Cornered

by Rhoda Belleza

  I can’t wait any longer. I pull a twenty out of my pocket. I’ll pass it to the waitress on my way out the door. If I move fast enough, I might go unnoticed.

  But Olivia instantly sees me. Her spine straightens and her eyes light up. She’s looking at me like I’m her long lost best friend. A smile starts to form on her lips, then it freezes. I can tell she’s remembering everything she did to me. And I can see the horror on her face when she realizes that I must be NEMESIS—the last person left that she could turn to for help. I was Olivia’s only hope. And now that hope is gone.

  This is far too painful to watch. If it were one of my videos, I’d hit fast-forward. But I don’t think I’ve ever captured a moment like this before—the instant a victim decides to give up. I can almost see Olivia’s life leaving her body.

  That’s when I do something I’ve never done before. I drag a chair from another table and take a seat next to Olivia. It’s three against two now. Us against them. I’ll help Olivia fight this battle. Together, we might even win her war. But she and I will never be friends. I’d still love to kick her ass someday. That sort of punishment might fit her crimes. But no one—not even Olivia—deserves to be left all alone.

  On Your Own Level

  BY SHEBA KARIM

  IT ALL STARTS when I’m waiting for the bathroom at a house party. Of course, I’m not wearing my glasses. Contact lenses irritate me, so it’s either see 20/20 and look like a dork or accept a little blindness for the sake of beauty. Plus, my eyes are my best feature: large and deep brown, framed by thick, long eyelashes. The rest of me I hate, especially my curls, which—no matter what expensive pomade or gel I try—refuse to behave. And my body, forget it. I have short legs and wide hips, and I hate dancing to bhangra at Pakistani weddings because my tricep flab starts jiggling ten times faster than the music.

  I haven’t had any alcohol tonight but walking around without glasses is a little like drinking, because sometimes I bump into things. Or, like now, I can’t tell who’s coming toward me until they’re pretty close—though I can tell it’s a guy, and that he’s drunk from the way he’s pressing against the wall as he walks.

  The drunk guy enters my field of vision. Broad shoulders, cerulean eyes, light brown hair streaked blond by sun and salt. Oliver Jamison. The leaves have turned orange and red, but Oliver is still tan from his summer of sailing. Oliver smiles at me. He does this at school too. Some of the popular kids act like you’re not even there, but Oliver smiles at everyone.

  He tilts his head toward the bathroom door. “You waiting?”

  “Yeah.”

  He sways forward a little, then steadies himself and looks at me. I hope he’s looking at my eyes and not my mustache, which is growing back from the last time I got it waxed. “You were in my history class last year,” he says. “You sat underneath Ulysses.”

  What he means is I sat underneath the big photo of Ulysses S. Grant on the Civil War timeline poster. “Yes.”

  “Yeah. I remember. You always seemed kind of worried.”

  Worried? I’d understand dorky, or attentive maybe, but worried? Is that what I seem like?

  “What’s your name again?” he asks.

  “Shabnam,” I say. “Shab like rub, nam like numb.”

  “What’s it mean?”

  “Morning dew.”

  “Morning dew,” he repeats. “That’s really cool. Morning is my favorite time of day. Best time to be on the water.”

  “I hate mornings,” I tell him. “Because I have to wake up . . . not because mornings are bad or anything. I mean, mornings are great.” Well done, Shabnam. Way to sound like a complete idiot.

  “Shabnam.” He’s still pronouncing my name wrong but I don’t care because at least he’s saying it. “What language is that?”

  “Urdu. And Persian.”

  “My cat is Persian,” he says.

  “I’ve never had a cat. My mom’s allergic.”

  This time, Oliver doesn’t respond—and why would he when I’m so clearly failing at conversation? I’m searching in vain for something to say that might engage him when I realize that he’s smiling at me, so wide that not one but two small dimples appear on his cheek.

  “Morning dew,” he says again. “Nice.”

  And that’s when Oliver moves forward, one hand braced against the bathroom door, and kisses me. Kisses me! I’ve only ever kissed two guys, and I don’t know what to do. But Oliver makes it easy. He starts out soft, and I get up the courage to part my lips, and his tongue is touching mine, softly, gently. He tastes like beer and peppermint. He puts his hand on my shoulder, and I’m worried he can sense how crazy fast my heart is beating. Then Oliver starts kissing me harder, and I stop thinking about anything except how good it feels.

