“So,” Kaval said, her voice totally casual, “we didn’t get to finish our conversation last night.”
“When I was showing you up on the basketball court, you mean.”
She raised her eyebrows at me.
“What?” I asked. “That’s how I remember it.”
Kaval shook her head. “Whatever. I never got to say what I wanted to say to you.”
“Say it now.”
“I’m getting to it.”
I raised my hands by way of apology and almost spilled the purple liquid in the test tube I was holding. What was this stuff, anyway? Boron? No. Potassium? Sodium, maybe? It looked like it might taste like lavender, but taking a sip was probably inadvisable.
“I heard you had a visitor recently.”
I carefully placed the tube on a rack before I could mess up. “Visitor?”
“I heard some aunties gossiping. Apparently, some girl came over to your place. You know, a marriage prospect.”
She’d heard about Bisma Akram, obviously. “Yeah, you know, parents…”
“I heard your family liked her. Did you?” Kaval’s eyes were locked on mine, and her gaze was very intense.
“Um… I mean, you know, she seemed nice, but—”
“Not for you.”
“Right,” I said. “Exactly. It’s not happening.”
“I’m glad,” Kaval said, and then she giggled at my surprised expression. “I’m just saying, you know, it would be a shame if you made a decision like that without talking to me first.” She brushed her hand up against mine as she reached for the test tube full of purple.
I tried and failed to keep my expression neutral as my heart danced with the knowledge that Kaval Sabsvari was flirting. With me. We had chemistry together. I stood up straighter and a huge grin spread over my face. This. Was. Awesome.
“Are you saying—” I started with hope.
“I’m not saying anything, except that it’s a big decision.… Just don’t jump into anything without talking to your friends. I mean”—her smile got playful—“you’re not the best prospect in the world or anything, but…”
“Very funny. I guess I deserved that.”
“Yes. You definitely did.”
What Kaval had said made me so weightless that it was impossible to concentrate during history. She hadn’t said that she liked me, of course, but she’d totally hinted at it. Right? Yes. Definitely. I wasn’t wrong about this.
Why hadn’t she just come out and said it, though? Saying “don’t jump into anything” seemed a long way off from what I wanted to hear.
I was reaching into my pocket as stealthily as possible to text Zar to ask his opinion, when I realized Mr. Tippett had stopped talking in the middle of his lecture. I looked up, wondering if he’d seen what I was doing.
He hadn’t. Kaval had raised her hand. This wasn’t really done in Tippett’s class. He didn’t like questions.
“What is it, Ms. Sabsvari?”
“We’re all wondering if you’ve picked someone for the Renaissance Man.”
“Be precise, Ms. Sabsvari. Who is ‘we’?”
“Like… everyone.”
There was a murmur of agreement from the rest of the class.
I rolled my eyes.
“Indeed? Am I to understand that all of you are conspirators in this delightful disruption to my day? Surely there is someone here who does not care about this ridiculous award.”
I should’ve just kept my mouth shut, but I’ve never really been good at doing that. I raised my hand. “I don’t care. Like at all. If that, you know, helps.”
There was some giggling and snickering. I sat back in my chair, content with the reaction.
“Yes, Mr. Jilani,” Tippett drawled, his tone a little amused. “I’m familiar with your impressive talent for apathy. Anyone else share his lack of enthusiasm for puffed-up self-congratulatory pageantry? Anyone at all?”
No one else spoke up.
“Very well,” Algie Tippett said. He fixed his gaze on me. “In that case, congratulations, Danyal. History will find you to have been, against all odds, a Renaissance Man.”
A shocked silence followed Tippett’s announcement.
When a pick for Renaissance Man was announced, there was usually a lot of cheering and backslapping for the chosen one. It was—as everyone polite who has ever been up for an award says—an honor to be nominated. It meant, at the very least, that one teacher thought highly of you.
That wasn’t the case here. Tippett had just selected me out of spite. I was nowhere near the best student in his class. I was, in fact, the absolute worst.
Our teacher smirked. I felt smaller than I ever had before.
Intezar, bless his big, dumb heart, actually started clapping, but when no one joined him, he gave up awkwardly.
“Very funny,” Alan Rhodes called from the back of the class. “Who are you actually going to pick?”
I turned around to glare at Alan. What did he care? He was already in Renaissance Man. He’d been picked for mathematics.
“What was it about my statement that you failed to understand, Mr. Rhodes?” Tippett asked.
“You can’t be serious. Jilani is an idiot.”
There was some scattered laughter, before Kaval whirled around and said, “Don’t be a dick, Alan.”
I’m not going to lie. Seeing Kaval defend me almost made the humiliation of the moment worth it, especially because Tippett’s ridiculous decision had to sting her the most. She wasn’t going to get into the competition now.
There were a couple of oohs around the room at Kaval’s remark, as our teacher said, “Please don’t be inappropriate, Ms. Sabsvari.”
“But—”
“Enough,” Tippett said. “Whatever intellectual limitations you all feel Mr. Jilani suffers from, he is going to represent this class in Renaissance Man. Anyone who has a problem with that can take it up with the principal. Right. Now.”
This time no one said a word.
