Love from a to Z

by S. K. Ali

  The thing is, Ayaan has wanted to become a lawyer since forever, so she’s about building up a case. She doesn’t say anything, didn’t say anything to Fencer, and just kept collecting information when she’d been in his class. Collecting evidence. Including, recently, data from his online personas. She was supposed to show me some screenshots soon. She said I had to come over to see them, as she wouldn’t risk sending them via messaging or e-mail. She didn’t say it outright, but I’m pretty sure she was worried I’d pass it on somehow and ruin everything.

  The other thing is that Ayaan doesn’t wear hijab. She’s Muslim, and Fencer knows it from her full name—Ayaan Ahmed—but he’s not sure what kind.

  Like, he doesn’t know if she cares about her identity or if she practices her faith. Or if she simply has a Muslim name.

  He doesn’t know what I know: that Ayaan is a devout Muslim who goes to the mosque more than hijabi me. That she prays and believes and is on a million Muslim committees.

  She’s been able to keep track of Fencer quietly, stealthily. Undercoverily.

  But from the moment I arrived, I wouldn’t stop challenging his bullshit to his face.

  Which made him more excited. And caused him to dial up his antics. It’s like, when I walk into his class, I can practically see his glasses train their crosshairs on my hijab.

  What riles me is that people think Islamophobia is these little or big acts of violence. Someone getting their hijab ripped off, someone’s business getting vandalized, someone getting hurt or, yes, even killed.

  No, there’s the other kind too, and it’s a more prevalent kind: the slow, steady barrage of tiny acts of prejudice, these your-people-are-trash lightsaber cuts that tear and peel strips off your soul until you can’t feel your numbed heart any longer.

  Angrier than angry, because then you’ve got almost nothing positive left inside.

  Then the truth reveals itself: The world doesn’t make sense, doesn’t work for you.

  For me.

  And I know it won’t ever work for me, no matter how much I fight or how angry I get.

  That’s how I felt unlocking the door to let my suspended self into the house.

  • • •

  After dinner, Dad knocked on my bedroom door before opening it gingerly. He’d already given me a lengthy speech while we were eating (The best way to challenge these Islamophobes is by succeeding in society. Getting suspended is not succeeding! Don’t you want to join your sister and brother at university?), so I wondered what he wanted now. On the bed, cocooned in my ancient, raggedy but cozy blanket, Binky, I paused the reply text I’d been composing to Kavi, slid my headphones off, and stopped a comforting episode of The Office on my laptop, my questioning eyes on Dad.

  He stroked his beard and cleared his throat. “Okay, I don’t want you to see this as a reward, but Auntie Natasha is on the phone with Mom. Trying to convince her to let you come earlier.”

  “To Doha?” I couldn’t stop the stunned joy from escaping me. The blanket cradling my head dropped back as I uncrossed my legs. “Like, what do you mean, ‘earlier’?”

  “Mom looked at flight options, and you could leave tomorrow afternoon if we drive you to Chicago. Auntie Natasha said instead of moping here, you should spend the next week with her, before Mom joins you guys.”

  “Oh please, could I?” I shrugged out of the blanket, got up from bed, and went to the suitcase Mom had wheeled into my room last night with orders to fill it over the course of next week for our planned spring break trip to visit her sister in Qatar.

  But with this news, I’d potentially be getting to Doha on Thursday, when everyone else at school had a week to go before break!

  If Dad and Mom agreed to Auntie Nandy’s idea, that is.

  I dropped the orange hard-case luggage on its side on the carpet and knelt to unzip it. “Please? I’ll pack right now?”

  “But this is not a reward, you understand?” Dad crossed his arms. “You’ll have to do whatever Auntie Natasha says. She’s still working, you know. She’s not going to appreciate you giving her problems.”

  “I promise, Dad.” I let the two halves of the suitcase fall open and looked up just as Mom came up behind him. Her face was sad, so I smiled to prove I’d gotten over being angry at her. “I won’t bother Auntie Nandy. I’ll be quiet and compliant.”

