Chapter 33.5 – How We Got Together (Part 2)

 ALEX SIDE

All that chaos… all that noise…
And it brought me here—
To this moment.

A new country.
A new life.
And one very cramped apartment with a view of absolutely nothing.

We arrive at a small, dusty flat somewhere in Phoenix, Arizona.
One room.
A creaky fan.
No air conditioner.
And a lingering smell of... burnt toast?

“Welcome to your new home!” Mom says with the kind of over-the-top enthusiasm only a mother forcing optimism can deliver.

I blink. “…Is this a storage unit?”

Mom flicks my forehead.
“Dumb kid. Be grateful.”

Mr. Hawk, who drove us here, chuckles from behind, arms crossed. He's a tall, weathered man—long-haired, cowboy boots, and a smile that looks like it’s seen too much of life. I still don’t know who he is yet. Just that he’s Mom’s ‘contact.’

“Hmph. Still fiesty,” he mutters with a grin.

“Sorry about him, Mr. Hawk,” Mom apologizes, sighing with the weight of someone who’s already regretting bringing me.

I drop my bag and glance around. “So... where's the wild west shootout? Any chance I can duel someone at high noon?”

Everything freezes.

Mom turns slowly. Face blank. Brow twitching.
“ALEX...!!!”
The comedic rage aura erupts behind her like a volcano.
I brace for impact.

Mr. Hawk?
Laughing so hard he nearly chokes.

“Well, you did say he was a handful, Puan Mas,” he says, wiping tears from his eyes. “Welcome to America, kid.”

Mom crosses her arms, tapping her foot. “You remember Aunt Beb, right?”

I scratch my head. “Aunt… who?”

Mom sighs, dramatically dragging her hand down her face. “You dumb kid… she’s my younger sister. She moved here a few years ago. You met her when you were five.”

“Ohhh…” I pretend to remember. “Yeah, totally. The one with the mole on her nose, right?”

“That’s your uncle, Alex.”

“…Right. Nevermind.”

Mom’s comedic vein bulges. I swear she’s two seconds from summoning a slipper from another dimension.

“I’m gonna go unpack,” I say, backing toward the one-bedroom like I’m defusing a bomb.

“Take your shoes off!”

“It’s carpet, Mom.”

“TAKE. THEM. OFF.”

Welcome to America, huh?

I sigh and glance out the window. The sunset is different here. Not like Malaysia. The sky feels bigger. The air… heavier.

I don’t know what’s waiting for me here.
New school. New people.
Still haunted by Frederica’s memory.

But maybe—just maybe—this might be the start of something.
Or a whole new kind of chaos.

Mr. Hawk folds his arms, glancing at Mom while I stretch out on the tiny couch with my bag as a pillow.

“Well, I’ve arranged for Alex to be enrolled in a nearby school,” he says casually. “It’s called Desert Primary School.”

My eyes widen.
“WHOA!!! THAT SOUNDS SO COOL!!!”
My brain explodes into wild cowboy imagery.
Vultures circling the sky… sandstorms in the distance… showdown at recess…

“Alex…” Mom sighs so hard I swear the wind outside answers her. “That’s just the name of the school.”

I throw a fake lasso into the air. “YEE-HAW!!! I’m gonna duel math and wrestle English! Let’s go!!”

Mr. Hawk snorts in amusement. “If my daughters see him, I wonder what kind of reaction they’ll have…”

“Daughters?” I blink.

“Oh, you’ll meet them soon. Might be fun.” He pats my shoulder with a warmth that feels... safe. Not like a stranger, but more like a father figure. Gentle. Present. Something I didn’t expect from a guy who looks like he came out of a cowboy stories.

“Have fun, kid. Now go on, get unpacking.”

“Roger that, Sheriff,” I salute with a grin.

Mom bows her head. “Thank you, Mr. Hawk. For everything…”

But then—
“WAAAAAHHHH!!!”

I turn around just in time to see Hana, my baby sister, erupt into full cry mode.

“Ughhh, not again…” I lean in closer—
Sniff
“OH DEAR GOD—MOM!!! She’s dropped a nuclear warhead!!!”

Mom pinches her nose, waving the air like she’s fighting a spirit. “I’ll get it—wait—”

“No need! I got this.”
Why?
Because I’m a big brother.
Because Mom trained me like a diaper-changing ninja.
And because—I actually adore my little sister.

I cradle Hana with the precision of a bomb technician.
Powder? ✔️
Wipes? ✔️
Fresh diaper? Locked and loaded.

Minutes later, the war zone is clean. Hana giggles like nothing ever happened, her little hands smacking my face in pure approval.

Mr. Hawk raises a brow. “Well, damn. He’s got skills.”

Mom smirks. “Told you. Alex is… a bit special.”

I shrug, rocking Hana gently as she plays with my nose. “Yeah, well. Gotta take care of the squirt.”

As she nestles into my arms, her tiny eyes closing into sleep, I glance out the window.
The Arizona sun blazes on the horizon, casting golden rays over unfamiliar streets, unfamiliar homes, and an unfamiliar life.

But somehow…
It doesn’t feel that scary.

Not when I have Mom.
Not when I have Hana.
And maybe… not when there are still stories waiting to unfold.

The soft thud of the front door echoes through the small apartment.

Mr. Hawk is gone. Just like that, the cowboy guardian vanishes into the Arizona sunset, his boots clicking down the corridor like something from a Western film. It’s quiet now.

Really quiet.

Mom exhales deeply, stretching her arms above her head. “Whew… finally, just us.”

I stand there, scanning the place. The apartment isn’t much—just one room, a tiny kitchenette, a compact bathroom, and a living space that doubles as a bedroom. But it’s clean, furnished, and filled with sunlight that pours through the dusty window slats like golden threads. Still… it smells faintly like cardboard and forgotten dreams.

“So…” I scratch my head, staring at the stack of luggage by the wall. “Where do I put this stuff?”

