While Dad talks, I pick up my phone and zone out, scrolling through Instagram and peeping on people from school.
“Allie?” he says.
“Sorry?”
“Teta wants to say hi,” he says, holding out the phone.
My stomach clenches. Time for another round of awkward We Don’t Understand Each Other pantomiming.
“Marhaba, Teta!” I say cheerfully. “Kefic?”
“Mabsoota, ya Alia! Wa anti kefic?”
“Mabsoota, ya Teta.”
Aaaand, we’ve reached our limit.
“Um, love you, bahebak, ya habibti,” I say, smiling at her brightly, as if that will make up for my conversational deficiencies.
Mom goes through the same painful routine over FaceTime before hanging up. It’s fresh torture every time. I love my grandmother, but the conversations just remind me I’m not one of them.
“Okay, you ready?” Dad says, picking up the remote. “We’ve got a date with Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron.” He sees the scowl on my face. “What’s wrong?”
“I hate not being able to speak with Teta,” I say sullenly. “I wish you had taught me Arabic like I asked.”
He looks taken aback.
“I asked you over and over,” I say. “And you never taught me. And now I can barely communicate with her. I hate it.”
“Those are valid feelings,” Mom says, making me feel like a jerk.
Dad looks stricken.
“Sorry, Dad,” I say. “I’m in a mood. It’s not your fault.”
He nods. “It’s the Zeitgeist. I think the whole world is on edge these days.”
I’m grateful to him for letting me off the hook. I feel like a petulant brat. I need to make up for it.
“Sorry,” I repeat. “Hey, you want more ice cream? Extra chocolate syrup?”
He smiles. “Sure, pumpkin.” But the smile doesn’t fully reach his eyes.
CHAPTER SIX
Wells shows up outside my house at 7:45 a.m. sharp. I tighten the bow in my ponytail and smooth down my checkered trousers—today’s an Audrey Hepburn moment, complete with sleek black turtleneck—before racing outside, where Wells is waiting in a new car: a shiny black tricked-out pickup truck.
“Whoo-whee! Are we country or are we country?” I say as I step up and climb in.
He grins, patting the car. “This ol’ baby? She’s new.”
“Yeah, I can tell.” I sniff the air. New-car smell. “Nice, but not quite as swish as mine.”
“What do you drive?”
“Uh, I don’t. My mom keeps begging me to get my driver’s license, but what’s the point when you can have people drive you everywhere?” I make a silly face to show him I’m kidding. Mostly.
“Not me.” He slides his hand protectively over the steering wheel. “Wheels mean freedom. You can take your driver’s test next week, right?”
“Yeah. Then my ride will be my dad’s Cadillac. Don’t be jelly.”
He laughs, but I suddenly feel disloyal making fun of the car. My dad upgraded from an ancient Ford last year, and it was kind of a huge deal. He’d always dreamed of owning a Cadillac.
With each week, my relationship with Wells is deepening. We text each other every night after Wells gets home from soccer practice, and we’ve started hanging out alone, too—without his friends as a buffer.
Still, I don’t say anything to him.
You know. The Muslim thing.
I can’t.
Besides, what would I say?
Hey, you were totally right about Mr. Tucker picking Grease for the school musical despite the fact that everybody voted for Beauty and the Beast, and I can’t wait for my birthday surprise next week, and, oh, by the way, I’m a member of a marginalized and misunderstood religious group, and because I am invisible and everybody sees me as a Generic White Girl, I am a receptacle for unguarded Just Between Us White People ignorance.
I mean, it just flows.
I’m well versed in pushing uncomfortable and inconvenient thoughts out of my head, though. It’s one of my superpowers.
“I brought coffee,” he says, handing me a paper cup. “Venti latte, extra foam.”
“I’m impressed.”
“That’s what it takes to impress you? Basic listening skills?”
I buckle my seat belt as he reverses out of the driveway.
“Here I was planning a big birthday surprise,” he says. “Note to self: Just remember a Starbucks order.”
I giggle.
He puts on some music as we drive through the back roads of Providence, the road winding under a canopy of dogwood trees.
“Wait a second,” I say, my attention snapping back to the music. “Is this you?”
He grips the steering wheel tightly, not looking at me. “Yeah. What do you think?”
“Holy guacamole. You’re amazing!”
Now he glances my way, a hopeful smile lighting up his face.
“I had no idea you could sing,” I say.
“We did meet in chorus.”
“We met in algebra, so nice try—and I mean, really sing. Is this you on guitars, too?”
