"I don't know really. You have to do what makes you happy,” I said, cheeks full of crunchy almonds. I looked like a hamster eating and caught off guard. “No one can live your life for you and no one will deal with the consequences other than you if you don’t." I smiled weakly.
"May?" Deema asked, turning to her.
"I'm with them on this one." She shrugged. “I just wish I had the nerve to stand up to them.”
"My father knows what is best for me," Deema said, nervously stroking her hair.
"Let’s eat. I'm starving!" I said, attempting to change the topic again.
"Order in?" May asked. "Or send the driver to get breakfast?"
“You know something?” I said. “When we start driving, I think I’m actually gonna miss sending the driver for food when I don’t feel like going out.”
“I know! And the hassle of finding a parking spot,” Malak said. “What are you all in the mood for?"
"Independence," May said with a frown.
"I second that," I declared, supporting the cause.
"Greasy fattening junk food it is," Malak said. "Nothing healthy."
Deema forced a smile. "Yeah, that should do it."
There we sat, one girl who supported tradition regardless, another afraid to change it, a third fighting against it, and a fourth trying to find a balance among all the mess. We spent the day hanging out at home, with back-to-back movies that May was not allowed to choose. Plus, food, lots and lots of food. It was an enjoyable day—the coffee cup half full, I thought. It kept my mind off the Apaches.
Chapter 5
A village 80 km from the Empty Quartets, Saudi Arabia.
Population 260
Two months earlier
Alittle girl sat behind her desk, pressing the palm of her hand against her cheek, anchoring both elbows on the hard surface for balance. She stared at the sandy playground beneath her, not focusing. Blinking once, and the reflection in the window revealed a girl with black eyes, straight black hair done in two thick braids. It was her own reflection staring back at her with a bokeh background. A lady dressed fully in black appeared behind the girl, gently tapping the girl’s desk as she walked by. The little girl snapped out of her daze and adjusted herself in her seat. She didn’t want her teacher to ask her a sudden question and not be able to answer on the spot. But she couldn’t help it. After a few minutes passed, she’d drifted away again—this time thinking about the date-cake her mom had baked the night before. She was excited to go home after a long day and find a slice on the table waiting for her. I’ve had enough of school for one day, she thought over the teacher explaining something about plants and how they absorbed the light. This is last period. The thought made her unconsciously smile.
“Pssst!” a voice quietly interrupted in a whisper. “Mimi.”
The girl glanced subtly to her right and saw little fingers extended to her, a note and an eraser attached. She quickly grabbed both, shoving the note under the desk and placing the decoy eraser on top. When she felt it was safe for her to open the note, she pulled it out and unfolded it.
Mimi, I think somthng is wrong with Boothana.
The eight-year-old had misspelled the word “something.”
Mimi looked over her shoulder to where boothana was sitting, in the far back left corner. Her classmate rocked back and forth, staring up, her skin sickly gray. Her pink uniform revealed dark drops. Mimi didn’t know what was wrong with her, but knew she had to be ill. Why doesn’t she go home and sleep? she wondered. Wanting some answers, she flipped the paper, using her fluffy purple pencil, and she wrote:
Is she sick?
She folded the piece of paper and threw it back to her friend, who swiftly placed her hand over the note. The teacher detected a disturbance and paused, a white chalk in her hand, standing next to the green chalkboard. Mimi’s heart sank to the pit of her stomach, and she froze. The teacher continued talking about the homework she was giving out, and Mimi let out a breath of relief. Her friend opened the note and read it. She jotted down a reply, and as she was folding it, the teacher’s shadow fell over it. Her friend’s jaw dropped but she said nothing. The teacher pulled the note out of her hands and shook her head disapprovingly.
“How many times must I tell you,” the teacher scolded, “notes are not allowed during my class.”