Mom throws me a tired smile. “Anywhere that doesn’t break your neck in the middle of the night.”

“Tch… comforting.”

Hana babbles in her stroller, kicking her feet. The sight of her makes my chest warm up, even in this foreign place.

I start unpacking. Books, some clothes, the framed photo of me, Mom, Dad, and Hana during last Raya. We place it by the window. Mom pulls out a few instant noodle cups and lines them up proudly in the kitchen.

“Welcome to gourmet dining, American edition,” she says with a smirk.

“Heh. You mean ‘barely surviving’ edition.”

We both laugh, but there’s something behind her eyes. Tiredness, maybe. Or something heavier.

I glance around. “This place feels… small.”

Mom shrugs as she lays out a folded prayer mat. “It’s not about the size, Alex. It’s about how we make it ours.”

I pause. Then nod.

We work side by side—dusting the shelves, laying out rugs, finding spots for our few things. There’s no grand ceremony. Just two people—mother and son—turning a stranger’s apartment into something resembling home.

At one point, I stop and look at her. The woman who raised me. The woman who fought for me. Moved for me. Left everything behind—for me.

“…Thanks, Mom.”

She looks over her shoulder, startled. “…What for?”

I stare at the floor, fiddling with a box of old comic books. “Y’know. All this.”

She chuckles softly, walking over and ruffling my hair. “Don’t get all sentimental on me, Mr. Cowboy.”

I scowl. “I will commit arson if you call me that again.”

“Bring it on,” she smirks.

The laughter dies down. Hana is asleep. The room is dim now—sunlight giving way to the blue hush of early evening.

We sit together in silence, cross-legged on the floor, sharing a cup of hot tea made from some old sachet Mom brought from Malaysia.

“Tomorrow’s your first day at school,” she says, swirling her tea.

“Ugh…”

She nudges me. “Don’t worry. It’s not the jungle.”

“Still rather deal with tigers than teachers.”

She laughs again, but this time… it’s a little softer.

And that night, as we prepare our beds on the floor, I stare at the ceiling, listening to the desert wind howl faintly outside.

A new country. A new life.

But same us.

Arizona, 1995.

The golden hue of sunset washes through my bedroom window, the last light flickering across the sketches on my desk. Pencils scattered, paper curled, and my head is buried in a sketchbook filled with outfit ideas for spring.

"Something retro, but still me..." I mutter under my breath, erasing a line on the overalls design for the fourth time. “Ugh—maybe with suspenders...?”

Suddenly—click!—my door creaks open without knocking. Of course.

“So~ my little sister’s pretending to be a fashion prodigy again?”
A tall silhouette leans into the doorway. Messy auburn curls, arms crossed, smug grin—yep, it’s Phylis.

“Ugh! Can you not sneak up on people!?” I hiss, covering my sketches like they’re national secrets.

She saunters over, flops onto my bed, and snatches the top drawing.

“Victorian farmer meets MC Hammer?” she deadpans.

My eye twitches. “Shut. Up. It’s called retro fusion!”

She throws her head back laughing. “Retro confusion, more like.”

“You’re the worst!”

We start squabbling, the usual light sisterly warfare—pillow nudges, flying erasers, mock slaps. Honestly, it’s almost tradition at this point.

“HEY!”
Mom’s voice booms from downstairs.

“Knock it off, you two! Dinner’s not a battleground!”

“Sorry, Mom!” we both shout in unison, still wrestling for control of the pencil case.

Just then—click. The front door opens.

“I’m back,” says a familiar voice, tired but warm. Dad.

I pause. Dad doesn’t usually come home this early.

From upstairs, we hear the low hum of conversation float from the kitchen. Naturally, my curiosity is already switched on.

“…So, Puan Mas is finally here,” Dad says.

Wait—Puan Mas? That name sounds oddly familiar.

“Seriously!?” Mom gasps. “Oh my goodness, it’s been, what, five years? Since we last saw each other at the conference!”

“Yeah. She just moved in across town,” Dad continues. “With her two kids—a boy and a girl.”

Phylis perks up. “A girl, huh? Playdate time?”

But I’m stuck on the other part.

“…A boy?” I repeat, eyes narrowing. “What kind of boy?”

“Her son. Name’s Alex.”

Alex?

“Alex?” I whisper, the name sticking in my brain like a tune as if I known him.

“You know him?” Phylis raises an eyebrow.

“No…” I say slowly. “But I feel like I’ve heard Mom mention him before.”

Downstairs, Dad’s chuckle carries up the stairwell.
“Well, from what I’ve heard, he’s… something else.”

“How so?” Mom asks, clearly intrigued.

Dad replies with a smirk in his voice.

“Let’s just say he’s... spirited. Fiesty. The kind of kid who doesn’t listen to anyone, punches first, asks questions later.”

Phylis bursts out laughing. “Oh great. Just what this town needs—another delinquent!”

I don’t laugh.

Instead, I feel something stir in my chest. A faint… flicker of curiosity.

Fiesty, huh?

Suddenly—

“HEY! Quit eavesdropping and come down here already!”
Both Mom and Dad yell from downstairs in perfect sync.

Phylis and I freeze, caught red-handed at the top of the staircase like a pair of cartoon raccoons.

“…Tch. Busted,” Phylis mutters.

“Well, whose fault is that!?” I hiss back, elbowing her as we head down.

We shuffle into the living room like two guilty puppies. The scent of cinnamon tea greets us, warm and nostalgic, as Mom sets down the pot with her signature smile. The kind that hides way too much mischief.

The four of us sit. Quietly.

Sip.

…Sip.

………Sip.

SLAM!

I suddenly slam my cup onto the table. “Okay—Dad.”

He raises an eyebrow, already amused. “Yes?”

“What’s the story? You’re clearly hiding something interesting.”

Mom chuckles behind her teacup. “Oh? Sounds like someone’s curious now.”

