“Metallica? Are we in 1990?”
“Yeah. What? They’re rad,” he says, sitting down at the massive drum kit in the corner. He picks up a drumstick and twirls it between his fingers. I debate making fun of him—he’s clearly trying to impress me—and yet I am impressed, so the joke’s on me.
“Rad? Okay, now I know you’re trolling me. You don’t seem like a heavy-metal fan.” He’s such a cheerful teddy bear.
He laughs. “Mental note not to expose you to my full music collection. I’ll stick to socially acceptable stuff that won’t freak you out.”
“I might surprise you.”
“What’s your thing? Music, I mean.”
“I like everything.”
“Heard that before. You mean everything but country and rap, right?” he says, looking doubtful. “And opera, and musical theater, and classical, and blues…”
“No, really. Everything.” I shrug. “Good music’s about storytelling. If you’re open to someone else’s story, you can appreciate anything.”
He stares at me. The searching look makes me feel exposed, as if I’m under a microscope.
I break away from the heat of his gaze, making a beeline for the bookshelf on the opposite wall. Books. Distraction. Conversation. “Nice, you’ve read Under the Rainbow? One of my faves.” I pull it off the shelf—an old, tattered copy with a weather-beaten cover and dog-eared corners. Well loved. My favorite kind of book.
“I know—you mentioned it after Star Wars.”
“And you bought it?”
“You have good taste. I knew it’d be all right,” he says, shrugging.
I run my finger lightly over the tops of his books, continuing to scan. “Okay, you have not read Ulysses.”
“I skimmed the last chapter,” he says, grinning.
“Fail.”
“Ooh! Harry Potter!”
“Favorite one?” he asks, putting the drumsticks down and coming over to stand next to me. He brushes the back of his hand against mine casually as we face the bookshelf. The unexpected touch startles me, but I keep my hand still, trying to play it cool.
“Tie between Goblet of Fire and the Deathly Hallows. You?”
“Deathly Hallows,” he says. “Gotta love the Horcruxes. And Mrs. Weasley screaming at Bellatrix. Epic.”
“Best house?” I ask.
“Ravenclaw. No question.”
I exhale. “You have passed the test, young Jedi,” I say, knowing picking the same house doesn’t mean anything and yet secretly feeling it really, really does.
“We’re probably the coolest people in school,” he says.
I want to grab him and kiss him in response, but I don’t. Of course I don’t.
The truth is, I’ve never kissed a boy.
It has nothing to do with being Muslim—okay, maybe a teeny bit. It’s hard not to internalize the message against dating, even with liberal parents like mine. But it’s also only been a year since I’ve realized boys sometimes flirt with me. Not all the time. But sometimes.
And it’s weird and it’s cool and it’s scary and I don’t know what to say when a guy smiles at me in a way that’s less like Thanks for lending me your phone charger, and more like Hey, let’s make out.
If you had asked me last year, I would have said it was impossible: No boy would like me, ever. I would make it through my entire high school life without experiencing the miracle of liking a guy at the exact same time he liked me back. Without somebody holding my hand. Without a first kiss.
But now here I am. And he keeps inviting me to hang out with his friends at the mall after school. And he laughs at my silly jokes. And now we’re alone in his basement. And he’s looking at me with that look—the look I’ve wanted but have barely allowed myself to dream about, for fear of being disappointed.
The look that makes me feel dizzy and panicky and alive.
Like I make him happy, too.
“Hi!” It’s Zadie Rodriguez, walking down the stairs carrying pizza boxes, followed by Joey Bishop. Wells and Joey high-five.
“Hi!” I say, standing up and giving them suitably breezy air-kisses. Of all Wells’s friends, I feel the most comfortable around these two: Zadie and Joey are awesome.
Zadie wears her coolness like a badge: the purple streaks in her hair, the way she carries herself with pride and holds people’s gaze and never mumbles. She is who she is, and she’s confident but not rude, and if you don’t like what she says, that’s your problem, not hers.