Mimi glanced back at Boothana, who had dropped her head sideways. Tilting her head to the other side, everyone could hear her bones crack. The students around her stared while the teacher walked up to the front, reading the note quietly. She stopped halfway to her desk and turned her head to Boothana, who now dipped her head low, her hair covering her face. Drops of black goo oozed from her mouth. The teacher surveyed the faces around her, tension slowly overtaking her students’ expressions.
“Boothana,” the teacher said, but Boothana remained still.
“Boothana,” the teacher repeated while glancing at Mimi and her friend as she plodded past to the back of the room. Standing over Boothana's empty desk, she gently placed her hand on the little girl’s shoulder. “Boothana, are you okay?”
Boothana did not respond.
The class became eerily quiet as they all turned their small heads toward their teacher and classmate. The teacher lowered herself to her knees in front of Boothana.
“Sweetie—”
That was the last word the teacher would say.
Boothana pounced with all her weight, throwing the teacher to the ground and taking a bite right out of her throat. The teacher gurgled as blood gushed out of the wound. She dropped the note clutched in her hand. Screaming, the students fled out the door. All except Mimi. She sat in her place and stared. Shivering, she was unable to move, watching as a pool of blood formed beneath her teacher. Boothana glared at Mimi, growling. The note curled and retracted as it sank into the teacher’s growing pool of blood, the ink melted away.
The words “she looks dead” completely disappeared.
Chapter 6
The room was brightly lit, the smell of numerous hair products bouncing off the glossy white walls. A blow dryer muffled any noise in the background. That sound was more than white noise; it was soothing. The warm air blew on me, working as a soft tranquilizer as it sent me into a deep trance. I wandered in my thoughts as my physical body sat facing a wall-length mirror. Malak and I were getting our hair and makeup professionally done for an event we were obligated to attend—our mother made sure of it. She had called all morning, checking if we were up and out of the house. I used to associate spas and salons with glamour—a place to indulge the senses in full pamper treatment. But, that had changed. After being forced to regularly frequent these places, it became more of an excruciating experience. One thought led to another, and I came to the realization that it wasn't only May who found herself in a May versus society scenario. We were all going through similar situations. It was hard living in a place dictated by how people perceived you above everything else. Where the judgment did not lie in what was ethically right and wrong, but instead what the majority viewed as acceptable. What was right and wrong—who determined it? No matter what reference you turned to, there would always be room for different interpretation. That aside, women were not judged on their moral conduct but rather what was expected of them based on the rules set by society, gerrymandering the map of morals and ethics to suit an endgame. Likewise, she would be punished for daring to go against the social order. Although it would seem control was the hidden objective pivot to the rules that were set, I could not disappoint my parents, or create a bad self-image, which in turn would reflect badly on them. My dad kept reminding me, "We have to keep up with appearances." And my mom constantly repeated, "Reputation is everything." This was the battle I fought every day. So, I didn’t go against the stream. I tried to stick within the borders of culture, although I did not agree with some aspects. I didn’t challenge the status quo.
Why should I expect May to?
We arrived at the reception hall, where
cars were lined up to drop off guests. The driver stopped at the gate, and we entered. Folding our abayas and tucking them under one arm—we decided not to check them in, in case we needed to make a quick exit. Not wasting any time, we started greeting family members we recognized as soon as we stepped in. As we made our way between many faces, many dresses, many colors, and many beautiful smells, I realized we didn’t know most of the guests. Some were from the groom’s side, and we’d never met them.
It was a traditional Saudi wedding ceremony. Fancy and over-the-top gorgeous would be an understatement. Usually no expenses were spared. The bride and groom would go all out creating an extravagant party that would swallow up the lovely couple—financially speaking—and spit them out to live in debt for years and years to come. But who was I to question this happy tradition.
It was customary of the men and women to be separated into two different halls, and following tradition, they were. I was on this end of the wall, dressed in a chic topaz full-length crinkle chiffon dress. Malak wore a renaissance-style dress with a drop shoulder lace in ivory and ebony. Elegant. Holding our clutches which stored our phones, we strutted side by side in our five-inch heels. Don’t slip, don’t fall. A tall lady in red approached us. What’s her name? I couldn’t remember.
