Hani and Ishu's Guide to Fake Dating

by Adiba Jaigirdar

  “How did you find this place?” I lean forward to whisper to Ishu. I don’t know why, but it seems wrong to do anything except whisper in this place.

  She shrugs. “I have my ways.”

  “Table for two?” The waitress greets us with a smile. She’s wearing a black vest and trousers that almost feel out of place here.

  “Yes, we have a reservation. Dey.”

  “Oh … this way.” Surprisingly, the waitress brings us away from the dozen tables stuffed into the room and to a set of stairs at the very edge. The staircase is almost completely hidden from view. Downstairs, the restaurant is even calmer and quieter. The waitress leads us to a booth toward the very back and hands us both menus as we slide into our seats.

  “Wow,” I mumble, opening up my menu and taking in the choices. It’s all Middle Eastern cuisine.

  “I mean, there were a lot of Indian restaurants when I was looking for halal places, but … I figured we both have enough of that at home,” Ishu says. “Not that you can really have enough of, like … really good biryani, but you know.”

  Ishu is fumbling with her menu when I look up at her. She opens it and closes it, and her leg is firmly tap tap tapping away on the floor. I realize that she’s actually a little bit nervous, and I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe because she was tasked with finding a place? Maybe she’s not sure what I think about it?

  All I know for sure is that in all the time I’ve known her, I’ve never seen Ishu nervous. It’s strange to see. She usually carries herself with such unflinching confidence.

  “I really like it,” I say. Ishu looks up to meet my gaze and the ghost of a smile appears on her lips.

  “Well, don’t say anything before you’ve had the food,” she says.

  After we’ve ordered, I tell Ishu to sit down on my side of the booth. Taking out my phone, I fix my hair in the camera.

  “What?” I ask, when I notice her watching me with pursed lips.

  “Nothing.” She shakes her head. “It’s just weird … pretending.”

  “And we haven’t even started yet.”

  She takes a deep breath and says, “It’ll be worth it,” and it sounds as if she’s trying to convince herself rather than me.

  I settle into the crook of her arm and lift the camera above our heads. Ishu moves farther away from me the closer I get to her.

  I turn to her with a frown.

  “What?”

  “We look like we barely even like each other,” I say. “Nobody’s going to believe we’re dating if you sit like that.”

  “How do you want me to sit?” she asks, like she really imagines people in relationships have a gap the size of an ocean between them when they take a picture together.

  “Well, for starters, you could actually sit next to me instead of having this gaping space between us.”

  “This is barely any space!” Ishu’s voice rises a pitch.

  “Another whole person could fit in here. Maybe even two.”

  She rolls her eyes and slides a little closer.

  “You could also look a little less disgusted at the prospect of being in proximity to me,” I offer.

  “I have resting bitch face, I can’t help it.” She shrugs nonchalantly. I reach over and give her a light slap on her shoulder. It changes her expression from her usual dead and bored one to something a little more expressive—though it’s not exactly happiness.

  “I’ve seen you smile,” I say. “I saw you smile a few minutes ago.”

  She smiles like someone is pointing a gun to her head and making her.

  “I guess I’ll just tell people I’m dating a robot who hasn’t learned human facial expressions yet?”

  She groans and takes a deep breath. “Okay, okay. I’ll act like I’m in love or whatever.” She rolls her eyes as if being in love is the most preposterous idea she’s ever come across.

  She does smile a little softer, and even snakes an arm around my shoulder.

  Through gritted teeth she says, “Take the picture now before my smile muscles collapse.”

  “That’s absolutely not a thing.” I roll my eyes, but lean closer. So close that I can smell the scent of her perfume—the earthy smell of jasmine mixed with the sweet scent of vanilla. I breathe it in for only a minute before clicking three consecutive pictures and pulling away. Putting as much distance between the two of us as I can.

  Ishu smells as sweet as honey, and I have to remind myself that she’s anything but.

  She gives me a questioning look, the hint of that smile still on her lips.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Can I look at the pictures or are they for your eyes only?”

  “You can—”

  Before I can show them to her, the waitress comes in, balancing three plates precariously in her hands. As she sets them down, Ishu goes back to her side of the table. After taking a few more pictures—of the food, the booth, Ishu looking like she wants to be anywhere but here—we both dig in.

  chapter twelve

  ishu

  I CAN’T HELP BUT STARE AT HANI ALL THROUGH DINNER. At first, it’s because I’m afraid she’s going to hate all the food we’ve ordered. She might be Muslim, but Bengali people are not the most open to other cuisines. And Middle Eastern food is really different from Bengali food. But after I’ve decided that Hani is in love with the food, I mostly watch her because she’s the most expressive eater I’ve ever met. She makes a new facial expression after every bite, like each one is a new sensation.

  “Have you never tasted food before?” I ask her as she’s midway through her meal, still savoring each bite like it might be her last. She puts her fork down and looks at me with something like a pout. But a self-conscious one.

  “I just like to appreciate my meals,” she says. “I’ve never had Middle Eastern food before.”

  “Seriously?” My voice goes a little high-pitched even though I don’t intend it to. “I mean … seriously?”