I wonder what that feels like.
Then there’s Joey, who’s brilliant—he had the second most points in north Fulton County on last year’s Quiz Bowl team—but doesn’t show it off. Not to mention he’s an incredible soccer player—even better than Wells. He’s tall and lean, and his skin is a warm sepia brown. He always looks as if he just finished doing something wholesome, like fishing or sailing or playing touch football on the beach. He’s basically a Hollister ad come to life.
Like me, they’re stealth dorks, though. At least there’s that.
“Your mom gave me this,” Zadie says to Wells, holding up the pizza boxes before setting them on the coffee table. She grabs a slice and sprawls out on the couch.
“Pizza?” Wells asks me, leaning down to give me a slice.
I take it, discreetly rearranging the pepperoni and taking strategic bites.
Except Zadie notices. She does that: pays attention. “You don’t eat pepperoni?” she says.
Busted. “I mean … not really,” I say. “It’s okay. No worries.”
Wells frowns. “You should have told me. I would have ordered one without.”
“It’s not a big deal, really. I can pick it off. See?”
“Vegetarian?” Zadie asks. “Or full vegan? My sister Tali is vegan, and it drives our abuela up the wall.”
“Nah. Just not my thing,” I say. I don’t know them well enough to get into it.
See, here’s the deal.
I haven’t always felt comfortable telling people my …
I hate using the word secret. It implies that being a Muslim is something to be ashamed of, when it’s not.
But the older I got, as the incidents piled up (even for my blond-haired, blue-eyed, Catholic-born mother) and especially after we moved to Georgia, it became abundantly clear that there were people you told, and people you accidentally forgot to tell.
Unless I tell them, nobody realizes I’m a Muslim. I’m cloaked in white privilege. I look like them.
Which makes me safe for bigots.
It’s happened my whole life: In the back of an Uber, with the white driver conspiratorially telling Mom and me about the smelly foreigner he just drove. At school, with nice kids you wouldn’t expect making random jihad jokes.
Once I tell people, things change a little.
Even with liberals.
Most of the time, I don’t think about it: Self-preservation is easier. Of course, you know how it goes when you try to keep yourself from thinking about elephants.
Providence High School has a Muslim Student Association, but I don’t really know any of the kids. And when I see them in the hallways or sitting at their usual table in the cafeteria, I feel guilty, like I should say something in solidarity. Like I’m siding with the wrong half of my heritage. Like I should do a better job of announcing myself, instead of trying to pass.
It takes a lot for me to publicly claim my Muslimness. But every once in a while, something snaps.
The few people I’ve pushed back on—sometimes even pulling out my crappy Arabic—always respond with the same textbook progression.
First: flustered. (“Oh! Oh my goodness!”)
Next: confused. (“I mean … how? You don’t look…”)
Finally: three potential scenarios.
Scenario A: “Whoa, I never would have known! That’s cool. So, do you pray five times a day, or…?” (Translation: Are you a “scary” Muslim, or a “just like us, so I-can-pretend-you’re-not” Muslim?)
&nbs
p; Scenario B: annoyed. (Translation: Look, I’m not talking about people like you…)
Bigotry is always horrible, but it’s especially awkward when somebody realizes you’re not a safe receptacle for their garbage.
I’ve never had to deal with Scenario C, but I know it exists: danger.
“Dude, why’d you drop Quiz Bowl?” Joey asks Wells now.
Wells shrugs. “I don’t have enough time. I’m doing the music thing hard this year. Soccer, plus volunteering, plus SAT prep classes starting … it’s a lot.” I like this about Wells. He’s not one of those people who think trying or caring is uncool.
“So you were insecure about getting fewer points than me,” Joey says. “I get it.”
“Dream on, man,” Wells says.
