl steps out.

Long, jet-black hair. Shy eyes. Dressed in a frilly pink dress that says I’m too rich for this town.

“Yo! You got this, bro,” I say to Geoffry, smirking.

“Screw you!” he punches my shoulder.

“Sylvia, say hi,” Aunt Ling chirps. She adjusts her tight dress and lifts the baby in her arms. “And this little fella is Steward.”

The baby waves.

Huh… Steward, huh?

“Got it, Uncle. Auntie,” Geoffry sighs.

“You boys behave now,” Aunt Ling winks.

The three of us stare at each other.

No one says it out loud, but this is the moment.

The one where everything begins to change.

The morning sun barely rises over the rooftops as I sling my bag over my shoulder.

Our house—quiet now. Half of it packed up in cardboard and tied memories. The other half… left behind.

At the front gate, Dad stands still. His arms crossed, face carved in stone, but his eyes... they betray the weight in his heart.

“Son,” he says, resting a firm hand on my shoulder. “Just remember… wherever you go… we are Muslim. You understand?”

I nod. Not because I want to. But because I need to.

He pulls me in. His hug is brief, like a man trying to hide he's breaking.

I can feel it.

Mom doesn’t say a word. She watches the both of us like she's memorizing the sight.

Then we’re gone.

A final wave. A taxi ride. A small airport turns into a giant plane.

The engine rumbles.

Goodbye, Malaysia.

Twenty Hours Later. Somewhere over the Pacific.

“Hnnnghhhhh this is boring…!!” I groan.

Cramped. Sweaty. Starving. In a thin cotton shirt and shorts.

“Hey Mom, when are we gonna land?”

“Soon, Alex. Try to sleep, ya?”

“Sleep? You trying to kill me with this recycled air? It smells like roti basi and old socks!!”

Mom sighs and slaps a wet tissue over my forehead.

“Stop being dramatic. You think I didn't train you for worse?”

“That was parachuting! In the jungles!! Not flying in a metal coffin with no legroom!!”

She smirks.

“Next time, I'll tie you to the wing.”

Arrival: Phoenix, Arizona.

The air hits different.

Dry. Cold. Weirdly... crispy.

I shiver as we step off the plane and walk into the blindingly white terminal. My flip-flops squeak on the floor. Everyone’s in jackets and boots.

So this is America…? Looks like the backdrop of a cowboy movie…

Then I see him.

A tall man with long, dark hair tied in a ponytail, faded denim jeans, and a Native American-patterned vest. The dude’s got real cowboy vibes going on. Like a Navajo Clint Eastwood.

Mom waves excitedly.

“Mr Hawk! Over here!!”

must be the one that mom talk before.

He walks over calmly, offering a warm smile.

“Puan Mas. Welcome.”

But I can’t help myself. Something in me just snaps.

I point at him with excitement.

“HAI HO SILVER!!! AWAAAAYYYYY!!!”

Dead silence.

Mom freezes.

My inner child? Screaming in victory.

Mr Hawk blinks.

Then bursts out laughing.

“Hah! That’s what you meant by ‘fiesty,’ huh?”

“ALEX!!! YOU DUMB KID!!!” Mom grabs me into a full-blown chokehold.

“ACK—GIVE—GIVE—!! MERCY!!”

“I’ll show you Hai Ho Silver!!” she hisses while no one in the airport bats an eye. Welcome to America.

Even Mr. Hawk is trying not to cry laughing.

“Well… looks like this is going to be very interesting…”

To be continued