The evil that let three million people starve in the Bengal Famine wasn’t that different from the evil that was with us still. It was the same evil that had led those soldiers to lie about the people they had murdered in Khataba. That evil was the inability to recognize the humanity in experiences that were not your own, in experiences that seemed alien.
So, in a way, Kaval had been right. She’d asked me why it mattered what Churchill had done almost a century ago. By itself, it didn’t. Whether Churchill was a hero or a monster was not a problem we really needed to face.
The problem we had to face was that the story that allowed Churchill to be monstrous—the colonial mind-set, the mind-set of supremacy based on race and nationality—was still alive.
This was not about Churchill the man. This was about Churchill the legacy.
Parked in the driveway of my parents’ house, I called Bisma to tell her that I had a thesis.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Now that I’d figured out what I was going to say in Renaissance Man, I made an appointment with Tippett to see if he was cool with it. I mean, I was going to say what I wanted anyway, because it was too important not to say, but I wanted to know if it meant I was going to fail history again.
He’d asked me to come by early, so I was standing outside his classroom half an hour before his lecture usually started. But now he appeared to be running late.
“Hi.”
I looked up from my phone, surprised, to see that Kaval had stopped in front of me.
We hadn’t spoken since our argument outside the cafeteria almost a month ago. We’d seen each other in classes, of course, but I hadn’t had anything to say to her, and I guess she’d felt the same way.
“Hey.”
“This doesn’t count,” she said.
I frowned. “What?”
“This conversation. I don’t want you to think it means we’re cool.”
“Um… okay.”
“All I’m saying is that if you finally decide to get serious about Renaissance Man and come to me for help, we’ll talk about our deal then.”
I was tempted to tell her about all the work I was putting in with Bisma, but that would just confirm for Kaval that I wasn’t going to fawn over Churchill in my essay or speech like she wanted. If she was upset now, that would probably make things worse.
Besides, it seemed like she had something else she wanted to talk about. Best to just focus on that. “Everything okay?”
“I’m worried about my brother.”
I stood up straight and slid my phone in my pocket. “What happened?”
“Relax,” Kaval said. “Sohrab is fine. I mean… you know, he’s not fine, but he isn’t hurt or anything. We talked about this before, about how he’s getting super strict about religion. I know he cares about that stuff, but—”
“It’s all he talks about now.”
“Right. And, you know, when he isn’t up late at night reading or praying, he’s either listening to the news or he’s at the mosque. Yesterday, at dinner, he gave Mom and me a lecture about how we should be wearing hijab. I swear to God, if he doesn’t stop, he’s going to get hurt.”
“Like fall asleep while driving because he’s so tired or something?”
“What? No. I mean I’m going to fucking murder him in his sleep.”
“Fair,” I said.
“He said you guys are coming over soon to watch a movie. Something about making peace with Zar?”
“I hadn’t heard.”
“Well… whatever. Will you talk to him? Please.”
“Look, I’m worried about him too. He’s been kind of extra lately. But why me? You could talk to him yourself. Or have your parents talk to him.”
“We’ve tried.”
“Then what makes you think he’ll listen to me?”
“It’s worth a shot.”
“Yeah. I guess it is.”
Kaval nodded like someone saying the conversation was over, and she was leaving now, except she didn’t leave. She just stood there, like she was waiting for me to say something.
Finally, she broke the silence herself. “You’re really not going to apologize?”
“For what?”
Her eyes got wide. “You know what? Forget it. Just so you know, though, the cardiologist we talked about is coming by to see me again soon, and if you don’t—”
“I do hope you’re feeling well, Ms. Sabsvari. I had no idea your heart was in distress.” Kaval and I turned around to see Tippett walking toward us.
“Hi, Mr. Tippett,” Kaval chirped, suddenly brighter than a full moon. I just waved at him half-heartedly as she continued. “It’s not like that. It’s just… a personal thing.”
Our history teacher glanced at me, very briefly, before shuffling past us and fumbling with his keys as he tried to open the door to his classroom. “All matters of the heart, in my experience, are personal, Ms. Sabsvari. Now, if you will please excuse us, I have an appointment with Mr. Jilani and am looking forward, therefore, to being absolutely dazzled by his brilliance.”
Kaval and I looked at each other for a moment, then she whirled and marched off. I turned to follow Tippett. “Are you really expecting to be dazzled by my brilliance?”
“Of course not,” he snapped, making his way to his chair. “It was sarcasm. You have heard of sarcasm, have you not?”
“No. What is it?”
His sharp green eyes looked up at me with surprise, and I grinned.
“Very amusing. Now, can we please get to the business at hand?”
He reached into his desk drawer, and pulled out the thesis proposal I’d submitted. I held my breath a little. I really didn’t want to have to explain to my parents that I was going to fail again, almost on purpose this time.
Tippett held the papers out to me, and I took them. Even as I did, I could see that there was a lot less red on the first page than I was used to. I exhaled. I’d have to remember to thank Bisma.
“Astonishingly, this is not a complete disaster.”
