Layla

I am such an idiot. What the heck was I thinking? England? An art program? There are so many ways I screwed up, I think I could write a book about it that challenges anything John Green. First of all, there is no way in hell my parents would let me go, and even if they did, I am 11! I can't go to England for the summer! And how in the world am I going to explain this to my parents? 'Oh, hey Mama, can I go to England, cause I sorta already said yes. Anyway, how was your day?'. Not exactly a typical conversation opener.

And don't even get me started on what happened with Rowena freaking McGrath. There are a lot of colourful words I could call her, but because I'm a kid, and I like to think my thoughts are PG rated, I'm going to stick with calling her a jerk with a stick up her butt.

And now, trudging home in the gross summer heat, I'm starting to wish I called her some of those colourful names when I had the chance. Moral of the story? Life's too short for regrets, call the person you hate that name you were thinking. Just kidding, that's terrible advice, and it'll probably get you suspended.

Back to my mom, she's possibly the coolest person in my life. My dad might be the only person who could tie her coolness. She's five feet and five inches of pure awesomeness. A human rights lawyer who kicks butt in the courtroom and out of it, and the reason I got into art in the first place.

Little bit of background about my family, my mom grew up in Chicago, but my dad moved here when he was 13 from Qatar. I've lived here my whole life, so technically I'm 2.5 generation immigrant ( 2nd generation on my dad's side and 3rd generation on my Mom's) but I don't really think about that much. I have an older brother in grade 9, and an older sister in grade 11. We're a pretty average black muslim family. Or as average as a black Muslim family can be in modern day America.

So I still have absolutely no idea how I'm going to explain the absolute mess that I got myself into , and now I have no time to figure that out, cause I'm home.

"Mama, I'm home!" I call into the house, as I open the door and kick off my sandals. When no one answers, I holler again, "May? Hamdi? Is anyone home?"

"Down here!" Hamdi calls from the basement. He's probably working on MSA stuff. Apparently his school doesn't have an MSA – I'm not surprised, considering it's a catholic prep school - , so he's trying to set one up for next year. I drop my bag and run down the stairs into his room.

"Where's Mama?" I ask, not bothering to knock or announce myself.

He jumps in surprise, hitting his knee on the hard desk. "Shit!" He mutters under his breath, before turning to me and grumbling, "it wouldn't've killed you to knock, yeah?"

I shrug casually. "Sorry, didn't realize that you're so jumpy." He simply glares at me.

"So?" I ask.

Hamdi stares back at me. "So? What? What do you want?"

Rolling my eyes, I reply shortly, "do you know where Mama is?"

He taps a finger against his chin as of thinking, then says, "pretty sure she's out with May to go get some new hijabs or something. She said they'll be home around when you get back, so they should be home soon."

Okay then. Mother, father, and sister all not home, leaving me alone with Hamdi, with no supervision. So, what do you do when there aren't any parents home? Well, it's obvious; you make chocolate cake. Especially since it's the day before Ramadan. If I'm not gonna be eating all day for a month, you better believe I'm gonna stuff my face the day before it all starts.

I head back up the stairs to the kitchen pantry, where the cake mix is – I know how to make a cake from scratch, but my craving for chocolate needs to be satisfied, so the end justifies the means.

Before I can get to the pantry, my iPod buzzes, alerting me of a new message.

May- *will be home later than we thought. You Hamdi can order dinner if you want*

Okay, awesome. Cake, and takeout dinner, in one day! I open the pantry and rummage through the shelves, looking for the cake mix. That's weird. It's not here. Maybe Hamdi made it or something.

"HEY HAMDI!" I holler as loud as I can, hoping he can hear me all the way down in the basement.

I wait for a second and huff as I start to walk towards the staircase when I hear him yell back. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

"DO YOU KNOW WHERE THE CAKE MIX WENT?" My voice is going to be seriously sore by the time I actually eat the damn cake.

It takes a minute for Hamdi respond, during which I hear multiple crash sounds coming from the basement, followed by a loud 'DAMMIT NOT AGAIN', followed by lots of cursing. "I THINK MALIK AND I FINISHED IT LAST TIME HE WAS HERE BUT YOU CAN GO PICK SOME UP FROM WALMART IF YOU WANT," he finishes yelling and I weigh my options; step into the molten lava hell that is the outside, or go hungry and not satisfy my chocolate craving. What will win, my common sense, or my love for chocolate cake?

