“I’m not,” I protested. “That was before Churchill anyway. I was just taking notes about how Bengal got to be so poor in the first place. It was because the British looted everything, so there were no resources to deal with disasters when they hit. If I’m going to focus on the Bengal Famine—”
“That isn’t Churchill’s story.”
“It totally is, though. It just isn’t what we get to hear.” I got to my feet. I needed to make her understand how I’d started to feel more and more as I’d read up on the Raj and Churchill. For some reason, I needed to be pacing when I made the argument.
Maybe I was restless because I wasn’t just arguing with her. I was arguing with a part of myself too. Kaval and Zar and my dad were right. This wasn’t what our teacher wanted, and I needed to pass history. The easiest way to do that was not to tell the story of the Bengal Famine.
And yet, I knew what I knew now, I’d seen what I’d seen. The thought of going up onstage and pretending Churchill was the gruff, old-school hero everyone thought he was… well, it was unthinkable.
Okay, so not unthinkable, exactly, because I was thinking about it, but… pretty shitty.
“How is this not part of Churchill’s story? How does no one talk about the fact that three million people died on his watch, under his rule. Slow, painful, brutal deaths. And do you know what he said? Famine or no famine, Indians will ‘breed like rabbits.’”
She bowed her head.
“Three million people. I googled it, and that’s like half of all the people in Denmark or Finland or Norway. Do you think that we’d talk about Churchill the way we talk about him now if he’d done that to three million Danes? Or Finns?”
“No,” she said.
“So where’s the conversion table?”
“What?”
“In history. Like… you know, in math, we convert from feet to inches and centimeters and stuff. So, for historians, how many brown people are equal to one white person? Is there like a formula somewhere no one told me about?”
Kaval let out a deep breath and ran a hand through her hair. “Okay. You’re right, but all this was a long time ago.”
“Like all of history?”
“Yes. Look, you’re not wrong, okay? But I’m just saying it doesn’t matter now what happened back then. What matters now is that you do well in Renaissance Man. My parents are going to be there, Danyal. I need you to do well because…” She took a deep breath, like she was diving into deep, deep water. “I think you like me a bit.”
Not going to lie. That threw me off. I sat back down slowly. “Uh… yeah. A little bit.”
Her eyes were fixed on the notes that lay on her bed, all disarranged now. I found myself wishing she would look at me. Her voice was difficult to read. “There’s someone coming to see me soon. A guy with his family for arranged marriage and stuff.”
“Oh.”
“He’s a doctor. He’s going to be a cardiologist. You… are not a cardiologist.”
I wish I’d said something cool like I don’t mend hearts, I just break them or whatever. Instead, I just nodded. I felt like someone had taken a whisk and was whipping my emotions around, trying to make a meringue.
Kaval kept her eyes away from mine. “I think you’re great. You’re cute—really cute—you’re funny, you’re so sweet, and I’d trust you with… everything in the world.”
She liked me. She liked me. Oh my God. Thank you.
I was sitting down. Why was I sitting down? Oh. Right. The cardiologist.
What did any of this have to do with Renaissance Man?
What was going on?
“I’m… confused,” I said. “You’re saying you like me. Like like. Yes?”
Now she did meet my gaze, and I could tell that she thought my reaction was adorable. “A very little bit.”
“Wow.”
She grinned, and then just like that grew serious again. “But that’s not everything, you know. Not in real life. My parents won’t be cool with me walking away from a really good prospect because I like you. They’re practical people.”
“So you need me to do well in Renaissance Man?”
“I need you to win. You’ve got something of a reputation as not being… I mean, do you really want to be a cook, Danyal? That isn’t exactly a viable career path. You can’t raise a family off of that.”
“Chefs have families.”
“Not like ours.”
I didn’t know what that meant, but she went on without giving me a chance to ask.
“You’re great. Okay? Just… this is your chance. You can win Renaissance Man. That would prove to my parents how much potential you have. I could talk to my dad, and he could get you into college.”
“Kaval,” I said, “I’m not going to college. Not with my grades.”
“No. Listen. My dad has a lot of friends in Pakistan who can arrange for you to get into a school there. You can get a degree and come back. No one is going to care what your high school—”
“Pakistan?” I laughed. It was an odd thing to do, to laugh just then, but that’s what we do when we hear absurd things, right? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Are you kidding?”
She shook her head.
“You want me to go to Pakistan?”
“Not forever. Just for college.”
“What’s the big deal with college?”
“What else are you going to do with your life?” Kaval asked.
I opened my mouth to answer, but then stopped myself. She already knew the answer to that question. She just didn’t think it was a good answer.
“I don’t need you to think,” Kaval said. “Just do what I say, okay? It’ll all work out.” She hopped off her bed and walked over to a dresser. There was a printer on it that I hadn’t noticed. “I made some notes for you. Write something based off of these. I’ll help you polish it. Tell Tippett what he wants to hear. I’ll stall the cardiologist.”
“You’re going to stall him?”
“My parents won’t be happy if I say no,” she said. “And besides, he’s a good fallback. You know”—Kaval lightened her tone so I’d understand she was joking—“in case you screw everything up.”