  Mom and Dad looked at each other and exchanged weird expressions, in between amusement and disbelief. Then Mom spoke. “The only flight you can take has a layover in London. I’m a bit worried about that.”

  “Mom, all I have to do is get out of the plane and wait in the airport for another one. Please?”

  She turned to Dad. “Well, it is just two hours. Not a long wait, really.”

  He nodded.

  I couldn’t stop myself from jumping up. I went to stand in front of them, my arms open slightly, a hug cue.

  They took it, enveloping me in forgiveness. Mom spoke into my hair. “When we come back from Doha, you’ll only have a couple of months of school left. Can you promise us you’ll do your best until the end?”

  I nodded. Everyone has a different definition of what “doing your best” means. For Mom and Dad, it means not rocking any boats.

  For me it means fixing things that are wrong.

  Dad let the hug go first, but it was to address me. “Going away on your own often changes you. Maybe this bit of time in Doha is just what you need.”

  “I’m going to try to leave the angry part of me here for the next two weeks,” I said, turning back to the suitcase.

  When I glanced up, Mom and Dad were exchanging looks again, so I felt the need to emphasize my commitment to calm. “I promise you I won’t cause any more ruckuses. Anyway, it’ll be easier, with less rude people around me.”

  • • •

  The less-rude-people thing hasn’t worked out.

  Exhibit A: The hateful woman I’m stuck next to on the plane.

  We’ve been in the air just under two hours, and this woman has made me get up from my seat four times already. I’ve been writing in you, Marvels and Oddities journal, on and off since the plane took off, and she won’t stop peering at my words.

  I promised Mom and Dad I wouldn’t make a scene, so I’ve kept my responses limited to unrelenting smiles, but now . . . I think it’s time to get to her.

  So to really freak her out, here, journal, have some Arabic words, written nice and big.

  MARVEL: AIR

  Air, as in what I’m flying through. Well, the plane I’m sitting on is flying through. Air.

  (Also, air holds the cellular signals that will allow further communication between Kavi, Ayaan, and me. So that we can plot Mr. Fencer’s takedown.)

  Oops, that went into oddities territory there.

  ADAM

  THURSDAY, MARCH 7

  MARVEL: TOUCH

  SINCE I STOPPED GOING TO classes two months ago, my dorm has gotten crowded.

  It’s a good thing my roommate, Jarred, is practically never here. I mean it’s a good thing his girlfriend has her own place.

  The tools are on my side, spread across my desk mostly, but somehow the things I make end up on his desk while they wait to be finished.

  Jarred’s desk currently holds a working clock made out of an old marble chessboard, with chess pieces for numbers, awaiting another coat of sealant. A plastic-robot phone-charger station awaiting wiring. A tiny Canada goose, midflight, glued together from bits of discarded wood chips, awaiting painting. Several parts of a foam Boba Fett helmet awaiting assembly.

  Also awaiting assembly: a gift for my sister, Hanna.

  Yesterday I took the thin pieces of grooved balsa wood and fit them together in a grid pattern inside the box I’d already made. As the square compartments revealed themselves, smooth and flush without any screws or nails, I thought about touch.

  I thought about how, without the ability to feel the wood, the plastic, the foam, the metal, without the sensation I get when I clasp the ryoba saw and
the jolt from snipping a thick wire or the hum that goes through my fingers when I’m sanding, without all this I wouldn’t have anything, wouldn’t be happy.

  I like that I still have the ability to touch. And that I can use it to make stuff.

  So, since January, since second term started, I’ve just been making things.

  I’ve dropped out of school.

  I don’t want to run out of time.

  • • •

  Speaking of touch, I haven’t had a voluntary human touch in a long time. A real one, I mean.

  In September, I hugged Dad and my little sister, Hanna, at the airport before leaving for London.

  The last I-love-you touch.

