More Than Just a Pretty Face

by Syed M. Masood

  “Get up, Danyal. It is time for Fajr.”

  I groaned.

  “Prayer is better than sleep,” he said, quoting the adhan.

  “I know, I know,” I mumbled, like I’d done a hundred thousand times, and dragged my unwilling body to the bathroom.

  Honestly, I’ve never been able to square the dawn prayer with the idea of a loving and merciful God. Why does a divine, all-powerful being require me to get up when it’s still dark, when even early birds are sleeping, to pray to Him? I mean, I know that remembering Allah is important and all, but I could also do it during regular business hours.

  Sighing and muttering under my breath, I made my way downstairs, where my father was waiting. As crazy as Intezar thought it was, getting married young would at least keep my dad out of my room at five in the morning. I’d decided a long time ago that I’d buy my wife scandalous stuff to sleep in—nightshirts and tank tops and shorts—just to be absolutely sure the old man was never able to shake me awake again.

  He seemed tired this morning, and given the comforter and pillows piled on the couch, he’d slept in the living room. I’ve never figured out why he did that. There was a perfectly good bed in the guest room he could use when he and Mom fought.

  Honestly, though, I’d stopped trying to figure Dad out years ago. What was the point?

  “Allahu Akbar,” he said, starting the prayer.

  I raised my hands to my ears as well, hoping that my father would choose short verses to recite, so that I could crawl back to bed as quickly as possible.

  He didn’t choose short verses. He never did.

  And I was the disappointment?

  As soon as we were done, I was on my feet and heading back to my room, when my father called out, “Wait.”

  I groaned. “Yes, Dad?”

  “Eat breakfast with me.”

  I glanced out a window. The sun had barely started to rise. I could squeeze in another two hours of sleep if I was lucky. “Now?”

  “You shouldn’t be wasting these early hours. The Prophet Muhammad said that there is great blessing in this time. Whatever you attempt, you will do well in.”

  “Yeah. It’s the best sleep.”

  Ahmed Jilani gave a grunt. And we were off for the day. This was a “that was kind of funny, but I don’t like you all that much, so I’m not going to smile” grunt.

  “I’ll cook,” my father offered.

  Oh… that was even worse. But there was obviously no way out of this. How had a holy undertaking made my morning so forsaken?

  I played a quick game involving DC superheroes on my phone while my dad heated a pan on high and made sunny-side up eggs for us, the edges of the whites crisping. When the sizzle had died away, he sprinkled an excessive amount of red chili powder on them, before dripping hot oil over the pepper, and serving everything with toast. It was a very desi breakfast. Chef Brodeur would’ve had a stroke just looking at it.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  He grunted in response and pointed to my phone. He was a big believer in doing only one thing at a time. With a sigh, I put it on the table, screen facing down. We ate in silence for a few minutes, the crunch of slightly overdone toast the only sound between us, until my father said something I’d never heard before.

  “Your mother was right.”

  The piece of toast that had been on its way to my mouth dropped from my hand. “What?”

  “About your contest. She had a point. I mean, she was also wrong.…”

  And just like that, balance was restored to the universe.

  “What I’m saying,” he went on, “is that even if you getting into the contest is not worth celebrating, it is a good thing you are in it. At least this way you won’t have to write a final in history. This is an opportunity.”

  I nodded. Here came the “it will look good on a college application” speech, which would transition into the “I know you’ve got the brains of a stupid donkey, but you should go to college” speech, which would then become the “being a chef is not a viable career path” speech. It was a familiar mutation.

  Instead of launching into a lecture, however, my father simply took a sip of chai out of a giant mug that my mother had gotten for him. It read WORLD’S OKAYEST DAD. Aisha Jilani could be savage when she wanted to be. Then he asked, “What are you writing about?”

  “My teacher says I have to write about Winston Churchill.”

  “Why are they making you write about that fucker?”

  I stared at Ahmed Jilani like I didn’t know him.

  I mean, there are things that you never expect to happen, but that your mind can still make sense of—alien invasions, zombie apocalypses, falling in love with a vampire—and then there is stuff so bizarre that stunned silence is the only possible response, such as the thought of my father using any variation of the f-bomb.

  He looked embarrassed in the face of my shock. “Sorry,” he said. “That is not a good word. Make sure you never use it. Even for Churchill.”

  “Um. Yeah. No. Totally. I mean, I don’t even know what it means.”

  The super awkward silence continued, but finally Dad said, “What does your history teacher say about Churchill?”

  “Tippett is a big fan. I thought everyone was.”

  He seemed to think about this for a long time, a pained expression on his face.

  Why? Everything I’d ever heard about Churchill at school or seen in movies or documentaries had been positive… though, honestly, I hadn’t really been paying close attention.

  “Write what makes your teacher happy. That will get you the best grade.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was a command or a question. “Are you sure?”

  That was when Ahmed Jilani said something I’d never heard him say before for the second time in our conversation. It was a sentence that I’d assumed all desi uncles and aunties lacked the capacity to utter.

  “I don’t know.”