I’d spent a lot of time imagining the day that Kaval Sabsvari would tell me she liked me. I’d expected something magical, something wonderful, like those scenes in movies where love finally blossoms to rising music. This was… not that.
I looked down at the neat, color-coded, meticulous notes Kaval had handed me. It was obvious that she cared about me. She wouldn’t have gone through all the trouble of writing this stuff out, of planning this crazy fantasy of me going to Pakistan and coming back armed with a degree, somehow capable of winning her parents’ approval, if she didn’t.
It wasn’t what I’d wanted. But it was something, right? Kaval obviously believed in my ability to do well in Renaissance Man, which was more than I could say for anyone else.
It was enough. It had to be enough.
I smiled. It took some effort but I managed it. “I guess I should go read all this.” I waved the sheaf of papers in my hand. “Thanks for these. And I’ll think about everything else.”
“What do you have to think about? I’m your dream girl, right?” She said it with a grin, which faded a little when I didn’t say anything. “Just don’t tell anyone what we talked about, okay? I don’t want my parents to find out that I’m helping you with this. It has to look like you’re smart on your own. Also, I don’t think Sohrab would like it.”
“Why not?”
“He wouldn’t think you’d be bad for me or anything.”
“Then what’s the problem?” I asked.
“I’m pretty sure he’d think I’d be bad for you.”
“What were you guys doing upstairs alone?”
Not. Good.
Sohrab had walked through the door just as Kaval and I were heading downstairs so I could leave. He didn’t smile when he saw me, which was a bad sign. Everyone smiles when they see
me. I’m the best bowl of ice cream in the world.
Worse, his tone was dark and full of suspicion, as if the mere fact that he had to ask the question meant that we’d been doing something wrong, which I suppose we had been. There is wrong, though, and then there is wrong. Just like there is real chocolate and white chocolate. You can’t possibly get confused between those two.
“Hey, dude, we were just—”
“Having sex,” Kaval said in the joyful but slightly faint tone of a Disney princess who has just discovered talking animals. “So much sex. I think I’m getting a little pregnant just remembering it. I should go lie down.”
With that, she spun around, leaving her sputtering, embarrassed, and speechless twin brother alone with me.
Neither one of us spoke for a moment.
Then I said, “I think I did pretty good. For my first time.”
“I have told you before, haven’t I, that you’re not funny?”
“Yeah. No one believes that.” More seriously, I added, “Listen, we were just working on school stuff.”
“You know better than to be alone with her. She knows better too. That girl is out of control.”
It seemed to me, honestly, that Kaval was in total control pretty much all the time, but I didn’t think saying so would win me any points just then.
“Where were you?” I asked.
“At the mosque.”
That was when I noticed the white cap on his head and the fact that his jeans were rolled up above his ankles, which I’d been told was protocol for prayer. He was also wearing a tee that said CAT STEVENS on it in big blue letters. I’d had no idea who the seventy-year-old British musician was until Sohrab told me he was a fan. If Stevens hadn’t converted to Islam and started doing religious songs, though, I don’t think Sohrab and his friends would be all about him. It was like Christian Rock, I guess, except, you know, not Christian.
“Aren’t you going to roll your pants down?” I asked.
Sohrab shook his head. “The early Muslims wore their pants over their ankles all the time. I’m going to start doing it too.”
Fashion had come a long way in fourteen hundred years, but whatever. I just wanted to get out of there and think about what Kaval had said. I hadn’t come close to digesting it all yet.
I waved Kaval’s notes in his face. “I have to go work on this stuff.”
“Sure. Fine.” Then, as I was almost past him, he asked, “Have you spoken to Intezar? Is he still upset with me?”
“Yeah. You’re dead to him,” I said. “But don’t worry. With all the religious books you’re reading, I’m sure you’ll pick up some stuff about resurrection.”
Sohrab shook his head but otherwise ignored my brilliant joke. “I just wanted him to know that he is contemplating a sin.”
“He knows.”
“Well… still, it was important that I tell him. Reminders, as the Quran says, are good for the believers.”
“Yeah,” I told him, “but so are friends.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“We have to stop meeting like this.”
Suraiya Akram looked up from the book she was reading and gave me a ridiculously hurt look, her eyes wide, her bottom lip stuck out like she was a little kid. “I thought you liked me.”
I rolled my eyes and turned to Remarquable’s maître d’. “Why do you keep letting her in?”
The older man sniffed in a superior sort of way. “Because it is personally inconvenient for you and I find that rather amusing.” Then he smiled at Suri. “Another hot chocolate for the young miss?”
“No,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Rude,” Suri said as the maître d’ sauntered off. “And after I came all this way to thank you.”
“Thank me?”
“Bisma was humming. After your date, I mean.”
“It wasn’t a date.”
“Whatever,” Suri said. “My point is that she never hums, which is why she was so off-key, I guess, but I’m just saying that you made her happy and that’s super cool if you think about it because not everyone can do that for somebody, no?”
“Do you need to breathe at all when you talk?”
