Instead, she went to the art room. Mrs. Vang, the pottery teacher, was glazing a vase. Without a word, Lilly sat at the wheel and began to throw a lump of clay. The spin, the water, the centering—it calmed her. Mrs. Vang finally said, “You know, the first hijab I ever saw was on my college roommate. She said it was like a portable sanctuary.”
She’d made the decision over the summer. Not because her family demanded it—her mother didn’t even wear it—but because she’d found a quiet peace in it after a summer retreat. Now, walking toward the brick arches of Westbrook High, she felt the weight of every stare.
By spring, Lilly had forgotten to be afraid. The peach hijab had become like breath—automatic, essential, hers. On graduation day, the principal called her name: Lilly Hall. But as she walked across the stage, the student section chanted under their breath: Hijab Lilly. Hijab Lilly Hall.
The whole cafeteria burst into laughter—not at Lilly, but with her.
Lilly looked up. “It doesn’t feel like a sanctuary right now. It feels like a target.”