by S. K. Ali
Heard your father is in ISIS.
Someone should tell the cops to check her house.
I already did. Told my dad who’s a cop.
They already found stuff on her.
Then I got a slew of private messages from Ayaan: What did you do?
I mean Kavi told me.
But what did you do?
SUSPENDED?
AND you blew everything.
And you take off for Doha?
WTH Zayneb
These messages came flooding in as the plane taxied on the tarmac at Heathrow and my phone got service again. After disembarking and walking to the gate for my connecting flight to Doha, I was able to start answering Ayaan once I found a place to sit.
I clicked apology after apology to her, imagining her sad, sad face looking at all the evidence she’d been collecting on Fencer for so long going up in flames.
Kavi had already told me this morning, after apologizing in tears to me last night for her contribution to getting me suspended, that she’d apologized profusely to Ayaan for writing #EatThemAlive, possibly alerting Fencer to what was going on.
If he googled those words, I’m pretty sure he’d come upon the hashtag and then see the many people who’d been removed from their jobs for their racism. He’d get a whiff that he himself was being tracked, and, poof, he’d delete his online presence.
The one Ayaan’s been researching.
The one she needs to turn over to the school board, because they’d probably not believe her screenshots, so easily photoshoppable.
Yes, I did blow everything.
I kept sending a string of apologies, but deep down I knew Ayaan would never trust me again.
• • •
And to think, I’d considered what had happened on the rest of the flight to London with Hateful Woman had been bad.
When she saw the Arabic I wrote in you, Marvels and Oddities, she pressed the flight-attendant call button incessantly.
“Either I move or she does,” she hissed at the attendant who came by. “She’s threatening me. Writing something about me the whole time.”
The flight attendant, a guy with dark hair and white glasses, looked at me.
“I’m just writing in my journal. I don’t get how that’s threatening,” I offered.
“Move me now.” She began gathering her things.
I swept my stuff together, put my tray up, and stood to let her pass. She stepped out in front of me, into the aisle, her eyes on other passengers, her head shaking hard in an attempt to solicit sympathy for her plight.
“Ma’am, please stay seated. I haven’t found a spot for you yet.” The attendant put his hands on his hips and looked down the aisle.
I turned away, to the back of the plane, willing myself to be calm. Willing myself not to tell the woman off.
Or even explain myself to the flight attendant.
You promised Mom and Dad.
Stay quiet.
Shut up, Zayneb.
Some of the other passengers peered at me, and I beamed back at them. Maybe if I looked like a happy Muslim teen, someone would offer to trade places with Hateful Woman or even with me.
No one moved.
I turned around so I wouldn’t make it even further awkward for everyone.
“Sit down, please, ma’am. I’ll come back after I check,” the flight attendant said to Hateful Woman again, his gaze then falling on my face.
Maybe I looked weird in my attempts to appear nice, because he shook his head slightly before turning to walk to the front of the plane.
Hateful Woman and I were still standing, me in the aisle, her in front of my seat so I couldn’t even sit down, her back to me as she watched the flight attendant go in search of “comfort” for her.
I clutched my things tighter to me and looked around again, at the passengers’ faces—some blank, some frowning, some whispering—my stomach squeezing over and over.
Most of them probably believed everything bad that they’d heard about Muslims, the headlines, the “news” stories, the online comments, the rumors.
Was there anybody on this plane who wouldn’t look at me and think troublemaker?
Or worse, terrorist?
• • •
Hateful Woman was moved to first class, and, even though I had both seats to myself, I stayed tight and unmoving, fuming.
Then I noticed a girl my age across from me, up one seat. She was working in a sketchbook, a container of colored pencils in her lap along with headphones, snacks, and a stuffed animal.
Coloring girl was white and blond.
The sight of her tore a hole in me.
The way she was bobbing her head while her pencil moved rhythmically across the paper, like she was immersed in some happy music only she could hear, though her headphones were not even on her ears.
Part of the coat she was sitting on stuck out into the aisle—cutesy for her, but if I’d let that happen? Belligerent.
Seeing her totally okay, completely comfortable in life, made me tear up.
I mean I’m sure that girl might have all sorts of other problems going on. Most probably she did.
It’s just that when people first saw her, a bunch of crap thoughts didn’t instantly load into their brains.
Her coat sticking out didn’t sum her up.
My coat sticking out could. Because of all the years of rumors about people like me.
I didn’t have to open my mouth or do anything for people to judge me. I just had to be born into a Muslim family and grow up to want to become a visible member of my community by wrapping a cloth on my head.
I just had to be me.
Angry people are not known to be public criers. They usually don’t succumb to displays of grief.
But I let the tears fall and fall without a care of who saw them. I didn’t sob or heave or make any movements. I just sat there staring at the white girl coloring happily and cried.
Maybe it was Fencer’s sigh in the principal’s office yesterday, the suspension note in my student file, and the fact that Ayaan hadn’t replied to any of my messages before I’d left home this afternoon.
Maybe it was imagining Hateful Woman enjoying first class, getting rewarded for her rudeness to me.
