by Tahereh Mafi
Someone touched me.
I turned my head as if through panes of glass, sounds shattering against my face. Noah. Noah was here, his hand on my arm, his head bent toward my face, he said, “Shadi,” he said, “are you okay?” and I heard his voice like I pictured sound—slow and loud, reverberating.
I saw color, flashes of it.
Are you? he said. Okay?
Are you Do you need to see do you need the the nursedoyou okay maybe see the go, go home home?
I felt it, when I fell.
I heard someone shout, I felt something soft—warm arms, a gentle landing—a gasp, rough carpet under my face, my eyes closing. I heard sound, so much sound, loud and round, shuddering. I tried to pry open my eyes. They refused.
My lips, on the other hand, acquiesced.
“Please.” My mouth moved against commercial carpeting, my nose filled with dust. I felt everything move, felt my body spin.
Someone was talking to me. Hands on my back.
“Please,” I whispered. “Don’t let them call my mother. She’s not— She— Please,” I said, felt myself drifting.
I didn’t know whether I was dreaming.
Don’t let them call my mother, I tried to say. Tried to scream it. Please—
Nineteen
Zahra had redecorated.
I stared first at her ceiling, the smooth white skin blemished by neither light fixture nor popcorn, no cobwebs to be seen. I turned my head a single micrometer in this grave of pillows and saw her new desk atop which sat her new computer, a stack of makeup and books, a small mirror. I saw a new lamp—still lit—standing in a corner. I saw the same laundry basket, the same six hooks on the wall from which hung a dozen purses. A single tennis shoe was pushing free of her closet door, the handle of which was hung with an ornament of the evil eye.
I’d made a huge mistake.
I tried, but could not move my arms, not yet. I felt thick with weight, forgotten under setting concrete. I tore open my mouth, wet my lips, remembered I had teeth.
I did not know how long I’d been sleeping, but a single glance out Zahra’s darkened window was enough to awaken my fear. I sat straight up and regretted it, felt my head fissure with pain.
I pushed myself to my feet, felt a familiar scrape against my ribs. I reached under my shirt to retrieve today’s newspaper from my waistband and promptly tossed the paper in Zahra’s trash. The sight inspired in me a flicker of memory.
Noah.
I vaguely remembered sitting in the nurse’s office. I vaguely remembered that Noah came with me, that he half carried me there. He’d brought a newspaper. The thought almost made me smile. It was a strange silver lining in all this chaos to think that I’d somehow managed to make a new friend, that the rest of the school year might be a little less lonely. But then I remembered the sound of my own voice begging, begging them even as I sat in a hard, wooden chair with my eyes closed, to spare my mother the phone call.
I’d not thought this through.
Please don’t call my mother was all I’d had, my sole functioning brain cell screaming out a single directive.
I’d not thought about who they might call instead.
My father was in the hospital. Shayda was not listed as one of my emergency contacts. But I still remember the form Zahra’s dad had to fill out the day he came to get me, just three months ago.
Zahra’s parents were in my file.
I stood stock-still in my ex–best friend’s bedroom and stared at myself in her mirror, the mirror above her dresser, the one she’d had for as long as I’d known her. I took in my strange, ghostly appearance, the blush-colored silk scarf tied loosely at my throat, half-fallen off my head. My dark hair was coming loose, my normally pale skin now pink with heat, with the flush of fresh sleep. My eyes were the bright, strange green of a person on drugs.
I looked slow, soft, newly cooked.
It was how I felt, too.
Zahra must’ve known I was here. Zahra—who’d accused me of being a calculating opportunist, who’d warned me to stay the hell away from her family—had to have known that I’d been asleep in her beautiful, soft bed, and she had to have hated it, hated me for it, for forcing her to play nice at what was no doubt her parents’ behest. The thought made me suddenly sick. I didn’t know whether it was even possible to escape the mortification of such a scene. I thought it might inhale me.
I glanced at the clock on the wall and was comforted, for a moment, by the knowledge that Zahra was in class at the community college right now. It was Wednesday night, the night I, too, was supposed to be in class at the community college. This was the third time I’d missed my multivariable calculus class, which meant that even with perfect scores, my best possible grade had now dropped to a C.
The realization struck me like a blow.
I’d never gotten a C in anything before. Worse, that C was contingent upon flawless work in all other areas. But I’d already missed three days; I’d already missed homework, would struggle to catch up for exams. I’d more than likely end up with a D, which was considered failing. I’d have to retake the class. I didn’t even know if they’d let me retake the class.
I stared at a single thing as my heart raced: a plush pink teddy bear perched in an armchair beside Zahra’s bed. I stared at its big glass eyes, at the tiny red heart stitched onto its white belly. I did not own any stuffed animals. My father had gotten rid of mine when I was twelve; he’d taken my childhood things to Goodwill while I was at school. When I’d cried, he’d told me it was time to grow up.
Zahra would have all that I only ever dreamed of: the necessary love and stability to survive this life with grace, and the parental support required to be the dutiful, promising student I’d tried and failed to be.
I took a ragged breath. Clasped my shaking hands.