Chocolate cake won. And have I mentioned I hate busses? They're always late, they smell, and they're full of creepy racist people. Not my kinda place. But, I really want that cake mix, and there's no way in hell that I'm walking in this heat. So here I am. On the smelly, late, full of racists, bus.

I gently pull on the yellow wire above my seat to alert the driver that I need to get off at the next stop. Unfortunately, the Walmart is a short walk from the stop, but I'll survive I guess.

The bus stops on the side of the street, and I quickly edit through the doors, plugging my earphones in and walking quickly towards the plaza. When you're a black muslim girl in a racist sexist xenophobic world, you learn pretty quickly how to avoid public attention. Head down, earphones in – but don't play any music, in case an ambulance comes or something and you can't hear – and walk fast. Hands in pockets, keys between your knuckles. Thankfully, I've never had to actually defend myself, just ignore people, but my sister May has, and she's adamant that I know how to protect myself when I go out on my own into the city – which isn't very often, cause I'm only 11 years old.

I jog into Walmart, sighing in content when I feel the cool air hit my face. Quickly navigating the busy aisles, I find the baking section and grab the chocolate cake mix off the shelf. I pay my pocket to make sure my wallet is there, and once I'm assured, I head over to an empty cashier so I can pay and get out of here (and eat my cake)

After another stinky, late bus ride, I arrive back home. That's weird . There's a silver Toyota Corolla on our driveway. Neither of my parents own a Toyota, so who is it?

Frowning, I pull out my key and jam it into the keyhole. This stupid key always gets stuck in the door. Usually if you give it a good kick, it loosens up, so I do just that. I back up, wind up my leg, and give it a good hard –

"Oof!" The door suddenly swings open, and I fall flat on my face in the welcome mat.

"Jeez," I hear Hamdi say. "What did the door ever do to you?"

I groan loudly, brushing my pants off as I get up. "That stupid key never works, so I was gonna kick it," I explain to Hamdi to prevent further teasing about my horrible coordination.

I suddenly remember the Toyota in our driveway, and start to ask Hamdi, "So why is there a Corolla in our driveway? Did Baba get a new car or something?"

Hamdi is opening his mouth to respond, when I hear a voice coming from the living room. "Layla Ahmad, right?" My eyes widen at what he says, and it's only a second before I have a face to match the voice.

A man comes into view, probably in his mid- thirties. He's tall and dark skinned, with a fine beard. I feel like I've seen him in some lawyer show that May watches. Suits maybe? Or How to Get Away with Murder? "Sorry if I gave you a fright, Hamdi let me in. My name is Dean Thomas, and I'm here to tell you about a very special school."

I look at him warily, my mind is still on 'random person in the house who knows your name and you've never met' mode. "What, like an arts school?"

Dean Thomas presses his lips together. "Can we sit down? I know this seems a little bit suspicious, but it really is important." When I hesitate, he says gently, "you can keep 91 dialled on your phone, I won't object, I did the same thing when it was my turn."

His turn? What's this guy talking about? I nod, and sit down on the couch in the living room – Dear lord, my mom is going to kill me for sitting on the fancy couches – but motion to Hamdi to be ready to call for help. You never know if someone's trying to kill you.

Dean starts talking almost immediately after we're seated. "Okay. So. Layla. You, are a witch. I promise you can ask me questions when I'm done, but for now, let me get through everything. As a witch, you can do magic, including spells, potions, shape-shifting, possibilities are virtually endless. But, you need to learn to control your abilities as a bearer of magic. That's where I come in. The school I'm going to tell you about would teach you everything; history of magic, basic spells, there's even a sport that is played on brooms.

"I know it sounds crazy, but that's only because you were raised in the muggle world – muggle means non magical – unlike most witches and wizards whose parents were wizards, and grandparents, and so on. When a witch or wizard is born into a muggle family, they're called 'Muggleborn'. That's what you are, and me. Anyway, the school –

The jarring sound of the garage being opened fills the room, followed by the unmistakable voices of May and my mom.

"They're so soft! I don't think I'm ever gonna wear my other ones again!" May says as she enters the house.

Mama steps in as well. "Salamu Alayum Layla and Hamdi! We're home!" She walks further into the house and freezes in place when she sees Dean, as if she can't believe he's real.

