by S. K. Ali
“Before I teach you, you have to promise you’ll never make them by yourself. Dad or Grandma or Grandpa or Marta has to be around.”
I didn’t ask her why she hadn’t said, Or I have to be around. “What about Hanna?”
She tried to throw a dish towel at me, laughing. “Babies don’t count.”
“What about when I grow up and Hanna grows up and we’re really old. Like ten and eighteen? I still can’t make them by myself?” I grinned and picked up the towel and, with a hook shot, landed it back on the table where Mom had picked it up from. “What about when we’re twenty and twenty-eight? Or sixty-one and sixty-nine? An old lady, an old man? I still can’t make them?”
Mom looked away for a moment but not before I saw the edge of her mouth quiver and then turn down.
I dropped to my knees to open a cupboard door. The cupboard door that hid the potatoes. And my face.
I didn’t want to make French fries. I just wanted to curl up beside Mom like I was a little kid again, not caring if I cried or not. Me not caring, nobody caring that I was crying. Nobody caring that I wasn’t going to be okay.
I wasn’t.
One by one, I took potatoes out and put them on the counter above my head, wordlessly.
“Okay, stop,” she said, her voice husky. “Five is more than enough.”
“For both of us?”
“For all of us.”
I closed the cupboard door and made a face at Mom. “But I’ll eat three potatoes by myself.”
She was crying. But laughing, too. Tears and smiles. “All right, fries monster, take out more, then.”
I reopened the cupboard and added five more potatoes, one by one, again.
It’s okay to cry, then? Mom is crying and laughing.
I closed the door and stood up.
“Wash them well and then dry them really well,” she said, her voice full again. Like her throat was tear filled too. She picked up the dish towel I’d thrown. “Use this.”
I caught the checkered red-and-white cloth and hung it around my neck.
The sound of water running and potatoes being scrubbed masked the sound of Mom sobbing.
Then it hit me. Why Mom was doing this today.
No one was home. Just me and Mom.
Grandpa and Grandma had gone to Costco, a trip that took them a long time. Dad had taken Hanna for a checkup at the doctor’s.
We’re allowed to cry.
I let the tears fall too. I dried the potatoes with the dishcloth that had wiped away some of my tears, but not all of them.
Then I brought the clean potatoes to the table on a cutting board with a knife, and Mom showed me how to cut big fat wedges out of them.
When I was done, she grabbed my hand, looked in my eyes. “It’s okay to cry a lot. But we have to get the crying done before we heat the oil. Otherwise it will splatter everywhere. When it’s time to work with heat, with the hard part, we have to be ready. But get it all out now before we fry the best French fries in the world.”
I got off the chair I was sitting on and tucked myself into her arms, slowly so I didn’t hurt her.
It took us a long time to get ready. For the stove, for the heat, for the hard part.
I didn’t know then that Mom and I would be making her fries together only a few more times that year. Before she left us.
They really were the best in the world.
She really was the best in the world.
• • •
Sitting in the car in the hospital parking lot, I told Ms. Raymond the whole thing. The collision of memories, French-fried memories.
Ms. Raymond wiped her eyes. “Adam, why did you tell me this?”
“Because I can’t tell Dad,” I said, settling back into the headrest and closing my eyes. “Not yet. Please, Ms. Raymond.”
“Is it because you don’t want to show him your pain?” Ms. Raymond started the car. “He’s your parent. He’ll be the best support for you. The support you need.”
“I’m going to tell him. In a few days. I promise.” I kept my eyes closed. “You know, it’s not the right time right now. With him remembering Mom.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“I think that’s what Mom was trying to say. That there’s a time for everything. The time to tell Dad is later.”
“I don’t know if that was what your mom was trying to tell you, but . . .” She trailed off. “I’ll respect your wishes if you let me know soon that you’ve told him. That’s the condition.”
“I’ll text you when I do.” Relieved, I opened my eyes to the blurred shapes on the way to Connor’s house.