  The bathroom door opens and Oliver almost loses his balance. He moves away from me, his fingers still gripping my shoulder. Natasha is standing before us, hair swept up in a ponytail, high cheekbones shimmering with blush. The whole hallway smells like perfume, strong and sweet.

  “Oli. What are you doing?” Natasha asks. She glares at me, and I remember how my best friend, Maggie, recently overheard her saying something about how Oliver was the last guy left on her list.

  Oliver takes his hand off me and blinks a few times. “Hey, Natasha,” he says slowly, as if he’s not sure he got it right.

  The fat diamond studs in Natasha’s ears catch the light as she shakes her head, sighing. “Let’s go, Oli,” she says, linking her elbow through his. He doesn’t protest or even say bye when she starts to lead him away, toward the music and the keg and the kind of people Oliver is supposed to be seen with. When they’re halfway down the hall, she turns around and looks back at me, and I’m glad I’m too blind to see her face.

  • • •

  The next morning, there’s a strange man at our kitchen table. I’m about to go inform my parents when I realize it must be the uncle my father calls Chacha jaan, who they picked up from the airport last night. Chacha jaan is staring out at our leaf-covered backyard, his hands cupped around one of the fancy glasses my mother only brings out when we have guests.

  Chacha jaan is completely bald, but he has a big beard—a thick, black, menacing arc of a beard—extending from ear to ear. He’s wearing a shalwar kameez and polished leather sandals. He reminds me of the mullah who hosts a religious advice show on one of the satellite Pakistani channels my parents subscribe to. The mullah sits at a desk and answers the callers’ questions, which range from “If you change your clothes do you have to perform your ablutions again?” to “What happens on the Day of Judgment?” to “Can men wear gold?”

  I’m contemplating skipping breakfast altogether when Chacha jaan notices me and jumps a little, some of the water spilling from his glass. Then the surprise on his face changes to something else, sadness maybe, and he sets his glass down and smiles at me. “You are Shabnam?” he asks in Urdu.

  “Yes. As-salaam alaikum.”

  Wrapped around his neck is a red scarf decorated with green Christmas trees, and he uses one end of it to wipe the water from his kameez. “Wa alaikim as-salaam. Kaisee ho?”

  “I’m fine,” I tell him, in English.

  My mother joins us. She’s also wearing a shalwar kameez, which she often wears at home, except today she’s draped her dupatta over her head in a gesture of modesty. “As-salaam alaikum! You’ll drink chai?” This is a rhetorical question because of course he’ll drink chai. All Pakistanis do. Then my mother says in chirpy Urdu, “Your coming here has made us very happy,” and she means it—the only relative my mother’s ever been unhappy to see was Daadi, my father’s mother, and even then she hid it well.

  Before I can leave with my bowl of cereal, my mother grabs my arm. “Did you say salaam?” she whispers.

  “Yes. I have to go do some work. I have a big paper due tomorrow I haven’t finished.”

  “You shouldn’t leave things until the end,” my mother says, but she doesn’t argue.

  As I’m
heading to my room, my father opens the front door and steps into the foyer, the Sunday NewYork Times tucked in his armpit. He’s wearing plaid pajamas and a white undershirt. He has a basketball-sized gut and the dark tufts of hair sprouting from his shoulders are starting to turn gray. I hate it when he goes outside without a shirt on.

  “Did you say salaam to Chacha jaan?” he asks. With my father, it’s never hi, how are you, but did you do this, why don’t you do that. Be respectful, say salaam, get into a college that will impress everyone and secure your career. Don’t go around in the company of boys, because, even though we know you are a chaste girl, someone from the community could see you and get the wrong idea.

  “No, Abba, I didn’t say salaam,” I tell my father. “I told him to get lost.”

  My father frowns. “No, you didn’t. Why do you think that’s funny? What’s wrong with you? Can’t you be normal?”

  I respond by continuing up the stairs.

