The Pact We Made. Layla AlAmmar

It’s too soon to worry about that.’

      ‘No, it isn’t,’ she replied, turning to leave. ‘It isn’t at all.’

      In the shower I scrubbed myself raw, until my skin was an angry red – just like the showers when I was fifteen.

      I realized a long time ago that, in a lot of ways, my body is not strictly mine. It’s a shared entity, something to be criticized, guarded, commented on, and violated. I learned it at twelve when Nadia said I should start shaving my legs. She sat with me in the bathroom, showing me how to lather up with lots of soap, how to go against the grain – ‘So it cuts at the root, idiot!’ – and how to tear off tiny bits of tissue to plug up nicks. At thirteen Baba decided I wasn’t dressing right. I had to wear skirts with hems below the knee and long shirts that fully covered my butt. Why I should have to hide my thirteen-year-old body from strange eyes I never asked, although I soon learned if you caught a man’s attention, no amount of baggy clothing would deter him. Sleeveless tops were forbidden and V-necks couldn’t dip too low (though at the time, there was nothing to conceal). At fifteen any sense of self I had, any sense of control, was ripped away from me, taken to a place where I feared I would never find it. At seventeen, when I was eating non-stop, Mama forced me to the memsha, a public walkway that stretches around our neighborhood, driving the car on the parallel road while I ran because nobody would marry a fat girl. At weddings, appraising eyes dissected me. In the street, men with greasy eyes let out catcalls.

      That wasn’t the point. I’m digressing. Besides, I relinquished control of my body a long time ago. I no longer have a connection to it. Perhaps I never truly did. My point is that my life was not my own either. It too was something to be controlled, commented upon, and directed to the will of others.

      My mind drifted while I rinsed white, rose-scented suds from my hair. I tipped my head too far back and hot water pushed up my nostril and down my airway. It happened fast. One minute I was breathing, the next I was choking, like something had been shoved in my throat. In the steam and harsh jets of water, I was convinced I was dying. Scrabbling back against the cold fiberglass door I tried desperately to suck in air, but all I got was water and steam. It was blocking my nose and tightening my throat. I reached for the door, slipped and hit warm tiles.

      The autumn of my thirteenth year was exceptionally warm, and we spent every weekend at the beach house taking advantage of the long days and pleasing tides. I was gazelle-brown by week two. Always the best swimmer, I had to be bribed into getting out of the water. They never worried about me, even though I swam out the furthest, dove the deepest, and opened my eyes underwater despite the sting.

      There was one scorching day. My family stayed close to shore, splashing and lazing under umbrellas jammed into the mud. Maids came out with a succession of icy glasses of water, rainbow juices, and thick wedges of pink watermelon and orange melon. The youngest cousins, only toddlers then, decorated their sandcastles with blueberries and grapes, wailing when my aunties yelled and swatted at them.

      I heard the wailing from where I was, treading water several meters out. Lifting my legs, I floated on my back and stared up at an empty sky. I leaned my head back until my ears were submerged. And then, it was silent. Blue above, blue below.

      The boys in the neighboring chalet lowered their jet skis in, sending rolling waves that bumped me up and down, up and down. I righted myself to avoid water up my nose. With a roar of twin engines, they raced past me, the younger one skidding to the side so a sharp spray hit me full in the face.

      I dived then, deep down in the blue where no one could find me. Open mouth for a big breath like I was about to swallow the sky. Then, like a dolphin, arching into a dive. Kick, kick, bigger kicks to propel me down, down. Open eyes, the sting will go away. Further down, until I hit it, the spot where the water is cold, where you’re wrapped in this alien iciness, like a portal to another world. Look up, it’s like a window in a thunderstorm, all wavy lines and squiggles. When the lungs are almost uncomfortable, start kicking back up; it’s easier, you can relax because physics does the work, lifting you back to sun and safety.

      I misjudged. I opened my mouth and nose and lungs too soon, sucking in warm, salty water. I flailed and splashed and couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream. Flashes of light burst behind my eyes, and water sank into my ears. My yathoom wrapped his legs around my chest and squeezed. There were hands grabbing at me, strong arms lifting me and pressing me against broad shoulders, water draining off my body. Mama screamed at her cousin—a cousin who, orphaned as a child, had been raised in her house as a sibling, and who we called Uncle Omar—screams of panic and confusion and anger and still I couldn’t breathe. His face swam before my eyes, blurry and indistinct, until they closed. My lungs gave up. Then there were fists on my chest, hitting much too hard, rattling my ribs. Then two lips, slimy and cold like fish, on mine, forcing my mouth open, forcing the air in, blowing me up like a balloon. Rough hands gripped my face when it wanted to turn away. Wet fingers, like sea cucumbers, made my mouth stay in place. Rubber lips, hot air, fists on chest, over and over and over. And still I couldn’t scream.