He rolls up a straw wrapper and blows it at Joey’s face. It bounces off his forehead, and they both laugh. Joey crumples up a napkin and lobs it at Wells in return, and they spend a good minute lobbing it back and forth like a tiny volleyball until Wells drops it.
“No!” Wells cringes.
“Victory!” Joey raises his hands above his head in mock celebration.
Zadie shakes her head. “Y’all are dorks.”
“And that’s why you love us,” Wells says.
Eventually, the conversation turns to somebody named Tessa.
“Who’s Tessa?” I ask.
“My girlfriend,” Zadie says.
“Wait, you have a girlfriend?” I say.
The three of them laugh, and I feel embarrassed, like I’ve somehow gotten it wrong.
“I mean, of course I knew you dated girls,” I hasten to say. “I just didn’t know there was a girl.”
“I wish Tessa would move back,” Wells says.
“Me too,” Zadie sighs, looking wistful. She looks at me. “Her dad flies for Delta. They bought a new place in Peachtree City last year, and she goes to school there now. You know Atlanta—she might as well live in Florida, it’s so far away.”
“Do they really drive golf carts around Peachtree City,” Wells asks, “or is that just a myth?”
Zadie nods. “It’s real. And it’s so weird. There’s a golf-cart parking lot at Tessa’s high school.” When she mentions her girlfriend’s name, she looks sad again.
“I’m sorry she moved,” I say. “That sucks.”
“It’s all good. We’re ‘long-distance’”—she uses air quotes—“until college, and then we’re both applying to Georgia. Fingers crossed.”
“College.” Joey picks up a Manchester United coaster from Wells’s coffee table and twirls it like a top. “I don’t want to think about it.”
Wells leans forward and snatches it up. “We’ve got at least a year before we need to panic.”
“What are you worried about?” Zadie scoffs. “You’re a shoo-in.”
“A shoo-in?” I say. “For where?”
“Didn’t you know?” Zadie says. “Wells is going to Yale.”
He scowls. “I’m not. I’m not even applying.”
“Um, sorry,” I say. “Why wouldn’t you go to Yale?”
He pulls a face.
“He’s a legacy there,” Joey explains. “And his dad, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather…”
“Can we not?” Wells snaps.
“Easy, boy,” Zadie says, holding up her hands. She mock-whispers to me, “Touchy subject.”
“Sorry,” Wells says, sinking into the couch cushions and resting his head on my shoulder for a second. The unexpected touch sends a jolt up my spine. “College means something. I don’t want to be bullied into reliving my dad’s glory days.”
I want to slap some sense into him, thinking: What a luxury, to have a dad who could get you into an Ivy League university with a single phone call. Why would you scoff at that chance?
I mean, my dad went to an Ivy League university, too … but through the back door, after transferring in from a military college in Jordan. No freaking way could he call up the president of Columbia University and piggyback me in. Legacies are only for rich people.
I banish the frustration. “What is this integrity you demonstrate?” I say.
We lock eyes, and a grin slowly spreads across both of our faces. Looking at him makes my eyes happy.
And now it’s just the two of us—like we’re in a staring contest and I can’t look away.
“Okay, people, get a room,” Zadie says.
I snap out of it, certain I’m beet red.
He shifts on the couch again, and now our hands are lightly touching.
“Hey, losers!” Mikey Murphy says, bounding down the stairs like a Labrador retriever. He’s carrying a six-pack of Coke. Kids he’s never spoken to know details about his personal life. He’s been on homecoming court two years running. It’s like his entire life has been a practice run for high school.
“Zademeister,” he says. “Broseph.” He slings the Cokes on the table, pulls out his vape pen, and takes a puff.
Joey and I smile, because that’s what you’re expected to do when Mikey shows up. But Zadie—she can barely hide her disdain. Apparently, Mikey’s known Wells since they were in preschool. It’s one of those hard-to-shake friendships that only makes the cut because of personal history.