  • • •

  Natasha finds me at my locker. She’s dressed like a school girl, with a short pleated skirt and a white button-down blouse that shows off her a-little-more-than-two-handfuls cleavage. There’s an expensive silk scarf tied around her neck, like those air hostesses who wear the small, round hats. Standing next to her makes me acutely aware of each excess hair and inch of blubber on my body. I was hoping she might forget about the weekend, but she’s glaring at me so hard I’m too nervous to look back at her. I’m also too nervous to look away.

  “I saw that shirt at Target,” she says.

  I’m wearing a black cotton long-sleeve v-neck. I wore it because it has tiny eyelets so it’s a bit see-through but you can only tell if you’re really close. And I thought I might run into Oliver today. “So?”

  “So Target is for socks. And period underwear,” she says.

  “Oh.” I wonder what she’d say if she knew that pretty much all my underwear is period underwear. I don’t own sexy underwear; no one sees it anyway, plus my mother would freak if she found out I’d bought some because why would you own sexy underwear unless you were planning on showing it to someone?

  “What you did Saturday night is pretty messed up,” Natasha says. Her expression is still mean but her voice is totally calm, which somehow makes it even worse. “Oli doesn’t even remember what happened, you know,” she continues. “I can’t believe you took advantage of him because he was drunk.”

  I’m too stunned to defend myself. Could it be true? Was the best kiss of my life with someone who doesn’t remember?

  “You’re not so unattractive,” she says. “I’m sure there’s someone out there who’ll kiss you when he’s sober. So go find that guy, and stay away from mine. Understand?”

  She waits for me to nod—say yes, I understand—but I’m still reeling from her comment about Oliver not remembering, about me taking advantage of him. The bell rings. Her eyes narrow as she crosses her arms. “Unbelievable,” she says, and before I can correct her, she tosses her head and walks away.

  • • •

  Oliver is leaning against his car, talking on the phone. I don’t know whether to walk right by him, which would mean a potential encounter, or avoid him completely. Ultimately my body decides by moving in his direction. I’m so nervous my heart is drumming inside my chest and my ears are filled with air. I watch my feet step on the asphalt, too nervous to look at him, but then he says hi, and now he’s all I can see.

  “Hi.”

  He tucks his phone into the pocket of his perfectly faded jeans. “We should meet properly. I’m Oliver,” he says, extending his arm, muscular and tan and brushed with dark golden hair.

  “Shabnam.” Considering the last time I met him his tongue was in my mouth, this formal introduction seems a little weird, but I’m grateful that he’s acting cool. It’s helping me maintain mine. But then I accept his hand and our fingers intertwine and my entire body starts tingling with heat.

  He lets go. “About this past weekend. I drank way too much. I wasn’t exactly thinking straight. I’m not usually like that. Had a rough day. Not that that’s an excuse. So, I’m sorry if I offended you. I hope you don’t think I’m a jerk.”

  A jerk for what? Being drunk or kissing me? Does he remember kissing me? Does he remember how good it felt like I did? Or was Natasha telling the truth? But I’m too shy to ask this, so I nod and tell him, “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

  He grins. “Awesome,” he says, and opens his car door. “I’ll see you around.”

  “See you around.”

  One thing is painfully clear—he didn’t kiss me because he secretly liked me. That little fantasy of mine has been completely crushed. I keep walking to my car, and with every step it’s like I’m sinking. I tell myself not to be so stupid; of course my kiss with Oliver would be just that, a kiss, because high school is like a snow globe: sometimes it gets shaken and strange and wonderful things can happen, but soon enough, everything settles back down to where it was. In the end, gravity always wins.

  • • •

  I’m lying in bed mourning my existence when someone tries the door. I know it’s my mother because my father always knocks first. “Go away!” I yell, but she doesn’t, so I stomp to the door.

  “What were you doing?” she asks in Urdu after I let her in. My mother doesn’t understand locked doors. When my father goes to conferences, I sleep next to her because she doesn’t like being alone.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “We’re taking Chacha jaan to the Afghani restaurant,” she says.

  “Have fun.”

  “What, have fun? You’re coming with us.” My mother places her hand on her hip. We have the same hands, square palms and short fingers. But that’s about the only thing we have in common. I wished I had inherited more from her: her long face, her thin frame, her fine, straight hair. When I was little, she had no idea what to do with my curls, so she kept my hair really short. There isn’t a single picture of me as a kid that isn’t utterly embarrassing.