  She sighs. “My parents aren’t really into eating out. They like ordering in pizza and fried chicken once in a blue moon. They don’t really have a wide palate or anything. And … Dee and Aisling don’t really like …”—she pauses, looking down at her plate like she’s considering her next words—”… ethnic food.”

  I think about that for a moment, chewing a bite of my kabseh slowly. “Is ‘ethnic’ the word your friends use?”

  Hani shoots me a glare. “Does it matter?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t understand why you’re friends with Aisling and Deirdre.”

  “They’re good people.” Hani’s voice is already defensive. “They’re my friends.”

  “Friends who made fun of you because you’re bisexual?”

  “They didn’t make fun of me.” There’s a slight whine to her voice. “It’s … complicated. But now, everything will be okay. They just needed … time. And perspective.”

  “Okay.” I nod my head, mostly because I can tell Hani and I are about to veer off into another one of our arguments and I definitely don’t want to make a scene here. “Are you … going to apply to be prefect?” I try instead.

  “Oh, um. I don’t think so,” Hani says, taking another bite of her kofta. “I don’t think it’s really for me.”

  “You should apply,” I tell her.

  She glances up to meet my gaze with her lips in a thin line. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah … I mean, it’ll look weird if you don’t.”

  She blinks slowly. “How will it look weird?”

  “Like we’re setting this up, you know. It’ll look better if you want to be prefect and I want to be Head Girl. Like we’re … supporting each other. Plus, everyone loves you and if you apply to be prefect they’ll want to support you and by extension you can also ask them to support me.”

  “Yeah.” She nods. “I guess you’re right. I hadn’t really thought of it like that. Aisling and Dee suggested that I apply to be the international prefect.”

  “Yeah?” I have to restrain m
yself from rolling my eyes. Of course Aisling and Dee would think a person of color is only capable of being prefect for other people of color … nothing else. They probably don’t even care that Hani was born here and probably doesn’t know a lot about the things that immigrant kids might have questions about. “I think you could be prefect of anything you want to be.” I slip out the prefect application I picked up from the office earlier and slide it across the table toward her. “I got one for you, and a Head Girl application for myself.”

  Hani considers the application for a long moment before quickly slipping it into her bag.

  “I’ll think about it,” she says.

  After we’ve eaten, and ordered baklava and coffee for dessert, I slide over to Hani’s side again so we can decide which pictures to put on Instagram and with what captions. This is going to be our declaration to the school: Hani and Ishu are a couple. So it has to be good.

  We actually do sort of look like a couple in the photos. We both look happy, and we’re sitting close enough to be a couple, but …

  “We need to be more obvious,” Hani says, as she clicks through the pictures. “We just look like good friends.”

  “Well, that’s a step above enemies, at least,” I mumble.

  Hani turns to me with a smile. “You think we’re enemies?”

  “No …” I trail off, avoiding her gaze. “I just mean … we’re not exactly friends, so—”

  “So we must be enemies?” She actually looks more amused than annoyed. Like she’s taking the piss out of me.

  I give her shoulder a bump so she leans to the edge of our seat. “Shut up. Can we just take a picture?”

  “I don’t know. Can you look like you aren’t my enemy?” she asks, positioning her camera up again.

  “Shut up, Hani.” I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the smile that slips on. Hani huddles so close to me that I can hear her breathing, and strands of her long, black hair brush against my face.

  “Hani.” I push some of the hair out of my face, trying not to choke on the strands.

  “Sorry.” She brushes it back to one side, away from me, sending a whiff of her shampoo my way. I try to ignore the strong coconut smell. So Bengali.

  She looks back at me and bites her lip.

  “What?”

  “Can I, um, hold your hand?” she says. “For the picture,” she rushes to add. Like I would have imagined it was for any other reason.

  I reach up my hand and link our fingers together. “There.”

  She shoots me a smile and takes the picture, ensuring our linked hands are front and center.

  “Much better!” She taps filters onto the picture. “Okay … caption time.” She looks up at me expectantly, like captions are my specialty or something.

  “Uh … with bae?”

  She tilts her head to the side, taking me in like this is the first time she’s seen me. “Are you sure you’re seventeen?”

  “I’m not,” I say. “I don’t turn seventeen until August, actually.”

  “How are you younger than me, and think using the word ‘bae’ is still appropriate?” She shakes her head and taps her phone a few more times. Then, she edges closer to me on the seat—almost uncomfortably close—and shows me the picture. “See?”

  We do look like a couple in this picture. Hani has even added a couple of hearts all around the photo just to be safe. It’s cheesy, but it gets the message across. The caption just has lyrics from a song I don’t know but that sound corny enough to work, and multiple kissy faces.

  “Are you sure people will know?” I ask. “I mean—”

  “They’ll know,” Hani assures me. “Trust me.”

  I know that I had already told Hani we would be paying for our own meals, but all things considered it seems a little unfair to make her pay when she’s the one handling all the Instagram stuff. I mean, it’s not like I could considering I have three followers, and one of them is Hani.