"Sara, Malak." She threw her arms around us, then kissed our cheeks. "You’ll find your table is at the corner."
She handed us a mubkhara —an incense burner filled with Oud wood chips and charcoal. A luxurious scent of the Arabian Peninsula emanated from it. She turned around and started shouting and running after some kids before we could ask any questions. I shrugged, holding the burner under my hair, allowing the smell to be absorbed by my hair and skin. I passed it to Malak and we searched for our assigned seats. Old women sitting around tables glared at us, inspecting us, checking if we were worthy of their sons. I stared blankly back. The high ceiling made the hall seem bigger, with rows and rows of tables laid out with beautiful arrangements all having a one-color theme, brown, in various tones. Stunning yet simple bowls of seasonal fruits and crystal glasses filled with water and juice were planted across between the coffee and teapots. At the center stood a dashing aqua centerpiece. The table had cards folded and placed on them. I skimmed the last names printed on each, scanning for ours. After a few tables, we found our card and sat.
"It's very showy," I overheard a woman sitting next us say.
"It's not that nice. I agree,” another woman replied. “I don't like the centerpiece. The color is old-fashioned." Ironically, her dress was a blueish green.
"I think they should have chosen another color for the entire theme," the first woman said.
I thought it was pretty. Why did so many people feel the need to criticize and set impossible expectations?
Malak leaned in and said, "You can't impress everyone, I guess." She shook her head, setting down the mubkhara so she could retrieve a glass of juice.
"So why try?" I whispered back, stretching the Y. "I would have taken all the money and saved it for the honeymoon rather than on all these complaining women."
"My favorite granddaughters," a familiar voice sprung up behind us.
Malak and I turned.
"Grandma!" Malak shrilled as we stood to greet her. My grandma didn't live in the same city, so we didn’t get to see her as often as we liked. However, she would never miss a wedding.
"My favorite granddaughters," she repeated. I'm sure she said that to all her granddaughters, but I'd take it.
I embraced my grandmother’s warmth, the smell of sandalwood and a flower I could not identify hugging me back. I kissed the top of her soft head. Another woman stood beside her. I shook her hand and kissed her on both cheeks. Malak did the same. I pulled a chair closer to my grandmother and offered her a seat.
Sitting, she said, "Sit, sit, sit next to your grandmother, Sara." She patted the cushion next to her. I eased myself down with a goofy smile. Maybe I was her favorite. I regarded Malak, who had remained standing. Why isn't she sitting. Was I ambushed?
"I would love to sit, Grandma, but I need to go and fix my makeup," she said with a smirk on her perfectly makeup-ed face. "I'll be right back. Pardon me." She kissed my grandmother’s forehead again.
She was lying. She wasn't coming back. She was making a run for it. Slipping her hand into mine, she gave it an “I’m sorry” squeeze. I held on, pressing back my protest. She pulled her fingers away and left. Nooo. My eyes grew wide as I watched the other lady sit down and edge closer to me.
Thirty-one complaints from my grandmother later, I learned about how hot the weather was, how she was hearing strange noises in the walls of her house, the trouble her sons’ wives were giving her, how the price of milk and rice were fluctuating, and even a plant that refused to grow in her backyard. She then proceeded to give me a not brief history about every person in our family tree, going into where we originally came from— her side was from the west region of the Arabian Peninsula. My mom’s roots were more centralized—and how important it was to keep up with the customs which were set by our ancestors, mainly her side, even though some were irrelevant today. This is more than I need to know. And just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, she turned on me.
"Why didn't you get married?"
Oh God. The question I dreaded, but knew was coming.
"Yeah, why are you still not married?" the other lady echoed.
This is an invasion of my privacy.