  The last thing I want to do is go to the Afghani restaurant with my parents and Chacha jaan. I only stopped crying an hour ago. “I don’t feel like it. Please, Amma, don’t make me go.”

  “Why?”

  Any chance I might have of convincing her is ruined by the arrival of my father.

  “Rukhsana, something’s wrong with this zipper,” he says. My mother starts fiddling with his sweater, and he frowns at me. “Why are you not ready? Chacha jaan is waiting downstairs.”

  “She doesn’t want to go,” my mother says.

  “Nonsense. Of course she’s going.”

  “But I don’t feel like going,” I protest.

  “Life is not about what you feel like doing. You think your mother and I feel like going to work every day?” he replies. “And what will Chacha jaan think if you stay in your room only? It’s abnormal.”

  “I don’t care what Chacha jaan thinks. He looks like a mullah anyway.”

  “Chacha jaan is no mullah. He is an educated man. He was the vice president of a pharmaceutical company.”

  “Maybe he was, but he still looks like a mullah.”

  My mother is still trying to fix my father’s zipper but he steps away so he can focus fully on reprimanding me. “And what would you like? Would you like me to go downstairs and tell Chacha jaan, who was so good to me when I was young, that my daughter will not go to dinner with him because of the way he looks?”

  “Yes.”

  My father turns to my mother. “Rukhsana!” he says, which is his way of asking her to please do something before he loses his temper.

  My mother sighs. “He didn’t used to have a beard, but he’s become quite religious since his wife died. He’s a very nice man and he’s lonely, Shabnam. He loved his wife very much. And he is our guest. So get ready. Now.”

  And I hate both of them, for giving my uncle’s loneliness precedence over my pain, for making this day even more difficult, for making everything about my life difficult. “J
esus,” I mutter as I walk to my closet.

  “Jesus!” my father cries after me. “Why does she always say this? She’s a Muslim! What kind of Muslim goes around saying Jesus, Jesus?”

  “Bus, Sohail, bus. Enough.” My mother places her palms against his back and gently pushes him toward the door. “Let her get ready.”

  • • •

  After we get in the car and I think life can’t get any worse, my mother mentions that we’re stopping at the mall first because Chacha jaan wants to buy his granddaughter an iPod. I know better than to complain in front of Chacha jaan, so instead I fume silently in the backseat listening to my father say, “Over there is the town hall. And there is Dunkin’ Donuts—they make America’s best coffee. Have you tried it? And that is a diner—New Jersey is famous for its diners, they are open all night. And down that road is Shabnam’s school. She is one of their top students, masha’allah.” I wish he wouldn’t make me part of his stupid tour. I wish I wasn’t here.

  Chacha jaan is wearing a crisply ironed black vest over a long white kameez and a wide, white shalwar stiffened with starch and those same ugly polished leather sandals. He must have put something in his beard because it’s a little shinier than before. I watch him stare out the window and wonder if he’s even listening to what my father is saying. In his right hand, he’s holding a tasbih, a Muslim version of a rosary. The beads are made of stone, deep orange in color. He hasn’t let go of it the entire car ride, moving through it bead by bead. The beads might make a nice bracelet, but it’s too feminine to be used by someone like him.

  My father takes an exit, and I realize he’s heading toward the most upscale mall in our area, with marble floors, expensive stores, and organic options in the food court. We almost never come here. “Why are we going to this mall?” I say quietly to my mother, but she ignores me.

  When we arrive, I debate refusing to get out of the car, but I know my parents won’t stand for it. Thankfully it’s Monday, so not many people are around. I walk a safe distance from my parents and Chacha jaan, who still has that stupid tasbih in his hand. I’m more than half an escalator behind them when I see who else but Natasha on the landing above. She’s leaning against the railing, a little Louis Vuitton purse on one shoulder and a brown Bloomingdale’s shopping bag on the other, wearing cowboy boots and a denim skirt that barely covers her ass. My family steps onto the landing, but instead of continuing on they stop to wait for me. That’s when Natasha notices Chacha jaan.