“W-Well I mean… I’m not that curious,” I say, trying to save face. “Just… moderately interested.”

Dad leans back with a grin. “Heh. So the ice queen cracks.”

“I am NOT an ice queen!”

Mom sets her cup down gently. “Well, since you’re asking… remember my old friend Puan Mas?”

“Oh! The one from Malaysia, right?” I tilt my head. “Didn’t you go on that research trip with her?”

“She just moved to Phoenix with her kids. A boy and a girl. The son’s name is Alex,” Dad says calmly.

“Huh…” I blink. “So… is he gonna be in our school or something?”

Dad nods. “Starting next week. He’s enrolled in Desert Primary.”

“Huh… interesting.” I take another sip of tea.

And then.

It hits me.

I slam my cup down again. “WAIT—HE’S GOING TO MY SCHOOL!?”

Dad stares. “Didn’t I just say that?”

I frown, flailing my hands. “I thought you meant, like, a school nearby! Not mine!”

Mom’s smile turns sly. “You said you weren’t interested in boys, didn’t you?”

“Ugh, ewwwww, yes! No boys, thank you!”

WHACK!

Phylis smacks me lightly on the back of the head. “What’s with that reaction!? You seriously need more friends. You only hang out with Luna!”

“I have friends!!”

Phylis raises an eyebrow. “Name two.”

“Luna?”

Mom, Dad, and Phylis all stare at me.
“…Just one?”

“Hmph!! She’s worth five, okay!?”

We all burst out laughing.

Phylis slouches dramatically in her seat. “God help that Alex kid if he meets you first.”

I stick out my tongue. “Well maybe I’ll just scare him into staying quiet.”

Mom hums behind her cup. “Mmm, I don’t think so… something tells me you’ll remember him.”

“Hmph!”
I puff out my cheeks, grab my teacup with dignified drama, and storm back upstairs. Let them talk about that Alex boy all they want—I’ve got better things to do. Like my fashion dreams.

I plop onto my beanbag chair in the attic room, my sanctuary. The warm Arizona sun slants through my round attic window like a spotlight just for me. My sketches scatter across the floor—doodles of vintage jackets, layered skirts, and that hybrid East-West ensemble I’ve been obsessing over for weeks.

Books line my shelves. Island of the Blue Dolphins lies open beside me, bookmarked with sticky notes and tabs in every color. My world, my pace, my thoughts.

Then—knock knock.
The door creaks open, and Dad peeks in, holding a mug of his favorite herbal tea.

“So…” he says with a grin, “what’s my little designer working on now?”

“Huh?” I blink, caught mid-sketch. “Oh! Here—look!”
I eagerly hand him a rough sketch of a flowing ensemble inspired by Native patterns and French elegance.

He studies it for a moment, nodding slowly. “Hmm… that’s something. That’s really something. Worth bringing to life one day.”

I smile. Wide. “You think so?”

“Absolutely,” he says, then pauses—knowingly. “You’re asking about Alex earlier, weren’t you?”

I freeze for a second.

Then, trying to play it cool, I glance at the window and mumble, “…just wondering how he looks like. That’s all. Totally academic curiosity.”

Dad chuckles, sipping his tea.

“Well,” he says, walking off, “you’ll just have to figure that out for yourself.”

“Pussy wuss,” I mutter, sticking out my tongue behind his back.

“I heard that!”
He laughs all the way down the stairs.

I shake my head and turn back to my sketchpad. But my gaze slips toward the glowing afternoon sky through the round window. Somehow… it feels like change is coming.

Alex’s side

I stare blankly ahead.

"...Mom."

“Yes?” she replies, sounding all too cheerful.

“This... this can’t be it.”

Mom crosses her arms and smiles. “Yep. That’s your room.”

I blink again.

My room.
My. Room.

Correction: it's a closet.

And I’m not exaggerating. It’s literally the size of a coffin… no… maybe a coffin at least has padded walls. This? Bare wood. Peeling paint. One dangling bulb above my head that’s probably been alive since the Cold War.

There’s a thin comforter folded on the floor, next to a single, sad pillow that looks like it escaped from an airplane seat.

“Mom… this is a utility closet. I think there’s still a broom in here.”

Mom sips her tea from the small kitchenette. “Multifunctional, isn’t it?”

“THIS IS A BROOM CLOSET!!” I shout.

“You’re lucky I cleaned it for you,” she replies coolly, not even looking up. “Now be grateful before I make you share with the mop too.”

I nearly drop to my knees in despair.

A tiny giggle comes from behind me.

“Brahh–ber…”

I turn around.

Hana, only two years old, is standing there in her wobbly toddler pose. Her cheeks puff out as she sucks on her pacifier, eyes wide like a baby deer in headlights. She's hugging her worn plush rabbit, “Poyo,” and staring into my so-called room.

She toddles forward, then plops herself right onto the comforter. Her legs kick the air.

“Brahh-ber... no bed...?” she says, poking the pillow with her little finger.

“Nope. No bed, no desk, no dignity.”

“Poyo... seep here too...” she mumbles, placing her rabbit beside the pillow and laying down.

Ya Allah.

She actually likes it?

Well, better than nothing.
Not like I’m not used to this kind of treatment.

Living in Long Pasia—with its wooden huts, zero electricity, and wild boars that snort like your drunk uncle—makes this cramped apartment in Phoenix feel like a five-star hotel. I’ve slept in trees. I’ve bathed in rivers colder than your ex’s heart.

So yeah, a closet as a bedroom? Easy mode.

Mom looks at me from the tiny kitchen area, where she’s busy boiling water with the one pot we own.

“Tomorrow, we report you in for school. Got it?”

“Fine…” I mutter, tossing my only bag—basically a toothbrush, a crusty tube of Colgate, three pairs of underwear, and an old Long Pasia scout badge—into the corner.