I had another hour before Zahra’s class ended, and I thought I might escape before then, find somewhere to kill time until I could walk home at my normal hour, pretend everything was as it should be.
I stepped into the adjoining bathroom, apologizing to Zahra’s ghost as I borrowed her toothpaste, finger-brushed my teeth, rinsed my mouth. I splashed cold water on my face, but my cheeks would not cool. I looked overheated to the extreme, my lips brighter, redder than usual, everything hot to the touch.
I shivered, suddenly.
I readjusted my scarf, tried to contain my slippery straight hair, but I’d lost a couple of the bobby pins that held my longer bangs in place, and dark strands kept coming loose. I stared, longingly, at some of Zahra’s hair clips, and tried to decide whether it would be truly reprehensible to take them without her permission. I picked them up. Weighed them in my hands. We had such a long, storied history that I didn’t think she’d begrudge me something so small.
But then I remembered, with a sinking sensation, that she’d been unwilling to offer me even a ride in the pouring rain. We’d both been headed to the same destination—her, in a warm, dry car; me, caught in a deluge without an umbrella.
I dropped the pins back on her counter.
When I turned around, I collided with a wall of heat.
I knew, I knew, I’d known he might be here but I’d not allowed myself to think about it, could not bring myself to process the possibility of so much humiliation. This was not how I wanted to see Ali again. Not like this, not trapped inside his sister’s bedroom after a delirious collapse, not saved by his parents because I had no one of my own to call. I knew how I presented, could see how his family must see me, with pity, with pity and charity, an aching sadness in their eyes that tore me in half.
This was not what I wanted.
My heart pounded dangerously as I looked up at him. He wasn’t supposed to be here. It broke the rules of basic propriety for him to have entered his sister’s bedroom while I slept. I was a guest in his home, a guest who’d not given him permission to enter, and we both knew it. I didn’t need to say it. I could tell by the frightened look on his face that he knew he’d
taken a risk, one that might end in disaster.
“Hey,” he said. He took a deep breath, gave it back.
He had the darkest eyes. Thick, inky lashes. There was a depth in his gaze, a collapsed star that beckoned, tempted me to peer inside, lose myself, and if not there—here, in the elegant lines of his face, in the sharpness of his jaw, in his smooth, dusky skin. There was so much to appreciate, so much for the eyes to enjoy.
But I, I could not stop staring at his mouth.
“Hi,” I whispered.
“Hi,” he said.
“You really shouldn’t be here.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I just—” He cut himself off. Did not continue.
I nodded for no reason. I stared at my socked feet, wondered who’d removed my shoes.
“I called you,” he said quietly. “Last night.” He laughed, then. Sighed. Turned away.
“I lost my phone.”
He looked up. “Oh.”
When I said nothing he exhaled, pushed a hand through his hair. It was a nervous habit, something he did a lot. I’d watched him do it for years, and I watched him do it now. I’d often wondered what it would feel like to touch him like that. His hair looked so soft.
“Shadi,” he said. “What’s going on?”
I dragged my eyes back to his face. “What do you mean?”
He froze at that, froze with something like anger. “What do you mean, what do I mean? You collapsed at school.”
“Right. Yeah. Yes,” I said. My heart was suddenly pounding again.
“Shadi.”
I met his eyes. I saw the effort he was making to breathe, could see his chest moving, even out of focus. He was struggling to contain his frustration.
“What happened? The school told my parents you’d begged them not to call your own mom. Is that true?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Why?”
I shook my head, looked away, bit my lip too hard. I was desperate to confess, to say nothing. I didn’t know what to do; I only knew what my parents would want me to do, which was to protect their secrets, to protect their pain from public viewing.
So I said nothing. I stared at his chest and said nothing.
“You’ve been asleep here for the last four hours,” he said quietly. “And no one knows what’s going on.”
“I’m sorry. I’m going to leave. I was going to leave before y—”
“Stop,” he said angrily. “Stop. Just stop, okay? I’ve been trying to let this go, I’ve been trying not to push you to explain yourself, but I can’t take it anymore. I can’t. You have to tell me what’s happening, Shadi, because you’re starting to scare the shit out of me. Every single time I see you lately you’re crying or injured or completely out of your mind and I ca—”
“I’ve never been out of my mind.”
His eyebrows flew up. “You ran into the middle of a car accident! Tried to pull someone out of a damaged vehicle!”
“Oh.” I’d forgotten about that.
“Yeah. Did you forget?” He smiled, but his eyes were angry. “Did you also forget when you nearly broke your skull? Is that why you never mentioned it again? You got that phone call about your mom and I drove you to the hospital and I didn’t even ask you to explain—but I did think that, maybe, considering the fact that I had to get four stitches in my arm after catching your head on the pavement—”
“You had to get stitches? I didn’t—”
“Yes, I had to get stitches, and I lied for you, lied to my parents and told them I’d ripped my arm open playing soccer because I didn’t think you wanted people to know what was happening, but I thought you might at least tell me why your mom was in the hospital or why you fainted, but you never did, and still I let it go, told myself it was none of my business. And then, the next day, after you’re done pretending to be a paramedic—”
“Ali—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry about your arm—”
“—you tell me everything is great, that your mom is waiting for you at home, and I knew you were lying—I knew it, I could just tell, it was written all over your face—but I told myself to let it go, told myself not to pry—”
“Ali. Please.”