  Technically, you could say, what about on Fridays, Adam? At the mosque, after prayers, when everyone says salaam and hugs one another, you included?

  Those hugs are cursory. They don’t go much beyond the shoulder-slam, hey-I-see-you-bro.

  There’s another kind of touch: the kind kind. It means a lot—well, to someone who craves it.

  I crave it. I haven’t stopped thinking about how much since I realized how long it’s been.

  It was the tick marks above my bed, underneath the bunk on top of mine, that got me thinking about when I’d last extended my hand to anyone. Or anyone extended their hand to me.

  Someone who lived in the dorm before me had recorded their days at university like a prison sentence, carving into the wooden slats under Jarred’s bed, and, one night a week ago, reaching up to run a finger over the tallies, I touched the gnawing in me.

  I realized it had worked its way around inside, gouging, for a while.

  It must be a hole I’ve carried since the start of freshman year. (Though sometimes I wonder if it carried over from years before that.)

  Simple tally marks etched with a pocketknife woke me to my hollowness.

  Now it’s Thursday morning, and I’m supposed to be getting up and getting going, but instead, I reach up and touch those tally marks again, wondering if people can get used to this feeling.

  Like they get used to other sad stuff.

  Anyway, this journal entry is a marvel, so it’s supposed to be positive.

  Positive: It’s spring break, and this afternoon I’ll be on my way to Doha.

  In about eight hours I’ll hug my family again. Show love to Dad and Hanna again.

  And be loved back. For a bit.

  • • •

  Ryan was waiting for me in the common room, sitting in one of the worn-out armchairs, a laptop open on his legs. “Where’s your luggage?”

  I lifted a shoulder. “Here.”

  “A small duffel? For two weeks?” He closed his laptop and slid it into his backpack before getting up.

  “I already got clothes there. This is just stuff I can’t live without,” I said, holding up my guitar case. “You know about the detour we have to take, right?”

  “The Rock Shop, aye, aye, sir. I didn’t know you were into metal music.” He led the way down the stairs to the door opening onto the side street, the only place you could find parking, if you were lucky. “That’s not the kind of stuff you play.”

  I smiled but kept my mouth shut.

  • • •

  We opened the door labeled THE ROCK SHOP, written out in pebbles. The storefront had no window, so your first taste of the Rock Shop’s wares was literally on the door.

  The door yielded the rest of the shop’s treasures. Rocks, pebbles, gemstones, fossils assembled in little baskets placed around the tiny store.

  Ryan looked at me. “What’s this? Why are we here?”

  I laughed. “Present for my little sister.”

  “We could have got some for free near the maths building,” Ryan said, picking up a nondescript-looking gray rock from a tray. “You know, all those shiny white rocks they have around the planters out front?” He turned over the rock in his hand. “Three quid for this? Really?”

  I headed straight to the minerals section.

  Hanna had asked me for azurite, a blue mineral, to add to her collection. When we were talking on FaceTime, she showed me the space she’d made for it, and I couldn’t help noticing the old Ferrero Rocher tray she kept her favorite rocks in. I knew she liked the candy box for its rounded compartments, perfect for holding each stone, but I could imagine how excited she would be to have her own real display case.

  Like the one I’d made for her, now packed between my clothes in the duffel.

  • • •

  After we stopped to eat, Ryan dropped me at the airport. I checked in the case containing the guitar that I’d carefully bubble wrapped, silently praying it would safely reach Doha.

  Finding a seat near my boarding gate, I set my duffel between my feet and leaned back into the vinyl.

  A couple was right in front of me, their arms draped around each other, laughing at something they were watching on a tablet propped between their laps.

  I looked to the left and was met with the sight of another two kissing each other by a mobile-device charging pole.

  I glanced over the whole place. Yup, couples dotted here and there, everywhere.

  Spring break.

  • • •

  I don’t dare bring up my predicament with Jarred, my dorm mate, or Ryan, my closest friend here in London. They’re both in kind of steady relationships and will tell me to start my own.