  Even during the last class of the day—it was one of the maths, trig or maybe calc—I was still thinking about my dad’s outburst at breakfast. What had that even been about? As was typical of him, my father hadn’t answered any questions about his issues with Churchill. Instead, he’d just gone upstairs to make up with Mom.

  I’d been wondering about it all day. In fact, I was so preoccupied with Ahmed Jilani’s use of the f-word that Mrs. Wright’s explanations about how angles can move or something because real life is not simple and two dimensional totally went over my head. Honestly, though, that would’ve happened even if breakfast had been boring and predictable.

  I decided it was entirely possible that Mrs. Wright was making all this up. I mean, we’d have no way of knowing, would we? We put a lot of faith in our teachers, if you think about it. How do we even know a square root is a real thing?

  It was then that the whole Renaissance Man thing got real. Principal Weinberg came by and pulled me out of class for orientation, along with Alan Rhodes. His petition to get me kicked out of the contest hadn’t gone anywhere.

  I thought it was kind of amazing that he’d put up a web page dedicated to bashing my selection so quickly. Tippett, however, seemed less than impressed. The rumor was that he’d told Alan if the site stayed up, Alan’s history grade might suffer. That was like threatening Alan’s firstborn. He would do anything to protect his grades.

  “You excited?” I asked as we walked out of class together.

  Alan gave me the kind of look a desi aunty would give calamari if she ever found one in her kitchen—the “I don’t know what you are or how you got here, and I can’t believe I have to deal with you” stare. Then he picked up his pace and pulled away from me.

  Still upset, I guess.

  I followed him into a room where the six other Renaissance Man contestants were sitting behind desks, all of them with textbooks for various classes open. I resisted the temptation to roll my eyes. These guys were something else.

  Alan stalked his way to the far side of the room without
saying anything, but I waved to the group. “Hey, guys.”

  Only Natari Smith waved back. It was easy to see why Intezar had a crush on her. I made my way over and sat down next to her.

  “Tough room,” I whispered.

  “Yeah. They absolutely hate you right now.”

  “Impossible.”

  She chuckled.

  “What’s their problem?”

  “Danyal, you’re the only one here that isn’t a nerd.”

  “So I’m not cool enough to be here or something?”

  “Something like that,” Natari said. “A lot of people worked really hard for this. Many of them are our friends. They didn’t get in. You stumbled in accidentally. Do you get it?”

  I frowned. So much for Tippett’s theory that everyone would be mad at him, not at me.

  The idea of not being liked bothered me. I was used to being pretty much universally loved. “This whole thing will blow over soon, right?”

  “Absolutely. Once we destroy you in the competition, things will go back to normal.” Seeing the look on my face, Natari grinned. “You realize that everyone is going to go all out, right? No one wants to rank below you. They’d never live it down.”

  I winced.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “It’s fine.” I tried to put a matching grin on my face. “Do you want to beat me too?”

  “Sure I do, Jilani. But I’m not shortsighted enough to be irritated you got in. Just makes for one entry I know I’m going to crush.”

  We stopped talking as Principal Weinberg walked in. She smiled at us all in her typically warm way. “Why don’t we get right to it? Congratulations, of course, to all of you for getting selected for Renaissance Man. It is a remarkable achievement.”

  I felt a couple of people glance in my direction.

  “There was a time when the principal of Aligheri Prep had to stand in this room and explain how the competition worked and tell the students why it was important. That time has passed. Everyone knows what the competition means now. It means that, in this school of high standards, you stand at the top of the mountain—”

  There was a mountain? No one told me there was a mountain.

  “—and so it is not surprising that every student who has ever won this contest has been accepted to an Ivy League school, many with impressive scholarships. And, of course, there is the cash prize. I understand that money means little to most of you.” Weinberg’s eyes seemed to find me as she said this, and I ducked my head. “But that sum is still a significant incentive, I would think.”

  I stared at my desk. Why’d she have to look at me? I mean, yeah, okay, I was probably one of the only kids at the school who didn’t grow up wearing gold-plated diapers, but not everyone needed to know.

  “When writing your thesis and preparing your presentation, I suggest that you remember the name of the contest. You are required to show mastery of one subject, but a pan-disciplinary approach typifies the spirit that the contest seeks to honor.”

  Whatever that was supposed to mean.

  “Finally, as you know, you will no longer be required to write the final exam in the subject you’ve been chosen to represent. Your thesis will determine your grade. Therefore”—this time Weinberg definitely paused to look at me in particular—“it would be a good idea to keep your teacher’s interests and preferences, as well as what will play well to an audience, in mind when crafting your thesis. Any questions?”

  I watched as seven hands shot up in the air.

  Weinberg called on Natari. “Yes, Ms. Smith?”

  “Can we write the final exam in our subject anyway?” she asked, in the tone of a kid asking for a pony. “Maybe for extra credit?”

  Everyone in the room seemed to lean forward, as if very interested in the answer.

  These people were not okay.

  Weinberg, for her part, seemed unsurprised by the question. “No, I’m afraid not.”

  I pulled out my phone as the questions went on. I knew how the contest worked, more or less. And besides, they say that the devil is in the details, and I’ve always been taught to avoid tangling with the devil whenever possible. In a way, living carefree is the most Muslim thing you can do.