ZAYNEB
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 13
MARVEL: VICTORIES
EXHIBIT A: VICTORY AT THE pool.
Auntie Nandy was supposed to come home right away after school today, but she texted to say that a last-minute meeting had come up, and that our scheduled trip to see Katara, a reconstructed traditional Qatari village, would have to wait until another day.
That was fine, I guess.
I was feeling completely good for once.
This morning had been epic. Like Marvel-movie-level epic.
Auntie Nandy and I had walked down to the fitness center, her in her “regular” swimsuit, by Marc’s standards, with a thin cover-up on top, me in my burkini with the weird, sleeping clamshell on the front. The attached swim scarf, a zippered cap enclosing my hair, was up and on, goggles ready for pool use snapped on top of it.
I held my back straight, my head up, my mouth closed, trying to match Auntie Nandy’s steady steps to the facility, located in the middle of the condominium complex’s paved courtyard.
She opened the glass door for me, and I took a step in—with my right foot, as per Muslim custom. Maybe to make it an auspicious occasion? This showing up as my unapologetic Muslim self?
“Bismillah,” I whispered.
I led the way to the check-in counter.
Marc, seated, scrolling on a tablet in front of him, looked up as I wrote my name into the facility-use binder. Pool I wrote in the appropriate column.
I smiled—serenely—at him.
He pushed his chair back and stood, glancing at me before searching for Auntie Nandy’s face behind me. “I thought we spoke about proper swimwear yesterday.”
Auntie Nandy took a step to the side and then forward, until she was at the counter herself, a big smile on her face. “Hi, Marc.”
“Hi, Natasha.”
“Is something the matter?”
“As I told you yesterday, your niece needs to have proper swimwear to use the pool here.”
“Yes, of course!” She continued smiling. “And voila, today she is not wearing cotton leggings or a T-shirt. Instead, it’s spandex, same as my swimsuit, same as yours when you swim, Marc.”
“We have rules, Natasha.” He put his hands on his hips. “This is a condominium complex catering to expats who like certain standards.”
“Oh, no, no.” Auntie Nandy said. “Don’t use that on me. I’m an expat from two backgrounds and both of those backgrounds, the American and the Caribbean one, are okay with Zayneb’s swimsuit. Tell me then—exactly which expats are you catering to?”
Marc stared at her.
“This is proper swimwear, Marc. It doesn’t breach protocol in any way.” Auntie Nandy picked up the pen and signed her own name into the binder. “Come on, Zayneb. Let’s go swimming.”
“I’ll get complaints,” Marc said, stepping out from behind the front desk. “We have some members who are more vocal than others.”
“You mean you have some members who are more prejudiced than others.” Auntie Nandy stopped walking and turned to Marc. “You can tell those members I’m very vocal too. And I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t want me to take this matter out of our condo complex, would they?”
Her smile unfaltering, she waited a moment for him to answer. He went back to his chair behind the desk, shaking his head.
When we were down th
e hall, I turned to Auntie Nandy and high-fived her. “That, Auntie Nandy, was a work of art. You were flawless.”
“Never, ever quake in the face of hate, Zayneb.”
“And I can’t believe you were smiling the whole time!” I felt like skipping to the pool in my sad clamshell burkini.
“Well, if you’re speaking up for someone, why be sad about it? Or upset? Be proud of doing the right thing. Something I teach each and every student I’ve ever had. Celebrate!” She held the door to the pool for me.
It was empty, the water as still as a sheet of turquoise glass.
We walked to the welcoming sight.
“I love you, Auntie Nandy!” I hugged her and then pushed her in. But, as she fell laughing, she was quick enough to grab me, pull me in with her.
We swam the entire time with no one around—to bother us or question us or alert us to rules about our female bodies—and, when Auntie Nandy left to get ready for work, I floated by myself in the water, thinking.
Auntie Nandy had just been in control of the whole situation when she challenged Marc. She made it look so easy.
But then I thought about the hard parts of speaking up. About why it’s so difficult to do the right thing in front of those with the power to affect your life. Say, to affect your future, your grades at school, your experience learning.