Maybe it was everything for a long time.
I succumbed to the sadness I’d held at bay.
And the questions flooded in:
If I had been that white, blond girl with a lap full of a journal, a pen, headphones, phone, and a sandwich, a coffee in my hand, would Hateful Woman have slammed her carry-on so hard above me? Would she have excused the time I’d taken to get up, thinking of her own daughter or granddaughter and how it took them a while to get their stuff together? Would she have made small talk and gotten to know me a teeny bit? Then would she have smiled fondly at me like the flight attendant walking by the coloring girl had smiled at her right now?
I just held myself, alone on a full plane, and mourned silently until I fell asleep for the rest of the flight.
• • •
And then, Marvels and Oddities, I landed in London.
She’s ISIS.
ISIS girl should have been expelled.
I can’t believe Kerr let the terrorist off.
You terrorist cunt.
MARVEL . . .
I can’t even think of one at the moment. But I know I promised a marvel for every oddity, so . . .
Okay, here, I’ll give you one: cute guys.
Well, the cute guy across from me as I write. He’s preoccupied with his laptop, so I’ll describe him.
Exhibit A: Cute guy at the airport.
He’s tall, his legs so long that if he didn’t keep them propped up kind of high, he’d be tripping people walking in front of his seat.
He looks like he’s of Asian background, like me.
Well, one half of me, because Dad is from Pakistan, which is in South Asia, but then Mom’s family being Guyanese (grandpa) and Trinidadian (grandma) makes her of West Indian backg
round, which is considered to be Caribbean.
This guy looked like he was of East Asian ancestry—either Chinese or Korean or from another country—plus something else.
Plus something else, like me.
I think what pinged CUTE GUY ALERT immediately was the way his face was angular, including a perfect jawline, and inaccessible-seeming, but then his expression was so open.
Like the first time we locked gazes, his eyes had looked lively somehow.
Like he wasn’t closed up.
Like there’s this easy smile on his face, even while reading his laptop screen.
His hair was—okay, that’s all. He saw me looking at him a few times, so I’m going to stop.
Besides, if my big sister, Sadia, were here with me, she would text, Lower your gaze like a good Muslim, Zu-zu.
ADAM
THURSDAY, MARCH 7
MARVEL: SMILES
I LOOKED AT MY FIRST marvel entry, at the very beginning of my Marvels and Oddities journal, which I’d uploaded onto my laptop, and it was trees. That’s when I was sketching in my journal, so there were tiny drawings of a few tree specimens found in Doha.
Every subsequent marvel entry was an observable item like sand, birds, water, potatoes, and a whole long entry on rocks when Hanna got crazy over them. Typical thoughts recorded by someone who loved cataloging things. Almost entirely nature-oriented observations.
I guess at some point it was natural I would move on to less-tangible things. That point occurred just this past year, when I noticed the things I needed to hold on to, marvels you couldn’t necessarily grasp in your hands.
Like smiles. And how instantaneously a genuine one can set you at ease.
The brilliant-blue-hijabed girl stopped tapping away on her phone and pulled out her Marvels and Oddities journal, propped it on her carry-on suitcase, and began writing in it without pause, without glancing around, a frown on her face.
I was still floored that we had the same journal, so I kept stealing glances at her. And then she stopped with her pen to her lips and looked straight at me.
Luckily, I saw it coming and moved my eyes in time. I hope.
At one point I had this sudden urge to strike up conversation: Isn’t it weird we’re doing the exact same thing? Recording marvels and oddities?
Isn’t it absolutely wild?
But I let it pass, and then the flight happened.
And the smile happened.
• • •
Around midpoint in the flight, I got up to use the bathroom, and there she was—sitting in the very last row in a single seat, almost right across from the bathroom. She had the reading light turned on above her, so she was bathed in its glow, her face—big eyes now behind round glasses—lit.
When she looked up and saw my tall self advancing toward the back of the plane, I nodded at her for some reason.
Great.
Creepy guy on plane.
I had to explain the nod.
It was basically the Muslim-to-Muslim nod, but, looking at me, she probably didn’t think I was Muslim.
Without a marker like a skullcap or something, it’s sometimes hard to distinguish us Muslim guys.
So as I got right across from her seat, I said, “Assalamu alaikum,” and disappeared into the bathroom.
“Walaikum musalam,” she said when I emerged. “I hadn’t realized you were Muslim. Sorry.”
Bam.
“Yes. Since I was eleven.” There was a nice space in front of the bathroom as it was also connected to a kitchenette, so I was able to face her from where I stood.
“Like my mom,” she said, tilting her head to look up.
“Your mom’s been Muslim since she was eleven too?”
“No.” She laughed. “She converted when she married my dad. Well, right before she married him. In her twenties.”
“Aha,” I said real sagely. I crossed my arms and looked down the aisle. Someone was coming to use the bathroom.
“But wow, you, at eleven years old? I’ve never heard of that.” She tilted her head again, her eyes even wider. “A little kid converting.”