  Sohrab thinks this philosophy of mine is “interesting and creative but plainly erroneous.” I think that two out of three isn’t bad.

  Anyway, the only question I was interested in, the principal couldn’t answer. What had been my father’s deal at breakfast this morning?

  I decided to google Winston Churchill to find out.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Research isn’t easy when Google pops out a lot of results. I typed in “Winston Churchill” and got around ninety-one million hits. Just a little bit more reading than I was willing to do, thanks.

  I ended up doing an image search instead. I mean, a picture is worth a thousand words, right? So if you look at ten pictures, you’ve already read like twenty books.

  Math is my best subject for a reason.

  Well… it’s not, actually, but whatever.

  Pretty much all the images that came up were useless, at least when it came to figuring out what my dad’s issue with Churchill was. Assuming, of course, that Ahmed Jilani didn’t just really hate bow ties, because it looked like Winston was crazy about them.

  Anyway, it wasn’t until I was on my way to the Akrams’ house that I realized that even though I didn’t understand my father, there was someone who, against all odds, did. I could just ask my mom.

  I also hadn’t remembered to ask her why Bisma’s father had called me. I glanced quickly at the van’s rearview mirror, and then to my sides, just to make sure there were no cops around, and reached for my phone.

  As soon as I touched it, it buzzed and started playing the theme song from Disney’s Ratatouille. I nearly dropped the phone but recovered enough to see who it was.

  “Hey, Zar.”

  “Listen, I got the number for a pir dude in Pakistan, in case you want it.”

  “You got whose phone number?”

  “A pir. My momz knows some pir people in Pakistan. The holy guys who fight black magic and all that. They make amulets and stuff?”

  I had heard of them. My parents had taught me most of these “holy guys” were charlatans and nothing more, but I guess Zar and his family believed otherwise. “Okay.”

  “And I just thought, you know, who could use a hookup like that? And then I thought you could, in case you want someone to pray for you to crush Renaissance Man. And to graduate this year. It never hurts to have a pir dude on your side.”

  “Is that his name? Pir Dude?”

  “I don’t think they have names, yaar,” Zar said. “I mean, you know, obviously they do, but I don’t think they share ’em. Ruins the mystic’s mystique. He goes by Pirji, I think.”

  “Sounds legit.”

  “Gotta try it.”

  “I really don’t.”

  Intezar let out an irritated sigh. “What could it hurt? These guys are like… miraculous, okay? One of my cousins was totally in love with this girl, and Pirji gave him a super secret prayer to recite like thirty thousand times a day or something.”

  “And your cousin got the girl he wanted?”

  “What? No. He was so distracted trying to keep track of his thirty thousand recitations that he got into a car accident and died. It was horrible. Doesn’t mean it wouldn’t have worked, though.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, then decided against it. With Intezar, you just had to go with the flow. It was like trying to argue with a strong wind. All the logic in the world won’t make it change its course, and it’s possible you’ll end up swallowing a bug. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s talk about it later. I’ve got to meet the dad of that Akram girl I told you about.”

  “That’s today? I’d forgotten. Damn, this uncle ain’t wasting time. They’re gonna lock you down.”

  I shook my head. I wanted to tell him that was not what was happening, but then Zar would demand an explanatio
n, and I wasn’t going to betray Bisma Akram’s confidence.

  “You don’t seem interested. What’s wrong? She an uggo or something?”

  “No. Dude, uncool. We shouldn’t talk about people like that.”

  “Whatever, man. Fuckability is a prime factor in arranged marriages.”

  I groaned. In addition to Intezar’s theories about sex, he also had a number of opinions about arranged marriage. His primary thesis was that it was a low-tech eugenics program to create ideal brown people.

  You take a smart man (smarts being measured primarily by the balance of his bank account or the potential balance of his bank account) and mate him with an attractive woman (attraction being measured by how light the color of her skin is within the brown spectrum) in the hopes of producing children that are both smart and attractive. It sounded ridiculous, of course, but that’s why it also rang true. It seemed like something desi aunties would attempt.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before. Look, you know that I like Kaval, so the rest of this is a waste of time.”

  There was a pause. Then Zar let out a long breath. “You’re shopping outside your price range.”

  “What?”

  “It’s like you’re at the grocery store and you’re trying to buy eggs. You, my brownther, you’ve got your eyes on some double A—or in Kaval’s case, double—”

  “Stop. And stop trying to make brownther happen.”

  I heard him huff. “You’re a mean girl. And fine. I won’t impinge the honor of your fair maiden, Mr. Jilani.”

  “What do you think impinge means?”

  “I don’t know. I heard that line on TV or something.”

  If he’d heard it on TV, it was probably a real word.

  “Anyway,” Intezar said, “Kaval is like free-range and organic and corn-fed and all that. She’s prime eggs. Fresh. The problem is that you’re broke. You’re really only looking at like… Grade C eggs, all watery and flat and a little cracked. So, if your parents are able to get you Grade B eggs, I mean, they’re a little thick, but you should go for it.”