GENRE: YA Comic Multicultural
Mr. Vaughn called my name. “Faiqa.” Because of his heavy New York accent, it sounded more like an accusation: Faker. My homonym.
In Arabic, the Q is a K, only from the back of the throat, like a bug flew into your mouth and got stuck there. The AI is really aieee, like Speedy Gonzales would say.
Of course, nobody goes to all that trouble. In Texas, they just called me Fifi, which is too poodley for my taste. Here, kids call me F***-ya. I respond: “I'm sure you'd love to but it is not going to happen.” Only they’ve usually snickered long past me by then, so I end up yelling it down the hall, my voice swallowed up by the crowd.
It’s funny: “Faiq,” the Arabic word my name comes from, means excellent, superior, outstanding. So all things considered, Faker’s close enough.
I was furiously faking it just then, as a matter of fact, when I walked to the front of my English class. I tried hard to keep my body loose, cool, calm. I'd give this stupid oral report, but I would not look the way I felt. I thought I was pulling it off until I glanced down and saw that my nipples were staging a demonstration. If nipples could talk, these would be screaming and carrying signs. And it wasn’t just that they were hard. They were living separate lives, they weren't lined up or even facing the same direction, like they didn't want to be seen together.