I try to focus on the rest of the conversation: on how hard Joey’s mom’s fibromyalgia has been recently; on Zadie’s abuela finally taking English lessons; on Wells’s expensive car conking out, though his mom bought it only a few years ago for herself.
But all I can focus on is Wells’s hand, brushing against mine. On the deliciously clean scent he wears, which wafts my way every time he shifts on the couch. And on the fact that I wish I were brave enough to take him by the hand, pull him into the back room, and press my lips against his for the first time.
CHAPTER FOUR
Dad offers to drive me to school the first day back, a rare occurrence. Mom’s office is much closer than the university, which means Dad must want QT.
Sure enough, as we’re stuck in traffic on Old Milton Parkway, he ventures down the path of Serious Conversation.
“How are you feeling, pumpkin?” My aunts and uncles use Arabic terms of endearment—hayati, ahsal, habib albee—but I’ve been “pumpkin” to my dad since before I can remember. He lowers the volume as “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” comes on.
“Fine,” I say. “Good.”
“I worry.”
“Why?”
“We’ve had lots of change this year. And of course there was that … incident … on the airplane. Do you need to talk?”
“Dad. You know I don’t have problems fitting in. I make it work. And, besides, the airplane thing was like forever ago. I don’t even think about it anymore,” I lie. “I’m fine.”
He fixes me with one of his looks. It’s the I See Through You look.
Except, for once, I’m not sure he does. Because even I don’t understand why I suddenly can’t stop thinking about this thing I’ve spent so long avoiding.
Religion? We don’t talk about it.
Not in a positive way, at least.
While my Ibrahimi cousins were going to Sunday school, learning how to pray, and practicing their Arabic, my family was going to museums on the weekend, making our way through the AFI 100 Greatest American Movies list, and practicing our world capitals.
When talking about other people, religious people, my dad would frown and shake his head. There’d be a negative comment: “I don’t understand how anybody believes in that nonsense,” or “You know what Karl Marx said about religion,” or “Unfortunately, the majority of the world’s abuses have been committed in the name of God.”
Mom would gently assent before coming up with a counterargument—“C’mon, Mo. Religion can be comforting. Besides, they’re parables and stories to help people. You don’t have to take the stories as fact”—and Dad would go off on a tangent about how people did take them as fact, and how science was the only God he believed in.
Maybe right now would be the perfect time
to talk to my father, as his guard is down and we’re listening to the Beatles, but though my father is perfect in almost every other area of life, he doesn’t exactly have a good track record when it comes to religion.
“I’m fine,” I repeat, struggling to contain my irritation. I switch to my cheery voice. “Don’t worry about me. Honestly!”
“It’s okay if you’re not.” He looks at me. “Fine, that is.”
I pause. I didn’t expect to be talking about this so long after the fact. I’d buried it deep away.
“It was a little upsetting,” I admit. “But, I mean, it could have been way worse, right?”
“Mmm. It could have.”
When we arrive at drop-off, he turns to me. He clears his throat, as if he wants to say something but is gathering the courage. Finally, he simply says, “I’m proud of you.”
I lean over, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Love you, Dad.”
I will fight anybody who comes for him.
Inside, Providence High School looks like every other school I’ve attended: trophies next to the administration office, linoleum floors, brick walls, hallways lined with lockers and hormones.
I can’t count the number of schools I’ve been to.
Actually, that’s not true.
Seven.
There was kindergarten in Dallas, and a second kindergarten when I got into a prestigious charter program in a fancy area of town after the school year started. I had to bus half an hour to and from school each day, but Dad talked Mom into it, saying education was the most important thing and it would be worth it.
We moved to Wayne, New Jersey, in fourth grade, when Dad finally graduated and got a position as an assistant professor not far from where Uncle Sammy lived, and then to El Segundo in fifth grade, when Dad got a position at UCLA. Then I started middle school. Next, it was off to Evanston, Illinois, in seventh grade, where he got a job at Northwestern, which is pretty much my dream school.
All-American Muslim Girl Page 4