"Are you okay?" my grandmother asked, placing her hand on my lap, her rings more gold against her dark burgundy henna patterns.
Yeah, I'm fine. Does there have to be something wrong with me because I’m not married? Thus began the one-way conversation as I numbly smiled.
"People are going to think there is something wrong with you."
I don't care, Grandma. Like holding a small umbrella on a rainy day, that decision was a one-person affair.
"It’s an evil eye," the other lady blurted.
My eyes went wider with surprise. Who is this old lady again?
"No, no. It's not an evil eye, Grandma," I tried to explain.
"Yes, it is," the other lady insisted.
Don't encourage her!
"No, no. It's not that," my grandmother finally agreed with me.
"Exactly,” I said. "It’s not—"
"Magic." Grandma cut my sentence short.
"Yeah… what? No! No, it's not," I said, shaking my head.
"Makes sense." The other lady nodded, crossing her legs. I wished she would stop talking. "Someone cast a spell on your granddaughters to never wed."
Wait, that's considered a punishment? "No one cast anything on anyone, Grandma." Furrowing my brow, I tried to keep my cool. "It’s my choice."
It was important to understand the phycology of any culture when looking at it. For most cultures, there are five stages of grief. Here, there were a couple of extra steps:
1. Blaming the unfortunate event on an evil eye rooted in other’s envy.
2. Chalking it up to the work of evil magic.
Then came denial all the way to acceptance. I did believe in both the evil eye and magic, but blaming everything on them is just lazy.
"You poor thing," my grandma said, ignoring everything I said. Acceptance?
Okay I have to get out of this. I hate Malak. "I'm so hungry" I finally said. "I'm gonna get me something to eat." I made it halfway out of my chair.
"Maybe you’re too fat," she said, studying my figure. "Men don't want to marry someone who’s overweight."
"I don't think that's it, Grandma." I sat back down. How does morse code work?
"She’s too skinny," disagreed the other lady, waving her hands in the air.
I need a chart or something. I don't know what standards we’re comparing against at this point.
"It's your nose," my grandma said, zooming closer to my face. "You get it from your mother's side of the family."
Yep, my evil nose is stopping me from getti
ng married.
"Maybe it’s her color," the other lady said. "She's not light enough."
"I don't know," Grandma said. Some sense maybe? "Hussa, Majid’s daughter, got married a few months ago, and she is ugly. If someone wanted her and found her attractive, someone’s going to find my granddaughter attractive as well."
Poker face, poker face, poker face.
"You don’t wear enough makeup, Sara." my grandma went on.
I mentally threw both my hands up in the air.
A girl metalized out of the thin air; it was my cousin Alanoud. I was probably enjoying being roasted I didn’t notice her walking up to us. She greeted us all, starting with my grandmother.
"Grandma," she said and hugged her. She moved over to the other lady. "Auntie Latifa."
Latifa is the old lady’s name. I'll continue calling her old lady. Alanoud turned to me and hugged me.
"Sorry, but a few of my friends want to meet Sara. Please excuse us. I’ll bring her right back," Alanoud said while pulling me out of my seat. They nodded and started talking about some unsuspecting girl’s dress before we had taken more than a few steps away.
"Oh thank you. You came just in time, Alanoud," I said.
"You looked like you needed help.” She threw her head back and giggled. “Why were you sitting with them? It’s dangerous for singles to sit around them."
"Oh, I just needed to boost my self-esteem," I said, picking up our pace. " I owe you one."
"Were they drilling you on getting married again?"
"Yes. That seems to be the only topic of conversation around here."
“Yeah. Hussa just got married, so you’re walking with a target on your forehead.”
We strolled around and greeted family members while drinking tea and eating sweets every chance we got. Eventually, my cousin and I parted ways, and I went in search for my long-lost sister.
Then my grandmother showed up with another woman, my heart skipped a beat. "This is her," she proudly announced.
Zombies In Saudi Arabia Page 4