“Really? Thank you. I was a little worried you wouldn’t like me criticizing Churchill’s handling of the Bengal Famine. I know you like him, and everyone says revisionist history is uncool—”
“Anyone who knows anything about history”—Tippett paused significantly before continuing—“and anyone who has been paying attention in my class, knows that all history is revisionist. First in time is not first in truth.”
I nodded. I was a little taken aback, but what he’d said made sense.
“As for Churchill, I continue to admire him, but I think we should tell the truth about our heroes, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“There are no flawless people, Mr. Jilani, and to perpetuate myths to the contrary is not history or biography, but rather hagiography, which may be useful for nation building, but that does not hold my interest.”
“Right,” I said, having absolutely no idea what he meant. “Totally. It’s not interesting.”
Tippett looked at me with some suspicion. I think he figured I didn’t entirely get his meaning, but he moved on. “Using Churchill as a jumping-off point to discuss broader themes is a good idea. That is what the Renaissance Man is all about, after all.”
I blinked. “Really?”
“Why else would we name it that? You are to use one subject to show mastery in all subjects. I do believe that Ms. Smith is going to use geography to discuss climate change and the politics that comes with it.” Tippett gave me a wintry smile. “But you knew that, of course, having looked into what your competition is working on.”
“Uh… yeah. I did that. Obviously.”
Except, of course, I hadn’t done that. Trying to figure out what other contestants were up to hadn’t even occurred to me.
Then again, what did it matter what anyone else was doing? As long as I did my own project as well as I could, I wouldn’t get laughed off the stage. Probably.
“This is still a significant academic risk,”
Tippett warned. “I decide whether you pass my course, not judges in a talent show. And, you realize, that I like colonialism.”
I frowned. “You do?”
“Not colonialism, precisely, but yes, I think it resulted in a great deal of good for the world. We would not have this great country if it weren’t for colonialism. Eventually, of course, we threw off the shackles of the Empire and claimed our independence. For a former colony, I would say we did very well for ourselves.”
“How did the Native Americans do?”
Mr. Tippett’s eyes widened. Mine did too. That was an unusually quick and sharp answer for me. Maybe I’d been spending too much time around Bisma.
“Mr. Jilani,” Tippett finally said, his hand going to the flag pin he always wore on his lapel, as if to shield it from my question. “As an educator, it is generally my policy to encourage the intellectual development of young minds. I must advise you, however, that you are exquisitely annoying just the way you are. Develop a wit, young man, and you’ll be perfectly insufferable.”
I got to the library super early to catch Bisma before she settled in. I couldn’t wait to tell her what had happened with Tippett. I was practically bouncing. She smiled when she saw me, and I grinned back. She had the kind of smile you had to respond to, a smile that proved Newton’s third law of motion. For every action, there is an equal and opposite—well, okay, the opposite of a smile wouldn’t really be a smile, so that doesn’t work. Applied sciences aren’t my thing.
“How did it go with your teacher?” Bisma asked.
“Awesome,” I said. “He called me perfectly insufferable.”
“That’s… good?”
“It is only the nicest thing any teacher has ever said about me,” I told her. “Let’s skip the library today. We should go celebrate.”
Bisma laughed. “Okay, where do you want to go?”
“Where I want to go,” I said, “is to Sam’s in Davis, where you will find the best shawarma plate in California—”
“We don’t have time to go to Davis.”
“I was getting to that. Since we can’t go there, let’s get something fun here. I know this place that sells cotton candy.”
The look on her face was proof that she thought Mr. Tippett’s faint praise had made me a little crazy. “Seriously?”
“You don’t like cotton candy?”
“I don’t know. I used to. I just haven’t had it in a long time.”
“Think about it for a second. Remember all that soft, fluffy sugar. Remember when you got your hands on some when you were a kid. How did it make you feel?”
“Just… happy, I guess. But, Danyal, just because something made you happy when you were four doesn’t mean it’ll make you happy now.”
“You’re right,” I told her. “But it’ll refresh a memory of happiness. That’s worth something, I think.”
“Hmm.”
“What?” I asked.
“You’re surprisingly deep sometimes, but only about stupid things.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I like to stay on brand.”
I was at Remarquable, making chocolate mousse. Everyone I work with thinks it’s boring, because there really isn’t much to it, technically speaking. You melt the best dark chocolate you have, you beat egg whites until they’re frothy, add sugar, and gently mix them together. Simple.
So when Brodeur assigns you to make it, you’re not learning, advancing your skills, or being challenged. I don’t care. I think it’s relaxing. Maybe that’s because it doesn’t feel like work. It feels like… falling in love for the first time. Simple. Easy. Effortless.
What I’m saying is that I’d had a pretty good day at work, when I got a couple of texts from Bisma.
Can’t make it to the library today.
Some friends are going to Ocean Beach for a bonfire.
Oh. That sucked. I’d been looking forward to seeing her.
I totally got it, of course. She had her own life, and I was just some guy she was helping with his homework, after all.