  When we get the bill, I’m quick to hand over my debit card. Hani settles me with a glare, though I can tell that it’s harmless. It has more humor in it than anything else.

  It’s raining outside by the time we leave the restaurant and, though it’s still supposed to be daylight, the awful weather has led to the sky appearing gloomy and dark.

  “Maybe … we should get more coffee?” I suggest, looking at the pouring rain from the little porch outside the restaurant.

  “This doesn’t look like rain that’s going to stop anytime soon.” Hani sighs, slipping an umbrella out from her bag. It’s so flimsy-looking that I’d be surprised if she even manages to get it open.

  I’m about to tell her as much, when a bigger, sturdier umbrella appears overhead, as if ordained by God.

  And when I turn around, I find myself face-to-face with my sister.

  chapter thirteen

  hani

  “NIK?” THE SURPRISE IN ISHU’S VOICE MAKES ME LOOK behind me. She’s staring at a couple—a girl who looks strikingly similar to Ishu, and a boy who is a few shades darker than all of us and is looking a little out of place. His eyes flicker from Ishu to the girl beside him, like he’s not really sure what’s going on.

  “Hey, Ishu, funny running into you here. Who’s your friend?” The girl’s voice is cheery in a way that feels insincere.

  “Um. This is Humaira. A girl from my school. What are you doing here?” Ishu’s voice is determined, but she’s shifting from one foot to the other, and not holding this girl’s—Nik’s—gaze.

  “Hi!” I abandon my efforts to open my umbrella—it was useless anyway—and stick my hand out. “You can call me Hani. That’s my dak nam.”

  “I’m Nikhita—or Nik. I’m Ishu’s sister.” She takes my hand and gives it a firm shake.

  “Right.” When I take her in properly, she looks distinctly familiar. Not just because of the similarities with Ishu—the big eyes and sharp jaw—but because I’ve seen her around school and at Bengali dawats. She was a few years above us and must have graduated at least two years ago.

  “This is Rakesh.” Nik points to the man beside her, who holds up a hand in acknowledgement. “He’s my fiancé.”

  “Wow! Congratulations!” I exclaim. I can now see the gleaming engagement ring on her finger. I don’t know how I missed it before. I bump Ishu on the shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me your sister was getting married?”

  Ishu just produces a guttural sound that doesn’t sound fully human, and crosses her arms over her chest.

  “You know, I think we were in the booth right next to yours in there. The food was really good, right?” Nik is wearing a smile and sounds pleasant, but there’s an undertone to her words that I can’t quite comprehend.

  “I really liked it, yeah,” I offer, even though Ishu is currently glaring daggers at her sister.

  “We should go,” Ishu says, and before I can say any more, she grabs my hand and leads me right out into the pouring rain.

  Both of us are soaked within the space of about five minutes. And not soaked like our clothes are wet. Soaked like I can feel water inside my socks and my hands are already going numb from the freezing rainwater.

  “What the hell, Ishu?” I have to shout to be heard over the rain against the pavement. Ishu just waves her hand over her head to acknowledge she’s heard me and keeps walking.

  “There’s a café we can duck into here, and then I’ll explain.”

  “You better have a good explanation,” I mumble, more to myself then Ishu since she probably can’t hear me.

  The café is buzzing with people. Probably people who also ducked in to avoid the onslaught of rain. Still, Ishu and I manage to find a free table at the corner, facing the street.

  Ishu, at least, has the decency to buy us both hot chocolates. As soon as they arrive, I wrap my hands around the mug, reveling in the comfort of its heat.

  “Okay, don’t have a fucking orgasm from that hot chocolate.”

  I shoot her the worst glare I can muster and she actually looks
down at the table and mumbles, “I’m sorry.”

  “Can you explain why we had to flee from your sister and her fiancé?”

  Ishu takes a long sip of her hot chocolate before setting it down on the table between us and clearing her throat. “Nik said she was in the booth next to us.”

  “So?”

  “So …” Ishu’s voice is thick with frustration. “That means she heard … something. She knows something. And she’s going to use it against me.”

  I have to think back to our time at the restaurant. It’s not as if we were talking about our deceptive plans constantly. Or talking about being in a relationship much at all, really. And why would her sister use it against her?

  I shake my head. “I don’t understand. You think she knows about our plans? You think she knows you’re queer? Why would she use it against you?”

  “You don’t have siblings, do you?” Ishu looks at me like I can’t possibly understand the struggle of having siblings.

  “I have two brothers. That’s one more sibling than you.” My voice is more defensive than I intend it to be. “I think …” I add as an afterthought.

  She tilts her head to the side to consider me. “And your two brothers have never … held something against you? Tried to one-up you? Bullied you?”

  I shrug. “They’re quite a lot older than me. They’re married and living abroad and—”

  “That explains it.” Ishu cuts me off with a roll of her eyes. “Nik is only a few years older than me. Unfortunately, we’ve spent our entire lives together and it hasn’t exactly warmed us to each other.”

  “So … you think she’s going to blackmail you about whatever she found out from being in the booth next to us?” I ask.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” She sighs. “My sister and I … are not friends. She’s actually kind of the reason why I’m doing this.”