“And then,” he said, breathing hard, dragging both hands down his face. “And then, God, and then—last night. Fucking last night, Shadi.”
“Ali—”
“Stop saying my name like that. Don’t—”
“Ali—”
“You’re killing me,” he said, his voice breaking. “What is happening? What are you doing to me? I used to have a life, I swear, three days ago I had a good life, Shadi, I’d moved on, I’d finally moved on after you tore my heart out of my fucking chest and now, now I’m— I don’t know what I am.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop,” he said desperately. “Stop saying you’re sorry. Stop standing there looking at me like that. I can’t take it, okay? I can’t—”
“Ali, just let me say something— I just want t—”
The words died in my throat.
He’d walked away without warning, sat down heavily on Zahra’s bed. “Please,” he said, gesturing at me. “By all means, say something. For the love of God, say something.”
I stared at him then, lost my nerve. Words jammed in my chest, inside my mouth. My excuses vanished, the day’s events momentarily forgotten. I studied the tension in his shoulders; caught the tremble in his fingers before he curled them into fists.
I looked into his dark eyes and thought only one thing.
“I’m sorry.”
“Jesus.” He dropped his head in his hands. “Why do you keep apologizing?”
“Because,” I said. “Because I never did.”
Ali’s head lifted slowly, his spine straightened slowly. He unfurled before my eyes, turning toward me not unlike a bloom in search of the sun.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry I hurt you.”
He went deathly still.
He stared at me now with a strange terror, stared at me like I might be about to kill him. “What are you talking about?”
“Us,” I said. “You.” I shook my head, felt close to tears. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I need you to know I thought I was doing the right thing. But I was sorry the moment I said it. I’ve been sorry every day since.”
Ali got to his feet.
He became larger than life then, tall and stunning and real and he walked right up to me, was now standing right in front of me and I stepped back, felt my shoulders nudge open Zahra’s bathroom door.
Ali was breathing hard. “What does that mean?”
I looked up at him, felt my world collapse.
We were now standing in Zahra’s bathroom—we were standing in Zahra’s bathroom—and there wasn’t enough space between our bodies to lift a finger. My head was filling with steam, my thoughts evaporating.
“Ali, I don’t— You’re too close. I can’t talk to you when you’re this close to me. I can’t even breathe when y—”
I gasped when he leaned in, pressed his forehead to mine. His hands were at my waist now, reeling me in, and I sank against his body with a sound, a kind of surrender.
He said nothing for what seemed like an eternity.
I listened to our hearts race, felt my skin heat. I felt desperate for something I could not articulate, for a need I could not fathom. We were standing this close and still light-years from where I wanted to be.
Ali closed his eyes.
My hands were on his chest. They’d landed there and I’d left them there and I loved the feel of him, his heat, this racing heartbeat under my hands that proved he was real, that this moment was real. Slowly, I dragged my hands down his chest, down the hard lines of his torso. I heard his sharp intake of breath, felt a tremor move through him, through me.
We both went suddenly still.
I was staring at his throat, the soft line of his neck, the hint of his collarbone. I watched him swallow. His
hands tightened around my waist.
I looked up.
He said nothing but my name before he kissed me.
It was heat, a blistering sun, a pleasure so potent it felt closer to pain. I didn’t know how but my back was suddenly against a wall, my bones trembling under the weight of him, his body pressed so hard against mine I thought it might leave an impression. He touched me desperately, dragged his hands up my body, braced my face as he broke me open. His lips were so soft against mine, against my cheeks, the tender skin beneath my jaw. I tried to hold on—pushing myself up on tiptoe, twining my arms around his neck—but he froze, suddenly, when my body moved against his, our jagged edges catching, tectonic plates striking. He stilled and seemed to stop breathing, our bodies fusing together.
Tentatively, I pushed my fingers through his hair. He thawed by degrees, his eyes closing, his breathing ragged as I drew my hands away from his head, trailed my fingers down his neck, pressed closer. Gently, I kissed the column of his throat, tasting salt and heat over and over until he made a sound, something desperate, something that shot pleasure through my body even as he tore away, took a step back. He dropped his face into trembling hands, let them fall to his sides. He looked into my eyes with a depth of emotion that nearly split me in half.
I felt like I might sink into the ground.
Two sharp knocks at Zahra’s door and I straightened, we both stiffened. The real world came hurtling back into focus with stunning, sobering speed and I didn’t even think, I just ran past him, closed the bathroom door behind me, locked him inside.
I had to lean against the wall to catch my breath, steady my head. My heart was pounding dangerously in my chest and I closed my eyes, gave myself two more seconds to pull myself together before I headed for the door, glancing in the mirror as I went.
I froze.
Horror, horror at the state of my face, my appearance in general. I was flushed beyond reason, my eyes dilated with pleasure. Desire.
I was losing control. Losing my head.
I was certain now that I was probably going straight to hell for a myriad of reasons, not the least of which was my virulent desire for my father’s death, and now this—this—