Dean rises from his seat slowly. "Hamdi, Layla, I think I should have a talk with your mother. Could you please go into the kitchen?"

Kicked out of my own living room. Wow. My head is swimming. Me, a witch? Magic school? Muggle? I can't think straight.

"Alright, who the fuck is that?" May hisses, as soon as we enter the kitchen. She shuts the door behind her and unties her scarlet hijab from her head, letting her dark hair cascade down her back in curly ripples.

"Wallah if one of you doesn't answer I'm gonna flip my shit." She continues when neither of us respond.

I decide to take a chance, and tell her, even though she'll probably laugh and not believe me – hey, I wouldn't either. I'm not sure I believe myself to be honest. "So we're not completely sure, but we think that he's a scout for a magic school where I'm supposed to go to learn how to use my witch powers." I hold my breath when I finish, waiting for her to explode on us, but it never comes.

"Dammit. He looks just like Alfred Enoch. I was hoping you'd say that you somehow met him and now you're best friends or something," May says after a while of silence.

I look over at Hamdi, and just like me, his jaw has dropped down to the floor. "So you believe him?" He asks her incredulously.

May snorts loudly. "HA! No way. Dudes probably high off his balls or something. Mama will take care of it. Kick him out."

As if on cue, Mama appears in the doorway of the kitchen. "May, put your scarf back on. I need to talk to all of you."

We all share a glance of confusion, and May – which by the way, is short for Mayada – hurriedly ties her hair back and throws her hijab back on, tossing it over her shoulder. Forever the minimalist.

When the three of us enter the living room, both my mother and Dean Thomas have a solemn look on their faces, as if they don't want to have to explain this to all of us.

Mama starts, "Layla, Hamdi; everything Dean told you is true. I assume you filled May in?"

"Only partially." May narrows her eyes and looks at Dean as if she thinks she can read his mind.

Hamdi backs off of his spot against the wall. "Hold up. How do you know this guy isn't messing with us? Saying magic is real is a pretty big claim to make."

Mama takes a deep breath and says, "you guys all know Quinn, right?" We all nod. Quinn is Mom's best friend from middle school. "Well Quinn is a witch. She went to Ilvermorny – the American wizarding school - for a couple of years, but when her family moved to Ireland, she had to transfer to Hogwarts – a European wizarding school. Ilvermorny is currently over populated, meaning that Layla will also have to attend Hogwarts."

I let that sink in. I have to go to school in Europe. "There's no way I could just not go? I don't want to live in England!"

Dean softly says to me, "it can be extremely dangerous for a magical child to not learn how to harness his or her powers. Your magic could spiral completely out of control, and you may end up harming yourself and your friends."

I swallow hard. "Okay. So I have to go to the Europe school. I can deal with that. Do you mind explaining it further?" I'm trying my best to stay calm, but boarding school? I don't know if I can do that.

"I'll leave you with a card and websites, as well as my phone number. It's good for you to research it on your own, but if you have any questions, don't hesitate to give me a call." Dean says with a firm nod.

"So are we done here?" May asks in a bored tone.

Dean holds a finger up. "Actually, there's one more thing I want to talk to Layla about. Alone, if that's okay."

I sit down hesitantly I'm the couch, turning my body so I'm facing Dean. "So what's up?" I ask nervously.

Dean fiddles with his fingers. "You're a black Muslim girl."

I scrunch up my face. "Yes, I'm aware of that."

He chuckles gently. "Sorry, that came out wrong. What I mean to say, is, one black person to another, you're gonna face a lot of racism at Hogwarts."

"I already face racism," I say boldly.

"Yeah, but in the wizarding world being Muggleborn is considered low. High class purebloods got it in their heads that they're somehow better than us because they have magic ancestors. My point is, you're gonna need a strong support system. There's an MSA, but I'd also seek out The Muggleborn Society. They do a lot of fun stuff, like movie nights and Jeopardy games, and it helps you stay in contact with this world."

I nod. "Thanks for the advice. I'll take you up on that."

Dean stands up and salutes me jokingly. "I'd better get going. I hope to see you at Hogwarts sometime Layla Ahmad."

"The same goes to you Dean Thomas." I salute him in the same fashion, and watch as he opens the front door and walks down the walkway to his Corolla.

Baba is going to flip when he comes home.