“Very good, then. Now, as I was saying, Winston Churchill… Oh, by the way, Mr. Jilani, you really ought to pay attention. You see, the subject of this lesson, Churchill, will be your topic for Renaissance Man. I trust you will be motivated to not make a public fool out of yourself. For once.”
I glared at him, viciously pulled a cap off a pen, and prepared to take notes.
“Excellent. Let’s get started, shall we? One must not keep history waiting.…”
“You can’t do this,” I said, standing before Algie Tippett’s desk, arms crossed.
With a shit ton of boredom in his eyes, my history teacher watched everyone else file out of the room. Kaval whispered “Good luck” as she hurried past, and Zar gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
“Now,” Tippett said, leaning back in the cheap, creaking plastic chair the school had provided him. “What, precisely, is the problem, Mr. Jilani?”
“You know what the problem is.” I tried to stay calm. I was basically a superstar when it came to not raising my voice while frustrated. I’d lived with my father my entire life, after all. “The Renaissance Man.”
“That hardly seems like a problem. In fact, I would go so far as to say that congratulations are in order, wouldn’t you?”
“This isn’t funny.”
“As you mature, Mr. Jilani, I believe you will realize that most humor is simply a matter of perspective. There are many ways in which your current situation is objectively amusing.”
I managed to resist the urge to pick up the apple on his desk—he got one for himself and displayed it prominently every day—and fling it against the wall. “I don’t belong in that contest.”
“Ah. Then you agree with Mr. Rhodes’s assertion that you are, in fact, an idiot.”
“No,” I said. “Obviously.”
“In that case, by all means, elaborate on the nature of your concern.”
“I’m… not an, you know… I mean, I’m not an idiot—”
“A proposition that is
becoming less certain by the second, I assure you.”
“But I’m not good at school. I won’t win. I’ve got no chance. So all that happens is that everyone who actually cares about being in Renaissance Man is going to be pissed at me for taking their spot—”
“I suspect that they’re going to be rather more ‘pissed’ ”—he took the time to put up the world’s slowest air quotes—“at me than they are at you.”
“It isn’t just them. My parents… my mother is going to get all excited, and then… I’m going to get laughed off the stage. I’m going to be a joke. Just, look, I’m sorry I was rude or whatever about Churchill the other day, but please, pick someone else. Anyone else. This should go to your top student.”
“And if I were to assure you that it was not my intention to punish you, would that change your mind at all?”
That stopped me for a moment. I couldn’t begin to figure out what he meant, though. “It wasn’t?”
“Not entirely, no. Danyal, I’ve been at this institution for a little short of half a century. In that time, none of my students have won Renaissance Man.” He harrumphed. “Now that I think about it, the name of the contest is getting rather dated. Perhaps I should talk to the principal about making it more inclusive.”
“What about me?” I asked.
He clapped his age-spotted hands together. “Ah yes. The central question of youth. My point is that I do not expect you to win anything. That has never been a goal of mine.”
That made no sense. What reason, outside of winning, could there be for entering a contest?
“Obviously, given how entrenched you are in your belief that you cannot succeed in any kind of academic pursuit, victory is impossible. However, I do expect you to not be a joke. That much, I am sure, is in your power. Do you understand?”
“But—”
“Excellent. Now, please excuse me. I’m old, my time is precious, and you’ve taken up more than enough of it for one day.”
Shaking my head, I stormed out, trying to make sure I wasn’t muttering unpleasant truths about Tippett loud enough for him to hear.
Almost the entire class was waiting for me when I stepped out. I gave them a little wave—no one waved back—and closed the door behind me. As soon as it clicked into place, Alan Rhodes demanded, “Did you ask him to pick someone else?”
I nodded.
“And?”
I shook my head.
Everyone groaned.
“This is completely ridiculous,” Alan said, raising his voice to be heard over the noise. “We should put a petition together. Tippett can’t demean Renaissance Man by picking someone like Jilani.”
“Look, guys, I’m sorry, okay? I asked him to go with the top student in this class—”
“Will you sign the petition?”
I didn’t see who asked, but some curious whispering followed. I was about to tell them I would when Kaval said, “No. Why should he? This is bullshit. It isn’t like only the top scorers in every subject get entered—”
“That’s how it should be,” Alan muttered.
“It isn’t, though. And no one, ever, gets asked to drop out.”
“Except Jilani will probably be a dropout entirely soon enough.”
“Dick,” Kaval snapped.
“Stop calling me that.”
“Then stop being a dick.” A couple of people laughed. When the bell for the next period rang, they began moving away. Alan left too, walking backward all the way down the hall so he could glare at me the entire time.
Kaval turned to me. “Look, Danyal, we all know that Tippett was being a jerk when he went with you. But this is a huge opportunity. You could show everyone what you’re really made of. This could be your version of Tom Brady being picked in the sixth round of the draft.”
Intezar stared at her. “You follow football?”
“I follow Gisele,” Kaval said. “Anyway, I’m just saying, you know, this could be a turning point for you. Don’t give it up.”
“That’s nice,” I said. “Really. Except for one problem.”
“What?”
“Tom Brady can actually play a little football,” Intezar told her.