The apartment’s small. Like, really small.
One room, one kitchen-living-room hybrid, one bathroom. But hey—it has a bathtub. Something I definitely didn’t have back home. Score one for America.

I toss myself onto the living room carpet, arms spread wide like a fallen anime protagonist.

“Mom,” I groan, “is it okay if I just sleep out here?”

“Huh?” she peeks her head out, eyebrow raised. “Well… sure, but it gets pretty cold at night.”

Right. Autumn.

I know Arizona isn’t exactly Canada, but mom said it does snow here sometimes. The desert has its tricks. The hot days and cold nights remind me of survival training back home.

Mom stands by the closet-turned-bedroom with arms crossed. “After this, we’re buying proper clothes. I’m not sending you to school looking like a drifting monkey.”

I glance down.

T-shirt.
Windbreaker.
Jeans.
Old sneakers.

What’s wrong with this?

Then I see it.

Dead center on my shirt, a faded, pastel pink cartoon logo that reads:
“Cutie Pie”

“…SHIT!”

Thwack!

“Language!!” Mom smacks the back of my head like a true Malaysian mother.

“Oww!! I didn’t ask to wear this!! You packed this!”

“Yeah, and I also gave you a brain. Try using it next time before walking outside like that.”

Hana, still in diapers, is clapping and giggling like this is some kind of variety show. She points at me and squeals, “Pi-pie!! Bwahahaha!!”

“Traitor,” I whisper, glaring at her.

We step outside for fresh air, or in this case, Arizona dust.

The neighboring apartment door creaks open and an old man steps out, waving gently with a knowing smile.

“Hey, you must be Puan Mas,” he says, adjusting his kopiah.

Mom nods respectfully. “Yes, I just arrived. Thank you.”

“Welcome to Arizona. We’ve got a few Malaysians around here. Should feel a bit like home.”

“Oh, we’ll see,” mom says with a smirk. “Right now, I need to buy clothes for my son before he starts school… Can’t have him showing up looking like a lost fruit vendor.”

I turn slowly. “What now?”

She points to my chest.
That stupid shirt again.
Cutie Pie.

“Mother of—” I start.

“Ah ah ah—language,” she warns with a raised sandal.

The old man chuckles, watching us with hands behind his back. “The way that boy talks, he’ll fit in just fine around here.”

Mom sighs. “And that’s what I’m worried about.”

We head out to a thrift store. The kind that smells like nostalgia and mothballs, but honestly, I kinda like the vibe. The shirts are weird, the shoes are cooler than expected, and I score a jacket that doesn’t scream “Malaysian tourist.”

After the chaotic shopping run, we head back to the apartment.

It’s afternoon now—and the courtyard’s transformed into what looks like a war zone playground. Kids are everywhere. Laughing, shouting, throwing balls like they’re in a sports anime. It's wild. For a moment, I just stand there—quiet, scanning.

Some of them are looking at me.

Mom nudges me. “Hey. Get along with them, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” I mutter, deadpan. “Not like I’ve got anything better to do.”

She glares and does the classic Malaysian mom gesture—two fingers pointing at her eyes, then at me.
“I’m watching you.”

I click my tongue. “Ceh…”

She and Hana disappear inside. I take a breath.

Alright. Jungle boy vs. the American suburban kids. Let’s go.

I walk toward the group.

Say nothing.

Just… watch.

That’s how we do it in Long Pasia. Observe first. Act later.

But then—

“Hey!! I’m Marina! You are?”

“…Alex.”

“Cool! Wanna hang with us?”

“…No thanks.”

“Too bad!” she grins and drags me in like I’m her long-lost cousin.

“Hey!! New friend!!” a boy waves at me.

I nod stiffly. “Sup.”

“You talk like a jungle dude,” another kid snickers. “Where you from, Tarzan?”

“…Yeah. Pretty much. Jungle kid here.”

Another boy shakes my hand with the strength of a possessed cartoon character.

“I’m Faz! Welcome to America!!”

My hand nearly dislocates. “Y-Yeah, thanks. I’m from KK.”

“KK? I used to live there!!” Marina says, eyes wide.

“Which school?”

“Stella Theresa.”

“Oh, the Christian one? Huh…”

“Are you even in the right school?” a kid mutters.

“Sabahan kids are weird,” another one adds.

My eyebrow twitches.

Same nonsense

But before I can clap back, something worse happens. A group of older boys—middle schoolers, judging by their swagger—approach from the corner. Their leader, this guy named Wan, kicks a soccer ball directly at us.

I catch it. Instinct.

“HEY!!” Marina yells. “That’s not funny!!”

The boys walk over, oozing attitude. I ignore them and speak to Marina.

“Hey. Got anything fun around here?”

She looks nervous. “Y-Yeah, we usually—”

“HEY! I’m talking to you!” Wan grabs my shirt.

I stay calm. Cold, even.

Behind me, Marina’s mom arrives—thank God.

“WAN!! What are you doing!?”

Wan instantly switches to victim mode. “He started it!! He grabbed my shirt!!”

Oh come on.

Marina defends me, bless her heart. “Wan’s lying! He kicked the ball at us first!”

The adult narrows his eyes at both of us.

I sigh, bow politely, and mutter, “Apologies, sir. It won’t happen again.”

He nods, though it’s clear he thinks I’m the problem.

Classic.

Wan scowls, grabs another soccer ball, and hurls it over the fence—right into what looks like an abandoned lot.

“HEY!!” Marina yells.

“WAN!!” her mom screams again.

I grit my teeth.

Then… I act.

“I’ll get it.”

“Wait! There’s a dog over there!” Marina warns, panic in her voice.

But I don’t listen.

I scale the fence like a parkour pro and land in the bush. And then—
Bark.
Loud. Deep. Close.

A massive Rottweiler stands before me.
Muscles like steel cables. Eyes sharp. Breath hot.

I freeze.
But I remember what Grandpa once told me in the jungle:

“When facing a wild beast—don’t run. Look ‘em in the eye. If you show no fear… sometimes they back off.”