  They’ll tell me to get a girlfriend. Get it on.

  But it’s not physical. (Though that’s mixed in there somewhere too.)

  It’s this thing beyond that. I know that may sound weird.

  But that’s me.

  Besides, Jarred and Ryan don’t get how, for the type of Muslim I am, it’s a one-relationship deal. With one person. Without trying it out or half investments.

  And so I gotta be right about a relationship. Before I get too into it.

  When you think about it, that seems scary. Impossible.

  How do you meet that one exact person who’s right for you?

  • • •

  I’ve met only one person who I thought could maybe be exact for me.

  She was a freshman orientation tour guide, and then I saw her again, working as support at the computer lab. The next time I’d noticed her was at the Muslim Student Union welcome dinner.

  We started talking every week, mostly at the lab or the MSU.

  I liked her because she smiled easily and her voice had this sure quality to it. Like she was confident of whatever she was talking about.

  By the end of October I’d made up my mind to ask her if she’d want to get to know each other seriously, and not just at MSU stuff. But then in November, I’d gotten news I didn’t want.

  And when I looked up from being so preoccupied with it, she was gone. Literally. She went to Lebanon over the winter holidays and came back engaged.

  It was a good thing, too. She couldn’t have been the right one for me.

  My November news told me I had other things to deal with.

  So I’ve been training myself to make my peace with aloneness.

  • • •

  I rubbed my eyes to clear the happy coupledom scenes from my brain, and, just as I was about to take my laptop out of my duffel to go online, a girl came and sat two seats to the left of the couple in front of me.

  She had on a hijab that was almost exactly the same shade as the azurite I’d bought for Hanna. Brilliant blue.

  I’m pretty sure that’s why I noticed her. That and how she didn’t take her eyes off the phone in her hands, the one she was speed-clicking on, not even to check if the seat she took was clear, not even when her carry-on suitcase fell over, with her coat on the handles, and lay on the floor in a pile.

  She left everything there, and then even let the flowery purse on the crook of her arm slip down and join its mates on the floor.

  The handles on the purse sprung apart to reveal its jammed contents.

  An orange book sticking out caught my eye. In big, bold, black handwri
tten letters it said MARVELS AND ODDITIES JOURNAL.

  I think I must have made a sound, because she looked up, her eyes inquisitive.

  I looked down at her feet. At the jumble around them.

  She looked down herself and gave a start, setting her phone on the seat beside her to gather everything up and set them properly.

  I took my laptop out and opened it on my knees—but I’d be lying if I said I was browsing online.

  Instead, shielded by eyes staring at the log-in screen, my mind was in scrambles, wondering how, sitting across from me, was someone with a journal exactly like mine.

  ODDITY: SECRETS

  The kind of secret that punches people in the gut.

  The kind written on the folded paper in my duffel, ready to be carried onto the plane to Doha.

  The reason I avoided flying back home for Christmas holidays. The reason I stopped going to classes.

  After I received it, in November, I spent too much time incessantly unfolding it to pore over it. Then, one day in December, I folded it up for the last time and kept it that way.

  I haven’t looked at that bit of news since then.

  ZAYNEB

  THURSDAY, MARCH 7

  ODDITY: RUMORS

  I’D WANTED TO GET AWAY—maybe even find that elusive thing called peace—but everything followed me.

  Exhibit A: The messages I got on every social media platform when I landed in London.

  Somehow someone had gotten a picture of my note—Fencer is not going to be here. I’m going to make sure of it. (Bad knife drawing flanking #EatThemAlive)—and shared it with others who were then sharing it on and on.

  Some people thought it was funny, but those people were few. Fencer wasn’t exactly popular, but he wasn’t considered mean, either, so most students were giving my suspension a thumbs-up.

  And then i and t words started showing up underneath my profiles.

  She’s ISIS.

  ISIS girl should have been expelled.

  I can’t believe Kerr let the terrorist off.

  You terrorist cunt.

  Then it became crazy stuff.