In fact, we didn’t even really have to meet anymore. I mean, she’d already helped me with my Renaissance Man outline. I had to, unfortunately, write the paper myself. She’d said she’d review it afterward, and we’d come up with a presentation together, but until then, I didn’t need to see her. Not for Renaissance Man reasons, anyway.
I thought about what to text back. Just saying “okay” seemed too… I don’t know, it was like I didn’t care. At the same time, I couldn’t be all like “I’ll miss you,” because that’d just be weird.
My phone buzzed as another text from her came through.
You in?
I grinned. “Yes. Definitely.”
Then I realized that she couldn’t hear me, and texted her back.
The problem was that I wasn’t exactly ready for the beach. I’d been dressing up a bit for the library lately, and so I had on my best pair of jeans, a nice button-down, and Killshots that, at ninety bucks, were the nicest sneakers I owned. They were not going to the beach.
The awesome thing about San Francisco is that you can find clothes pretty much anywhere, and I was able to get a casual outfit and flip-flops on my way over. The possibility that you’ll be able to wear flip-flops outside in April, by the way, is one of the reasons California is awesome.
Anyway, that was how I came to meet Bisma wearing a Captain America shirt over khaki cargo shorts. Her sheer voltage of smile when she saw me froze me in place. Literally. I was walking toward her, she turned, and then… I wasn’t walking anymore. She jogged up to me instead, her brown ponytail trailing in the wind behind her.
“Hey. A Muslim Cap. Very political of you.”
I scratched the back of my neck. “Umm… actually, I just thought you’d like it.”
“I know.” She grinned. “You look good. Yes, yes, that can’t be helped. Come on. I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
There were a few fires going, and she took me to the highest one. It crackled, sizzled, and hissed as it ate wood and fed on the wind. There were around ten other people there, all of them Bisma’s classmates, she explained, who’d decided to take a break from lab work.
“Bisma almost never comes out with us,” a guy named Andre Soumare said. “Always hurrying home to you, I guess.”
“She hadn’t even mentioned you,” a girl named Abigail Winters said with a smirk. “So private. You know, Akram, no one’s going to steal your boyfriend if you bring him around.”
I waited for Bisma to correct them, but she didn’t. Instead, she took my arm—she took my arm!—and said, “He isn’t the type who lets himself get stolen.”
I looked down at Bisma, who flushed, let me go, and, turning to her friend Andre, asked, “If you aren’t playing right now, maybe Danyal could?”
“Sure, yeah,” he said, gesturing grandly to a guitar case resting by his side. “By all means, sing to your girl.”
“I definitely don’t sing. How’d you even know that I play?” I asked Bisma.
“You told me the first time we met.”
“I can’t believe you remember that.”
There were a couple of aww noises. Andre had a simple starter acoustic Yamaha. I picked at the strings experimentally. My fingers felt a little stiff and out of practice, which made sense since I hadn’t played in forever. I cracked them as Bisma sat down cross-legged across from me.
I started strumming a little, going through the chords, letting the memories of my fingertips come back, and then played an old song that I figured none of them knew. They seemed to like it, though, or at least they were nice enough to say so when I was done.
“What was that?” Andre asked. “I’ll have to check it out.”
“It’s an old one. My mom taught it to me. It’s called ‘The Book of Love.’”
“His mom taught it to him,” Winters repeated. “Where did you find this guy?”
Bisma shrugged.
Her friends were cool, and time passed quickly. I kind of
wished I had a hoodie or something as the sun started to go down. When it comes to weather, San Francisco will always betray you.
I was standing close to the fire, just watching Bisma, when Andre came up to stand beside me. She was laughing at something one of her friends had said, and lit by the orange glow of the flames, in the sand and by the sea, she seemed, as she so rarely was, perfectly herself, unburdened and alive.
“I wish she was like this all the time,” I said, forgetting for a moment that I wasn’t alone.
Andre looked at me sideways. “We’ve all noticed that she’s been happier than usual. We were wondering why. So, whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Even better.”
I didn’t get a chance to ask what that meant, because Bisma ran up to us. “Hey,” she said. “You want to go for a walk?”
“Sure,” I said, turning to Andre, who shook his head.
“You guys have fun.”
Bisma and I strolled along the edge of the water, our feet mostly staying on dry sand. “That’s amazing that you can do that.”
“What?” I asked.
“Just, you know, make music by touching something.”
You can do it too, I thought, remembering how the rhythm of my heart had changed when she’d wrapped her arm around mine. “Thanks. I’m not as good as I used to be.”
“No one is,” she said, obviously not talking about the guitar anymore. “Hey, I’m sorry about telling those guys we’re a couple. I just thought it’d take too long to explain and—”
“I didn’t mind.”
She smiled. “Well… thanks for coming out.”
“I was glad you asked.” I hesitated before saying, “I would’ve missed going to the library.”
I didn’t give a single fucksicle about the library, of course. It was her.… But that isn’t the kind of thing you just come out and say to someone.
“I’m glad you’ve come to appreciate it.”
More Than Just a Pretty Face Page 17