“Whatever. Look, I promise to help you. You can come over to my place. We’ll work on it together.”
How could I say no to that?
“Renaissance Man,” Sohrab called out when he saw me. It was, I could tell, meant to be an exclamation, like someone shouting Dude! or That’s awesome! Since it was Sohrab Sabsvari who said it, it came out calm and sober. He was incapable of getting fired up.
I made a face, like he’d said something gross. A couple of kids standing nearby rolled their eyes. I glared at them with all the venom I could manage, which wasn’t much, but it had been, like, two hours, and I was already growing tired of all the whispers and snide comments I’d been getting since Tippett announced I was his pick.
“You don’t seem very enthusiastic. How can you not think this is good?”
“It’s not my thing. You know I’m not applying to college. I don’t need the boost.”
“But five thousand dollars would be nice.”
I chuckled at the understatement. “Yeah. That would be huge. But I’d have to win to get it, and we both know that’s not going to happen. Losing spectacularly, though, is very much in the cards.”
“It’s still an accomplishment,” Sohrab insisted. “We should do something to celebrate.”
“Like what?”
“Well… there’s a fascinating scholar coming to the mosque next month after Maghrib to give a talk. We could go to that.”
“How is that a celebration?”
Sohrab narrowed his eyes at me. “God is fun,” he said, in a tone that suggested it’d be total blasphemy to disagree.
“Maybe. The people who like to get together and talk about Him, though…”
“I did tell you,” he said, “that you’re not as funny as you think, didn’t I?”
“Don’t start. Anyway, I just meant that a month seems a long time to wait before ‘celebrating.’ You’re just trying to get me to come to mosque with you, aren’t you?”
Sohrab rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Maybe. But only because I always end up going to these things alone. I miss hanging with you guys.”
Emotional blackmail. A total uncle move.
I had to admit it was effective, though. What was I supposed to say to that?
“Come on. Please? It’ll be great. I’ll text you the details. I should also invite Intezar.”
“Um… no, you shouldn’t.”
“Fine. You know him better than I do.”
I grimaced. The way he’d said that had been so… well, sad, I guess, but also lonely. To make him feel better about his fraying relationship with Zar, and because I really hadn’t been spending a lot of time with him, I said, “Fine. I’m in.”
“Fantastic,” Sohrab said. I could tell he was excited because I knew him, but really there was no way to tell from his tone or his face. “You won’t regret it. You talk so much about being handsome that you don’t spend any time becoming handsome. I mean, of course, that you have to work on beautifying your soul—”
“Hey,” I cut in. “Remember that time you said I wouldn’t regret agreeing to go to the mosque with you?”
Sohrab frowned. “You mean a few seconds ago?”
“Yeah. Just so you know, I regret it already.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“My God! How did you not immediately call me? This is so exciting, Danyal. We are so happy for you. All the aunties are talking about you and Renaissance Man. All of them are surprised. We aren’t surprised, though, are we, Ahmed?”
My father, who was reading a newspaper—an actual printed newspaper because he thinks tablets change the way news feels, whatever that means—looked up from across the living room. He gave a short, sharp grunt. That was the “I completely disagree with what you just said but I’m going to be nice and ignore you now” grunt.
“Aren’t you proud of our son? Don’t you want to tell him that?”
My father gave a long, drawn-out sigh, folded his newspaper, and set it aside. “So, this is an academic contest?”
I nodded.
“And you were selected to enter, haan?”
I nodded again.
“Strange. What happens next?”
My mother let out an exasperated breath. “All the kids who get picked write an essay over the rest of the year. Like a proper thesis. Then there is a big event and they get up onstage and present their papers. One senior student for each subject.”
“And what subject did you get?” Dad asked.
“History.”
“Aren’t you failing history?”
“I prefer to think that history is failing me.”
My father frowned. “What does that mean?”
“I… don’t know. It just sounded clever.”
He shook his head. “So, you got in—”
“Picked by a teacher,” Mom said.
“Yes, yes. Fine. Tell me, Danyal, are you going to win?”
I shook my head.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, reaching for his newspaper again. “I’ll say this about your son, Aisha. He’s never surprising.”
Mom’s hands were on her hips and her nostrils flared. “Danyal. Go to your room.”
Great. I was going to be the cause of another shouting match. I could feel it in the air, like I was standing next to a burning oven. Not for the first time, I wondered whether my parents would’ve been happier together if I’d never been born.
I was barely to the top of the stairs when Mom started yelling and Dad replied calmly, because he always replied calmly at first, before he got angry and loud. It wouldn’t even be about his reaction to Renaissance Man soon. I’d heard more than enough of these to know that the fight would become about old hurts that had never quite healed right, and it would go on and on, as sure as the moon rising in the sky, until finally there would be silence without peace.
When I turned seven, my father started throwing open my door at daybreak, turning on the lights, roughly shaking me awake, and yelling at me to get up. He was the world’s most obnoxious, consistent alarm, and he didn’t have a snooze button. I’d told him that I was responsible enough to get up to pray myself, but he refused to believe me, which was fair, but annoying.
More Than Just a Pretty Face Page 5