I stare.
The dog growls.
But stops.
His ears twitch.

Everything slows.

I walk forward, pick up the ball—

Chomp.

Pain explodes in my arm.

I don’t scream. Just grit my teeth. Blood seeps out. The dog backs away… then licks the wound.

“…Good boy.”

Suddenly—

“KOBY!!” a woman’s voice calls.

A tall black woman rushes in. Beside her, a muscular teen in army fatigues.

“Koby, get off!! Darrel, grab him!”

“Ma’am, I’m fine,” I say calmly, even though my arm is bleeding.

“Jesus, boy—you’re lucky he didn’t rip it off! Come inside!”

She’s a nurse. Treats the wound. Gives me a shot. But she’s surprised.

“That's… odd. Your skin’s healing already.”

(Present-day me: That’s the first time I noticed… something was different about me.)

“I’m Jackie,” she says. “And this is my son, Darrel. You are?”

“Alex. From Malaysia.”

Darrel whistles. “Well damn, no wonder you stared down Koby like that.”

“I’m used to jungle dogs.”

He laughs. “Respect. You’re built different.”

Jackie pats my shoulder. “You’re welcome here, kid. Just don’t climb fences into death traps next time.”

I nod. She walks me back to my apartment.

Outside, it’s chaos.

Kids shouting. Parents talking.

My mom sees me—bloodied, bandaged—and goes full ogre mode.

“YOU ABSOLUTE IMBECILE!!”

Jackie smiles. “Yep, he’s definitely Malaysian.”

“Sorry about my son,” mom says, trying to be polite. “He’s… adapting.”

“He’ll be fine. Better than most of the brats here,” Jackie whispers to her.

Mr Shah stammers, “Sorry, I didn’t know—”

Mom glares. “Watch how you raise your son next time.”

That shuts him up.

Marina beams at me. “Thanks for getting the ball back.”

Wan glares. I glare back. He looks away.

And just like that…

I made friends. And enemies.
All in one afternoon.

The apartment complex might be old and cramped, but there’s one thing I notice right away—a musolla, a small prayer room nestled near the back block.

Even here, in the desert sun of Arizona, surrounded by strangers and secondhand furniture… Islam finds its corner.

Mom looks at me from the tiny kitchenette as she adjusts Hana’s milk bottle.
“Well, as a Muslim, you still need to pray, okay? Go on ahead… I’m not the best at teaching, but at least I know what’s right.”

“Uh-huh…” I nod, not wanting to argue. My heart's still beating from earlier, but prayer is grounding. Something I can count on.

I walk down the hallway.

The musolla’s small—narrow carpet, faded prayer rugs rolled neatly in the corner, the soft scent of sejadah and old books in the air. A flickering LED light buzzes above.

Inside, I spot a group of men. Familiar faces now.

Mr. Shah’s among them, kneeling while fixing the sound cables to the old speaker.

Some glance at me—the new kid, the wild one who tamed a dog and got in trouble all in one day.

Mr. Shah walks over. His face isn’t as stern anymore.

“Looks like we got off to a rough start earlier,” he says with a nod. “I’m Mr. Shah. Wan’s my eldest. Bit of a… ‘champion of the world’ syndrome, you know what I mean.”

I keep my voice low. “No worries, sir. It happens.”

Another man with greying hair approaches me, kind face, strong handshake.

“You’re the new neighbor’s boy? Settling in okay?”

“Yes, sir.” I bow slightly and salam his hand.

“Polite too. Good lad.”

Then comes the moment I didn’t expect.

“Hey,” someone calls out. “Want to do the adzhan?”

Huh?

Everyone's looking at me.

“…Yeah,” I say, quietly.

So I step forward.

It’s a cramped space, but something in my chest feels lighter. I take a breath.

And I recite—

“Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar…”

The call echoes softly. It's not perfect, my voice cracks halfway—but I mean every word.

A silence falls after it ends. Then the older men smile, some nodding in approval.

“Kid’s got spirit.”

I make my way to the back, laying out my prayer mat. Hana would laugh if she saw how serious I looked now.

Some kids are praying.

Others… not so much. Laughing, playing, distracted. I ignore them. Not my business.

But then—
A sharp tug.

I stumble back slightly.

I glance up.

It’s Wan. And his crew.

He’s glaring at me, trying to act all tough again.

“Don’t think you’re better than me just ‘cause you can recite fancy Arabic.”

He grabs my shoulder.

I stare him dead in the eye, calm but firm.

“I’m not here to compete.”

My voice lowers.

“We’re in prayer, Wan. Allah will scorn those who disturb the believers in their ibadah.”

I quote it straight from the Qur’an—just like Ustazah Marizan taught me back in Malaysia.

"Wa aqeemus-salata wa aatuz-zakata warka‘u ma‘ar-raki‘een."
"Establish prayer, give zakat, and bow with those who bow."

Wan falters.

His grip loosens.

And just as the tension thickens—
A hand slaps his shoulder.

“Wan! Back in line,” says an elder from behind.

Wan freezes. Then retreats with a grunt, muttering something under his breath.

I bow slightly in thanks and return to my prayer. Calm, quiet, grounded.

Maybe it’s not the jungle.

But even here—among foreign walls and strange faces—faith keeps me from losing myself.

The ceiling above me is old. The fan creaks a little. Outside, coyotes yawn and trucks hum in the early Arizona dark.

I rest my head on the rolled-up comforter that passes as my pillow.
Tomorrow’s my first day in an American school.

"Just hope I don’t punch someone by lunch…" I mutter to myself.

Next Morning

“Alex, wake up!”

Mom’s voice slices through the morning like a drill sergeant—except she's cradling Hana, who’s already awake and chewing on her sock.

“Morning…” I groan, rubbing my eyes. My limbs still feel stiff from yesterday’s brawl, fence-jump, and dog encounter.