And then she smiled. Big, open, and honest.
I indicated the guy heading our way. “Maybe I’ll tell you about it . . . on my next bathroom break?”
She laughed again.
• • •
Back in my seat I decided my next bathroom break would be in forty minutes. I watched an episode of some reality show where contestants had to drive cars that they’d tinkered with to make more powerful, and then bent to retrieve my journal from the duffel bag.
I had to show her the cover. Marvels and Oddities.
• • •
There were a few people waiting for the bathroom now, so I joined the line until I noticed that the girl was sleeping, her arms crossed in front of her chest, her face lying on a pillow she’d propped next to the window.
I glanced away—it felt weird to look at someone sleeping. And then I went back to my seat.
• • •
The next time I ventured back there, she wasn’t in her seat. Maybe she was in the bathroom herself.
I put the journal back in my duffel.
• • •
I thought I’d try one more time. I didn’t care that everyone around me must have thought I had diarrhea or something, the amount of times I was making my way back there.
I don’t know why I just had to show her the journal—maybe to let her know there were two of us?
No, I think maybe it was to see that smile again.
• • •
The flight attendants were blocking the aisle with the food cart. I ended up taking a few steps toward them before returning to my seat.
From behind the cart, I had glimpsed the blue-hijabed girl. She’d been watching something on the screen in front of her, so she hadn’t seen me.
• • •
Even though I had made up my mind to try one last time, I fell asleep until the flight landed in Doha and the guy beside me nudged me to get a move on. I picked up my duffel and got in the exodus line, thinking of Dad and Hanna.
The Doha airport was so quiet that the whir of luggage wheels formed a hum that accompanied those of us who disembarked. It followed us to the visa counter and then to the luggage carousel.
I glanced around a few times but didn’t see the girl from the plane.
Real strange. First, that I saw the journal, and, second, that it was preoccupying me so much.
At the luggage carousel, as the belt went around empty, awaiting the luggage, I put my hand in the pocket of my jeans and pulled out the azurite. It was kind of small, but it was the deepest blue one at the shop, and I knew Hanna would appreciate that the most.
“Found something?” Girl in blue hijab. Smiling.
“No, just a gift for someone.” I held up the rock, hoping my face hadn’t lit up too much at the sight of her. “She’s a rock connoisseur.”
“Nice.” She nodded. “There’s my luggage.”
She left to grab an orange suitcase off the carousel. She pulled up the handle and slid her carry-on onto it so that she only had one item to pull behind her.
And then she didn’t come back but just waved at me before heading to the wide, automated exit doors.
I felt a need to raise my voice to ask her name or her Instagram, but it was so quiet in the place.
I also realized I’d let my guitar go by on the carousel.
I decided I’d let it go around again.
I walked fast enough to catch up with her just as she reached the doors.
I just need her name.
The arrivals doors flung open to reveal those waiting.
And there stood Ms. Raymond.
I turned back to the carousel, back to my guitar.
• • •
Ms. Raymond was my teacher in the fourth grade at Doha International School.
I had no idea why she was here at the airport now, but it was unnerving.
Th
e folded paper in my duffel, the one with my diagnosis, flew out and punched me in the gut.
It literally didn’t, but that’s what it felt like.
ODDITY: FIRST IMPRESSIONS
How do you decide you like or don’t like someone? Like, when you meet someone, there’s a point when you form one of two thoughts: I like this person enough to want to know them a bit more or STOP! Go no further in your attempts to know this person.
For me, it takes at least four times being around someone. I like to let things unfold, so I rarely rely on first impressions. I’m generally a four-impressions kind of guy.
First impressions don’t reveal anything. They’re just about you—well, the person looking at someone, listening to them, observing them—projecting your own self to assess another.
I guess I’m trying to say it’s okay I didn’t get her name.
ZAYNEB
FRIDAY, MARCH 8
ODDITY: THE COLD
BY THE TIME I WOKE up, I was in a better mood. The uneventful flight from London to Doha—uneventful except for the fact that the cute guy from the airport said salaam to me!—and the three episodes I’d watched of Sweet Tooth, a dessert-making show where there’s no talking, just music and people making complicated desserts step-by-step, had calmed me down a lot.
Then, to see Auntie Nandy! The hug she wrapped me in as soon as I got out of arrivals had almost swept me off my feet.
Auntie Nandy was Mom’s younger sister, but she was taller and had a more squarish face, with a prominent jawline and a big smile. Ever since I could remember, she’d worn her hair in a pixie cut.
She was no-nonsense but in a super-kind way.
The entire ride to her place from the airport had been me listening to testimony of how much she’d missed me, how she’d watched every Instagram story I posted (mental note: remember this), sometimes several times, and how she’d felt like she’d won the lottery when my parents agreed to let me come visit her earlier.
Basically, I was engulfed in love.
Cute guy saying salaam, eating desserts with my eyes on the flight over, Auntie Nandy professing her love—this almost erased the dumpster fire Tuesday had been.
But while Auntie Nandy is warm and cheerful, her apartment isn’t.