Your experience living.
I didn’t want to think about it, but an image of Mr. Fencer just sitting on an empty desk, in an empty classroom, swinging his legs, grinning while he waited for me to come back to school—while he waited to pounce on me—appeared in my mind.
I floated and floated until the image floated away too.
I refused to be the sad clamshell on my burkini.
Today was a day for victories.
• • •
Since Auntie Nandy was going to be late again, I decided to organize myself.
After swimming, while she was at school, I’d gone to Souq Waqif, the outdoor bazaar, on my own to shop for gifts for everyone back home.
Now all of my purchases were at the entrance of my room, in a huddle of bags that the concierge had helped me carry up.
I shoved the clean laundry I’d done after returning from the pool on top of my pillows and made my bed. Then I dumped the gifts I’d bought on the white duvet.
As I was sorting them, my phone buzzed.
Emma Domingo.
Emma P. wants you to come with us to the dunes on Sunday. For her party.
Another message from her popped up as I thought about this. It’s fun and fast. Dune bashing.
Mom was arriving on Sunday. It would be kind of weird if I wasn’t home. But maybe it was only a part of the day?
Sounds fun. What time is it? Morning?
All day. Emma P.’s dad does this whole thing where he gets a company to set up tents in the desert with a bbq. Everyone’s coming.
Maybe I can come for part of it? Because I can’t go for the day. My mom’s coming to Doha on Sunday.
Too bad! It’s far from Doha so it’ll be hard to get back.
I imagined the Emmas and the guys having fun on the dunes, doing whatever it is that people do when they’re dune bashing.
I saw Adam standing a bit apart.
Then I imagined Emma P. breaking away from the rest of them to join him. They smiled at each other and then walked off into the dunes, holding hands, a sunset ahead of them.
Agh, I guess I’ll have to miss it. Thanks so much for asking!
Ok, then you HAVE to come with us tomorrow to the souk.
Oops, I just went today.
Oh, come again. Please! Emma P. and Z. and Madison are getting henna done. Meet us there at one?
I thought about it. I did like Emma D. a lot. Even if she wasn’t like my squad back home. Ok.
I put my phone back on the night table and saw the burkini from this morning in the pile of clean laundry. One closed eye of the clamshell peeked out from underneath pink underwear.
I pulled the swimsuit out and took it with me to the kitchen, where I’d sighted a promising-looking junk drawer yesterday.
I needed the big black Sharpie I’d seen.
I grabbed it and snapped the lid off and went back to my bedroom.
When I finished, the sleeping, sad clamshell had turned into a wide awake, widely happy, slightly high-looking clamshell.
There, this will be a sign of good things to come.
• • •
This Is What You Missed, Bulletin IV by Kavi Srinivasan, filed as FYI for Zayneb Malik:
I have nothing to tell you.
That’s new. Any news about Ayaan?
The action is happening offscreen.
So there IS something happening?
Offscreen.
Off MY screen?
She sent me a speak-no-evil-monkey emoji.
Okay why send me ANYTHING at all then? Some bulletin. Some friend you are.
Exactly. Because I’m a FRIEND. I want you to enjoy yourself.
But you’re excluding me. I thought we were a team. Tight.
Exactly again. You already took one for the team. So now it’s our turn.
OUR turn? Who is OUR? There’s the two of us. That’s our team. Ayaan is our sage. She’s beyond teamness.
We have new members. Noemi.
Oh.
So Kavi was including her in this.
I pulled up Instagram and checked Kavi’s account. She had three stories I’d missed, but only one of them included Noemi. They were gawking at an open locker. The video panned the interior. It was covered, literally every inch, with stickers of a smiling white man with an Afro, sitting with a raised paintbrush in front of a painting of trees. Then we saw a quick shot of the inside of the opened locker door, which was covered with pictures of an angry-looking Picasso. Noemi: Picasso on the outside, Bob Ross on the inside was the text Kavi had added to this story.