I put on the best thing I could find—fresh thrift store jeans, a clean windbreaker, and sneakers. At least I look decent.

“The school is nearby,” Mom says while securing Hana’s tiny hoodie. “Want to walk?”

I grin, slipping on my backpack. “Yeah, sure. You sure you can handle it, General?”

SMACK!
“Ow—!”

Mom knocks my head. “Less sarcasm, more steps.”

The streetlights are still flickering. We’re early. Maybe too early.

Our walk is quiet, except for the cool breeze of Arizona’s autumn brushing past our cheeks. Hana clings to Mom’s hip like a sleepy koala.

The school comes into view.
A plain, rectangular building with worn white walls. The sign reads: “Desert Primary School.”

"...Not exactly Hogwarts," I whisper.

But somehow, it feels right.

Suddenly, a familiar voice cuts through the morning.

“HEY ALEX!!”

I turn. A beat-up minivan pulls up. Marina hops out with her big grin and glittery schoolbag.

“Morning!” she waves.

I wave back. “Yo.”

Mom chuckles. “Popular already?”

Marina greets her politely. “Assalamualaikum, Auntie!”

“Waalaikumussalam,” Mom smiles.

We enter together.

A small hallway leads to the principal’s office. The place smells like books and old carpet.

An elderly lady in a pastel sweater stands at the door.

“Ah, you must be Mas’ son. Welcome,” she says warmly.

Mom shakes her hand. “This is Alex. He’s… a bit spirited.”

Hana sneezes.

“Bless you,” the principal smiles at her.

So begins… my first day in an American school.

Natalie Side

Today’s the day I make an impression.

Not a boring, run-of-the-mill “Hi I’m Nat” kind of impression.
Nope.

Today… I go full Victorian noblewoman mode.

Long, flowing white lace. Puffy sleeves. A ribbon on my chest. Boots.
Classy. Iconic. Revolutionary.

Phylis walks into my room, mid-toast—sees me—and dies laughing.

“PWAHAHAHA!! WHAT ARE YOU!?? A LOST DOLL FROM THE 1800s!?”

“Shut up!” I snap, fluffing my skirt. “You don’t understand fashion!”

Dad peeks around the corner. Shakes his head.

“You’re gonna terrify your teacher.”

Mom just smiles. “Have fun, sweetheart.”

I wave and walk out, head held high. The cold air stings a bit—but the pride keeps me warm.

My school’s only a few blocks away, and like always, the kids are already buzzing at the gates.

Except this time…

Silence.

Heads turn.

Mouths gape.

I hear one girl whisper.

“...Is this a Halloween prank?”

Then another voice—loud and brutal.

“HEY NAT! Halloween’s NEXT WEEK!!!”

Laughter erupts like a volcano.

Before I can even process it—

“SHUT IT YOU BUNCH OF BITCHES!!!”

That’s Luna.

My best friend storms into the crowd like a raging bull, ponytail flapping behind her. She’s tiny but loud enough to silence the entire yard.

She points at the girl who insulted me.

“You jealous, skank? ‘Cause she’s got style and you look like a clearance rack Barbie!?”

I step up beside her, dusting imaginary dirt off my sleeve.
“That’s right. Victorian is in, didn’t you know?”

Luna nods approvingly. “That’s my Nat!”

The old bell chimes a bit too loud for the morning. The hallway buzzes with the sound of squeaky sneakers and locker slams.

Me and Luna stroll through the main corridor, passing the rows of dusty honor roll photos and outdated posters with cheesy slogans like “Soaring to Success!”

As we near the principal’s office, Luna suddenly halts mid-step, peering through the frosted window of the door.

“Whoa… hey Nat, check it out,” she whispers, tapping the glass.

“Huh?”

I step beside her and glance in.

On the other side of the glass, I spot a boy standing next to a woman cradling a little girl. His skin is tan, hair messy, posture loose.
Something about him feels… wild. Like he doesn’t quite belong inside a room with walls.

“He’s Asian,” I mutter.

Luna snickers. “Really? He looks like he’d dropkick someone for the last seat on a bus.”

I narrow my eyes. The woman beside him speaks in a language I can’t make out—probably Malay. She seems tired but gentle. The toddler clutches her neck sleepily.

The boy?
He’s scanning the room like it’s a battlefield.

For a moment, his eyes flick toward the door—toward me.
A strange static prickles in my spine.

“Hey! You spacing out?” Luna tugs my sleeve. “We’re gonna be late for class!”

I blink and turn away. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go.”

We reach our classroom just as the morning bell rings.

The moment I step in, the world stops spinning for a second.

Every. Single. Head. Turns.

My curls bounce as I strut in, my Victorian white dress catching the light from the window.

The teacher, Ms. Hazel, blinks behind her glasses. She clears her throat, suppressing a smile.

“Well, Natalie… I do appreciate your enthusiasm, but we’re learning about the Civil War today, not starring in a reenactment.”

Laughter erupts.

Except for Luna.

“Buncha uncultured potatoes,” she mutters while sliding into her seat beside me.

I take my spot at my desk with grace—if a little red in the face.

“Aw shucks, Nat!”
That Southern twang comes from the seat behind me—Jennifer Walker, the ever-sweet girl with a cowgirl heart.

“This looks plumb amazin’! You sure you ain’t headed to the ol’ Tennessee ball instead of class?” she chuckles.

“Fashion is expression, Jennifer,” I reply, chin raised.

“Sure, sugar. But maybe not when we’re learnin’ about bullets and bayonets.”

Ms. Hazel claps her hands once.

“Alright, let’s begin. Open your books to Chapter 6: The American Civil War—Divided by Freedom. We’ll be looking at the roots of slavery and the fracture it carved across the nation.”

Groans ripple across the class.

“Yep,” Luna sighs. “Here comes the part where half the class forgets which side won again.”