“Yup,” he says softly. “Guitar, drums, vocals. Dave Grohl recorded the entire first Foo Fighters album himself, you know.”
“Dude, you have serious talent.”
“Dude?” he asks, smiling.
“I used to live in California. Let it go. You need to start a YouTube channel or something.”
“I have one,” he mumbles.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.” Translation: I can’t believe my social media stalking didn’t bring anything up. “Do you perform?”
“Once. This tiny club in Midtown. I’m hoping to talk my dad into paying for studio time, too. Working on it.” His face tightens. “My dad is weird with money.”
He tells me the name of his YouTube channel, and I find a video. I watch him alone in his room, strumming on a guitar and singing an original composition. His eyes close a few times, as if he’s lost in the music—a quiet, lovely song about shaking off expectations.
He’s too gorgeous. I can’t.
I look back at the real Wells, zeroing in on his hands on the gearshift. Something about him driving a stick shift seems manly.
Eyes up here, Allie.
I feel like I need to crack a window to keep from passing out. I want to kiss him so badly I can barely breathe.
He misreads my silent lust for dislike. “You hate it,” he says.
“I don’t! I love it!” I’m surprised he’s being needy. I’ve never seen this side of him.
“Anyhow, it’s something I do for fun. My dad says music is a hobby.” A shadow passes over his face, then it’s gone.
“Are you going to try out for the musical?”
“I dunno.” He shrugs. “Maybe. You?”
“I thought I might. Why don’t we do it together?”
He turns onto the road leading to school, drumming on the steering wheel. “Cool, cool. Let’s do it.”
* * *
After Wells and I part ways, I see a large attention-grabbing table outside the library on the way to French. There’s a sign in front saying MUSLIM STUDENT ASSOCIATION and, beneath it, SUPPORT SYRIAN REFUGEES.
The girl behind the table has delicate features, copper-brown eyes, and bouncy waves coiling midway down her back.
I recognize her.
She’s one of them: the other Muslim kids at school.
The ones I pretend not to notice.
It’s not as if Providence is a completely homogenous place: There are a handful of Muslim kids, including a senior girl who wears a headscarf and mostly keeps to herself, and this girl, who I’m pretty sure is in my grade.
I decide to say something to her.
“Hi!”
She looks up at me, smiling. “Hi there!”
“I’m Allie.”
“I’m Dua.”
“So … uh … what are you doing here?”
“We’re raising money for the Int
ernational Rescue Committee, supporting Syrian refugees. We’re trying to hit five thousand dollars. And, as you can see, we’re rocking it.” She points at a poster board with their goal. They’ve raised seventy-three dollars. “Wanna donate?”
“Definitely.” I rummage in my purse for my wallet. “You take cash?” I fish out all the money I have in my wallet: twelve dollars. “I’m sorry it’s not more. I don’t get a huge allowance.”
“Thanks! Every bit helps.” She takes the money and puts it in a lockbox.
“Will you be here next week, too?” I ask.
“We only got permission through the end of the week, but we’ll keep raising money online. Facebook. Instagram. Carrier pigeon. Whatever it takes.”
I laugh at her joke. “Okay, cool. I’ll bring more next week.”
She smiles. “Incredible. Thanks!”
And I walk off down the hallway—wanting to say much more but not sure where to begin.
* * *
Wells, Zadie, and Joey have second lunch, which means I sit with Emilia, Sarah, and Mikey. Every once in a while, I’ll take my lunch and eat by myself by the log cabin.
Sometimes I just need to be alone, and I don’t know this group well enough yet to explain why.
They’re talking about the same stuff they always talk about: who’s hooking up with who, whether or not the football coach is gay, how they did on the latest quiz, whose parents are going to be out of town, PSAT prep.
Somehow the conversation turns to the Muslim Student Association’s fund-raising table, and my Spidey sense tingles.
Danger, danger.
“I think it’s nice. I gave five dollars,” Emilia says. “Those poor people, they need the money.”
“Bleeding heart alert,” Mikey cracks, popping a potato chip in his mouth. During football season, he’s on a strict diet, but it looks like that’s out the window second semester.
“Come on,” Emilia says, “at least I have a heart. Besides it’s not their fault. Not all Muslim refugees are bad. You don’t pick where you’re born. Right?”
Something in her tone rubs me the wrong way. Even while she’s defending Muslims, she’s othering us.