I didn’t even know what that meant. It was something artsy. That they, Noemi and Kavi, got.
One out of three of your Instagram stories are with Noemi?
Zay? Why are you looking at my stories in the middle of our chat?
Noemi and you?
And Ms. Margolis.
The librarian? But she’s a teacher?
Noemi relies on her for art research. They’re friends. She came as a package with Noemi. Listen, you already got more out of me than I wanted. Stop.
I don’t like it. Not knowing what’s happening. Standing by. Actually, shoved aside.
So let it be my turn now. I sat in class quietly listening to you taking on Fencer for eons, not saying anything.
It wasn’t your fight.
How could you even say that? You who took on Rosie in gym class? Then the rest of the year? I’m crying.
• • •
Oh, yeah. Rosie in gym class. That’s how Kavi and I met.
In second term, first day of eighth-grade gym, I’d had a cast on my left leg due to a fractured tibia, so I made my home on the bench. A thin girl with flawless dark brown skin, long, silky black hair tied in a single ponytail that hung on one side, over her left shoulder, and huge eyes, came over and asked me if I’d be okay watching her EpiPen pack—that she, with a severe peanut allergy, was supposed to wear in a pouch on her at all times but couldn’t do gym properly with.
I’d been faithful to her EpiPens for the week I was benched, keeping the pack in my lap, my eyes following Kavi as she moved. I even hobbled over with it once, on my crutches, when she got knocked down during a game of basketball.
That’s when I heard someone mutter, “Kebobi can’t play ball.”
I whipped around.
A tall girl, even taller than me, was laughing into the shoulder of a friend, her body half-turned, eyes away, the dropped comment barely traceable to her.
But I knew the way these girls worked. I’d made it my life mission to find and destroy stuff like this, from my angry-baby self onward, so I homed in on the girl like I had a whack-a-mole
mallet in hand.
Because the gym teacher was close by, racist girl had already turned all the way around in her attempt to hide her bullshit.
She didn’t see me limping over, stepping forward with my good leg, dragging my cast behind, crutches where I’d left them on the floor beside Kavi.
“Excuse me? Her name is Kavi.”
She turned to me, sizing me up. “That’s what I said.”
“That’s not what you said. It’s my leg that’s broken, not my ears.” I moved closer, doing an awkward half step, almost losing my balance. I wanted to close the gap to look straight into her blank, blue eyes. “You called her ‘kebobi.’ Claim your racism.”
“Oh God, what’s your problem? Go back to where you came from, bench bitch.” She turned away again. Her friend, short but strong-looking, snorted a laugh and crossed her arms, attempting to stare me down.
“Bitch whose ancestors stole this land, telling me to go back?” I looked at her friend. “You better collect her, staple up her mouth hole before I do it.”
“What’s going on here, girls?” Though she said “girls,” the gym teacher addressed me.
I lost it inside. But knew to keep it cool on the outside, not sure what kind of teacher I was talking to. “What’s going on is this girl here is revealing the racist she is. She called my friend Kavi over there ‘kebobi.’ Then told me to go back to where I came from.”
“Ms. Larsons, I just said ‘Go back to the bench.’ ” She blinked her eyes innocently.
“Did you call Kavi a slur, Rosie?” Ms. Larsons shifted her gaze to the racist.
“No, though I did say she can’t play basketball.”
“Yeah, she said ‘Girl can’t play ball.’ Literally,” Rosie’s friend lied.
“She said ‘Kebobi can’t play ball.’ Literally.” I crossed my arms and turned to look at Ms. Larsons. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten upset. Everyone says ‘Girl can’t play ball’ all the time in gym class. That literally wouldn’t have gotten me angry.”
“Rosie, get to the bench. For the rest of class. That’s not the right attitude for playing.” Ms. Larsons turned around and walked back, blowing the whistle.
She’d believed me, but I stood there fuming. Attitude?
The best thing that came from the whole thing was I got a true friend for life when I called Kavi my friend while talking to Ms. Larsons—and Kavi, dusted off and upright, heard.