But even as I pretend to follow the lecture, my mind drifts…

Back to the boy behind the glass.

Who was he?

And why did I feel like… I’d seen him somewhere before?

Suddenly the principal enters the class.

Which everyone is curious

Alex Side – Present POV

So, here I am.

Sitting like some test subject in front of the Desert Primary School principal—an old lady with kind eyes but the posture of someone who’s seen a hundred overenthusiastic parents and twice as many bratty kids.

She flips through my paperwork. Mom sits beside me, Hana on her lap, cooing like a squeaky toy.

“Well,” the principal says, squinting at my file, “looks like he’s academically solid… That’s a good start. Hmm… now, Alex—what do you think of our school?”

I blink.
Wait, is that a trick question?

My brain loads every possible response like I’m choosing a move.
And then—like an idiot—I go with:

🤩 “You have a cool name for a school! Never heard anything like Desert Primary before!! It sounds like a out a movie!!”

WHAM!

Mom’s fist lands clean on my skull like a pro wrestler finishing a match.
My body jerks.
My vision shakes.

“Dumbass,” she mutters through gritted teeth.

Even Hana goes silent.

The principal just laughs. “Ahahaha! Well, Mr. Hawk did say you had… energy.”

She sets the file down and leans forward, smiling kindly. “You’ll do just fine here, Alex.”

“Y-You think so…?” I mutter, rubbing the bump on my head.

“We’ll place you in our bilingual class. You’ll adjust easier that way. What do you think, Mr. Alex?”

My eyes sparkle. 🤩
“Does that mean I get to speak two languages at once like a spy in the movies!?”

Mom groans and buries her face in her hands. 🤦🏻

Even Hana, that adorable traitor, giggles at me.

“Y-Yes, we’ll help you get comfortable,” the principal chuckles. “It’s just to ease your transition. You’ll pick things up quickly.”

“Sorry about that,” Mom says, still blushing. “He’s a little… wild.”

The principal waves it off. “No, no. We need kids like this—spirited ones who might one day become leaders. I also heard you're doing your PhD at the university?”

“Yes, in anthropology. My husband’s back in Malaysia—government work—so I brought the kids here.”

“Well, that’s admirable,” she nods. “Have you settled in?”

Mom opens her mouth to answer, but I raise my hand like I’m back in kampung school.

“Um, ma’am! Do you have a place I can run around?!”

The principal tilts her head. “A place to…?”

“I mean—like an open field? Maybe a cave for exploring?”

(Present Alex voiceover: What the hell was I thinking back then!? I thought every school had an amazing place!!)

Mom: 🤦🏻
Principal: 😅
Hana: 🍼 “Guu~”

“Well,” she finally says, “we do have a gym, a football field, and even a basketball court if you're interested.”

“Basket…ball?” I tilt my head. “That’s like kicking a ball into a basket right?”

(Present Alex voiceover: Yeah. That was me. Zero clue what basketball was.)

Mom nearly faints.

The principal giggles again, shaking her head. “Don’t worry, Alex. You’ll learn. We’ve got Physical Education, recess, school clubs—you’ll fit in just fine.”

I smile wide.
A real one this time.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Welcome to Desert Primary,” she says with a warm nod. “Have fun and don’t burn the place down.”

I salute her with pride like I’ve just enlisted in the army.

“Aye aye, ma’am!”

The principal rub my head

“You’ll do just fine…”

The hallway stretches before us like the start of some side quest I didn’t ask for. Mom carries Hana, who’s starting to fall asleep, while I just try to keep my excitement from exploding out of my mouth.

Principal White walks ahead, heels clicking like countdowns to destiny.

“Before we place Alex in the bilingual class,” she says, turning to mom, “I thought it’d be good to let him see one of our standard American format classrooms. Just to get a feel for the environment.”

We stop in front of a door decorated with stars and flags.

The principal opens it.

Light bursts out like we’ve unlocked a treasure chest.

Inside, the classroom is warm, lively—filled with colorful posters of historic landmarks, smiling faces, and a chaotic energy that smells like crayons and ambition.

“Ah! Ms. Hazel,” Principal White greets the teacher.

The woman in front, maybe in her late 30s with springy curls and that I’ve-drank-six-coffees energy, turns toward us. “Yes?”

“This is Alex, a new student from Malaysia.”

I step in slowly, scanning the posters.

And I spot it.

“Hey, Mom,” I say, pointing to a picture on the wall, “isn’t that the same statue you brought back from Iraq that you kept in the living room next to your bookshelves?”

(Present Alex narrating: Yeah… I still remember the exact statue. It was that creepy-looking one she said belonged to a ‘desert god-king’ or something.)

Mom facepalms instantly. 🤦🏻 “Shhh!”

“Ah, the statue of Gilgamesh! The ancient king worshipped like a god, right?” I say aloud, grinning.

Principal White’s eyes sparkle. “Wait… what?”

Ms. Hazel leans in. “Where did you learn that?”

I puff my chest a bit but try not to sound like a total nerd.

“Mom teaches me at home. She says if I don’t understand history, I’ll never know why people are dumb sometimes.”

Principal White: “Puan Mas… your son’s practically a walking encyclopedia.”

Mom tries to deflect. “N-No… he's just a brat with good memory. That’s all. Please don’t encourage him.”

Ms. Hazel gives me a wink. “Well, I can’t wait to see you for this class. You’ll fit right in.”

“I’ll do my best, ma’am!” I snap into a salute like I’m joining the Marines.

Everyone laughs.

Mom: Cue dramatic sigh. 🤦🏻

As we’re turning to leave the classroom, something catches my eye.

Someone.

Standing near the back of the class—like she stepped out of a time portal—is a girl in a full-on Victorian dress. Laced gloves, curls, posture like royalty.

(Present Alex narration: And that, my friends… was the moment I saw Natalie Felicity Hawk in all her chaotic glory.)

I point at her without thinking.