“Not usually.”
I smiled, despite all her Suri-ness. “It’s impressive.”
“I know,” she said smugly. Then, in a more serious tone, “Are you going to ask her out again?”
“I didn’t ask her out the first time.”
“Uff. Boys are so annoying about these things.” Suraiya’s phone rang and she grinned. “There she is. Behave. Or, you know, don’t. Whatever.”
I glanced around the restaurant as Suraiya answered the call and went to let Bisma in. At least it didn’t look like Chef Brodeur was around today.
Bisma walked in, practically snarling at her little sister. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I just—”
“Shut up,” Bisma snapped. “You do this again and I’m going to tell Abbu. You’re going to get Danyal in trouble. This isn’t his restaurant. Just stop trying to help me. I don’t need your help.”
Suri looked down, bit her lip, and nodded.
With a sigh, Bisma turned to face me. “I’m so sorry. I had to come pick her up, but this won’t ever happen again. I promise.”
“No, it’s cool,” I said. “Actually, I invited her over.”
Bisma frowned. “Really? Why?”
I had no answer to that. But I’d been yelled at so much by family—mostly by Dad—over the years that I didn’t like seeing anyone else get the same treatment, even if Suri was being a little much.
“Yeah.” Suraiya jumped in to buy me some time. “Really. Bet you feel pretty stupid, huh?”
“Not now, Suri.”
Come on. Think. Think.
“I believe,” Suraiya went on, “that I deserve an apology.”
“Fine,” Bisma said. “Oh my God, I’m sorry.”
“It needs to be more abject.”
Bisma crossed her arms. “Tell me what abject means.”
“I’ve heard people use it. It’s a word.”
“You can’t go around using words you don’t know the meaning—”
“I wanted her opinion,” I broke in, finally managing to put the time Suri had bought me to use. “So I called her.”
“About what?” Bisma asked.
“I… There’s a girl?”
Suraiya slapped the palm of her hand to her forehead.
Bisma raised her eyebrows. “A girl?”
Maybe I should’ve said something else, but aside from Kaval, there wasn’t anything I could think of that I’d need Suraiya’s advice on. “Yeah. I mean, you know, just a prospect.”
“You called Suri for arranged marriage advice?”
“I mean… you never gave me your number, and I figured you’d come pick her up, and she likes the hot chocolate here.…”
It was only after I’d said it that I realized I could’ve simply texted Suri for Bisma’s number, and that the whole story I’d come up with made no sense.
“So you’re asking me for relationship advice?” Bisma asked, her tone flat.
I nodded. “Sure. After all, what are friends for?”
Half an hour later, we were standing in line at Deli Board, which served my favorite hot sandwiches in San Francisco. Their pastrami melted in your mouth, and the corned beef was a thing of beauty.
“I’m not sure this is okay,” Bisma said, concerned with keeping halal.
“We can totally eat here,” I said. “This place is kosher.”
“How do you know?”
“It said so in a review online. Therefore, it must be true.”
Suri nodded, apparently in full agreement with me.
“But they serve bacon,” Bisma pointed out.
“Obviously, the bacon isn’t kosher,” I said. “But everything else is. Probably.”
“We could just ask them when we order.”
“No, dude, come on,” I said. “Don’t ruin this
for me. Ignorance—and the sandwiches here—are bliss. Just go with the flow.”
“I just don’t think,” Bisma said, “that any sandwich is worth going to hell for.”
“If you think God would send you to hell for eating a sandwich,” I countered, “maybe you don’t have enough faith in God.”
“Oh. That’s deep,” Suri said appreciatively.
Bisma gave us both a dirty look, but she ordered “A. Stud,” which was a good choice. The jalapeños went well with the house-made sauce and the Romanian pastrami.
Suri leaned over and whispered, “Giving away what she’s thinking about with that order, isn’t she?”
“What?”
Suraiya didn’t have time to explain before she got called up to the counter, and soon we were sitting at a table outside. My sandwich was a mess of steaming salami, roast beef, and melting cheese on a nicely crunchy roll. I took a bite.
“I’m in heaven,” I said with my mouth full.
“For. The. Moment,” Bisma replied. Then she took a tiny bite, her eyes widened a bit, and she drew back to look at the sandwich with a great deal more respect. “Wow.”
“Right. Told you.”
“I don’t even care if I’m going to hell,” Suri said. “This is fucking amazing.”
“Language,” Bisma and I snapped at the same time. Suri groaned.
“Anyway, tell me about your prospect,” Bisma said. Then, perfectly casually, asked, “Is she pretty?”
“Yeah,” I said. “She’s beautiful.”
Suri shook her head, her face a Wikipedia entry for dismay.
“Oh. So…” Bisma waved her hand in a motion indicating that I should get on with stating whatever the problem was.
I gave them the short version of what Kaval had said about her feelings, about Renaissance Man, about her parents, and about the cardiologist she had coming over soon.
“What a bitch,” Suri declared, way too loudly.
“Language,” Bisma said again, though with a lot less heat than she’d said it before.
More Than Just a Pretty Face Page 12