“Mom!! This class is cool! We even got a real-life Victorian!!” 🤩

Mom’s hand slaps my head so fast I’m pretty sure I saw a flash of light.

“You don’t point at people like that!! Apologize!”

I bow so deep my nose nearly hits the floor.

“S-Sorry about it!!”

Principal White and Ms. Hazel: 😅

The whole class? Explodes with laughter.

Natalie? Just stares at me like I’m an insect trying to understand string theory.

As we leave while walking in the hallway towards the bilingual classroom, Principal White chuckles, clearly impressed.

“I want to test his American history knowledge before we move on.”

I nod. “Sure, ma’am.”

I clear my throat, suddenly going full Discovery Channel.

“A long, long time ago, before America was America, there were people already living here called Native Americans. They had their own homes, food, and traditions.

Then came explorers from Europe—like Christopher Columbus—sailing across oceans to discover new lands. Over time, towns and homes were built. That was the beginning of the United States!

There were heroes like George Washington and Thomas Jefferson who helped declare freedom, but America also had dark times… slavery, injustice… people like Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King Jr. fought to make things right.

And now… America is still learning, still growing, still becoming something better.”

Silence.

Principal White’s jaw drops.

My mom… sinks into the floor with embarrassment. 😖

“...Puan Mas,” the principal whispers, “I’m sold. Your son isn’t just smart. He’s a prodigy. We’ve got ourselves a walking history book here!!”

Mom waves her hand frantically. “No, no, no—he’s just been watching too many documentaries! Please just treat him like a normal brat, not a genius!”

Ms. White laughs. “No promises.”

The hallway smells like fresh varnish and destiny. As we walk toward my new classroom, Mom glances sideways at me like she’s already bracing for a disaster.

“Please, I beg of you… don’t do anything stupid today. No fighting, no sarcasm, no ‘I punched a dog’ incidents—just behave.”

Right. About that…

Yesterday, I was almost turned into dog food by a Rottweiler, but we don’t talk about that.

I nod. "Got it. No dumb stuff."
Then, with a sly grin, I fire back, “Also, Mom? Please don’t dropkick your professor just because he grades you a B+.”

WHACK!!

Her hand finds the back of my head faster than lightning.
Hana giggles in her sling like she just watched a comedy show.

Ms. White, our guide and principal, just chuckles from the side. “You two really are like best friends. Not mother and son.”

Mom sighs with that classic "Ya Allah, why did I give birth to this" face.
“Please, Ms. White, just treat my son like a normal human. Not a jungle explorer reincarnated.”

We arrive.

The door opens with a slight creak, and I squint inside.

Cue heavenly spotlight and choir music.

The classroom is gorgeous—wooden desks, natural sunlight filtering through big windows, walls lined with handmade student artwork and cultural maps. But what catches my eye isn’t just the room...

It's the teacher.

Standing there is Ms. Forest, tall and elegant, with her brown skin glowing against a perfectly crisp old-west-style blouse, thick square glasses perched on her nose like she's about to call out a duel at high noon. Her presence radiates cool teacher energy, the kind you see in old cowboy flicks or time-travel anime.

Me: 🤩🤩
Hana: cooing approval

Mom: “Alex…”
Me: “YEP. I’M STAYING.”
Ms. White: 😅
Mom: 😵‍💫

“Ms. Forest,” Ms. White says gently, “this is Alex. He’ll be with you for bilingual support. First day today.”

Before she can say anything else, I shout like an idiot—

“PLEASE DON'T TRANSFER ME TO ANOTHER CLASSROOM!! THIS IS PERFECT!!!”

The class erupts into laughter.

Mom tries to shrink behind Ms. White. “I’m begging you… please just treat him like an average idiot… ignore his face… and maybe his brain.”

Ms. Forest walks up like a gunslinger, towering over me with a faint smirk.
She rests one hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Puan Mas. This one’s mine now.”
She drags me like a sheriff dragging a loud drunk into jail. “He’s in good hands.”

Mom’s pleading eyes follow me like she’s watching me get drafted into war.

“Please… treat him like the other kids. Please…”

Ms. White chuckles. “Puan Mas, I think he’s gonna be just fine.”

“YEAH!!! I LIKE IT!!!” I shout, raising my hands like I just won a football match.

Cue the second wave of laughter from the class.

Ms. Forest clears her throat. “Alright, Mr. Alex. Why don’t you introduce yourself to everyone?”

I step forward with all the confidence of a kid who just touched down from the rainforest.

“HI!!! I’M ALEX!!” 😄

Silence.

The entire room goes still. It’s like a record scratch in slow motion.

Ms. Forest smiles gently. “Maybe… tell them where you're from?”

I blink.

Mom buries her face in her hands.

“See? This is what I mean. He’s a coconut with legs.”

I rub the back of my neck and grin sheepishly.

“I’m from Sabah! That’s in Malaysia. Uh… it’s on this map!”

Ms. Forest gestures to the giant map on the wall. I dart over, eager.

“Malaysia has two land parts—this one here,” I point to Peninsular Malaysia, “and this one here is called Borneo.”

I tap Borneo proudly.

“I live in Sabah—jungle, beaches, sometimes monkeys steal your lunch.”

The classroom is stunned.

One Latino boy grins. “Amigo Alex!! So, you like… ride elephants to school or something?”

I smirk. “Nah, just dodge crocodiles.”

The class erupts.

Someone gasps. “You live near jungles AND beaches?”

“Yeah,” I say proudly. “I used to climb trees to pick mangosteens before breakfast.”

“WHOA….”
“THAT’S SO COOL!!”
“Jungle Boy!!”

I salute. “Yes sir. Jungle Boy reporting for duty.”

Ms. Forest smiles at me, adjusting her glasses. “Well, Jungle Boy, welcome to class.”

From the corner, I swear one of the girls blushes.

(Present Alex narration:) That day… I didn’t just make a first impression. I made a legend.

to be continued