“Look, I’m not a monster. I feel sorry for them, but there’s no room for a bunch of refugees right now,” Mikey says. “We’re a little maxed out. America isn’t a free buffet. It’s not personal.” It’s as if he’s parroting talking points—whether from his parents or TV, I’m not sure.
“Are you going back to Europe, Mikey?”
I say it before I can stop myself.
“Huh?” He looks at me, surprised.
I’m surprised, too.
I press forward. “I mean, your family immigrated here. You’re saying everybody who’s not Native American should go back where they came from? Unless you’re Indigenous, you’re an immigrant. That means you, too.”
He snorts. “C’mon. That was five hundred years ago.”
“And?”
“America isn’t full of Cherokee anymore. We’re for white people now.”
If looks could kill.
He hastens to add, “Dude, Lincoln, you know what I mean: I don’t mean only white people. I meant it as shorthand. European ancestry.”
Now it’s not just me looking at him incredulously. Emilia and Sarah shift uncomfortably in their chairs, suddenly very interested in their food. If Zadie were here, she’d tear him a new one.
I gather courage, calling him out. “That’s racist. On multiple fronts.” My voice wavers but I hold his gaze.
“For real?” he says, his face stunned. “You’re calling me racist?”
My heart pounds. Maybe I’ve gone too far.
“That’s hella offensive. Just because I’m saying a bunch of foreign freeloaders shouldn’t get an automatic one-way pass? Use your brain. They could be dangerous.” He grabs his bottle of water, unscrews the cap furiously, and starts chugging it. “I am one hundred percent not racist. Joey and Hassan are my legit bros. I love those guys.”
Sarah clears her throat. “Hey, did y’all hear about Mrs. Russell? Rumor is she won the lottery. She just upgraded from a beater to a Tesla.”
“Look, Mikey,” I say, ignoring Sarah, “just tell me this. You do get that those people—the ‘dangerous’ ones—aren’t real Muslims, right? Like, they’re killing their own kind. They’re bombing mosques. They literally keep trying to blow up Mecca. That’s not Muslim. Syrian refugees have nothing to do with them.”
“BS. Of course they’re Muslims.”
“They’re not.”
Normally, I’d let it go to keep the peace, but suddenly, I feel like I’m part of the problem.
Holding up the status quo.
Keeping my mouth shut to avoid making people uncomfortable.
I continue. “The attacker from winter break: Now we know he wasn’t Muslim, but everybody just assumed he was before they found him.”
“I don’t know. That whole thing was shady.”
“Mikey, he’s a white guy.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. My dad says they’re hiding the facts.”
“Okay, conspiracy theorist,” I say, rolling my eyes. “What about all the guys who keep terrorizing churches and synagogues and schools? Why don’t you call them terrorists? Because they’re white?”
He frowns. “You’re being naive. It’s not my fault some people hate America.”
“How come if somebody named Ahmed kills people, that’s terrorism,” I say, “but if it’s some white boy, it suddenly becomes just a regular crime? A lone wolf, right? As if Muslims can’t be terrorized? As if murderous white people get a pass?”
“Allie,” Emilia whispers. “I totally agree with you, but keep your voice down, okay?”
“I’m sick of people automatically blaming Muslims,” I say. “It’s bigoted and it’s wrong, and we’re better than this. Or we should be.”
“I’m feeling you,” she says quietly, “but maybe let’s take it down a few notches. Cool?”
I don’t know if Emilia is taking offense to what I’m saying or simply how I’m saying it.
Keep it calm, Allie. Nobody likes an angry girl. “Mikey, you get that demonizing billions of people because of a few isn’t cool, right?” A pleading tone has crawled into my voice to replace my aggressive one.
“Love ya, Lincoln, but you’re delusional.” Mikey snorts. “It’s more than a few.”
“So every Muslim needs to wear the scarlet letter?”
“You shouldn’t be this sensitive.”
“You need to learn words matter.”
Mikey makes a blech noise. “Can we stop talking politics?” he says. “It’s boring. I wish everybody would shut up about it.”
“But you brought it up,” I say. “We were talking about SAT prep before you went off on the MSA fund-raising table.”
I can’t believe I’m not letting this go.
I always let it go.
I break my gaze away. I feel hot and dizzy, with a pounding headache. Confrontation takes it out of me.
“I’m sorry, okay?” I say, not entirely sure what I’m apologizing for or who I’m apologizing to. “I’m passionate about it, that’s all.”
“You should write an op-ed for the school paper or something,” Sarah says. “Ooh! Or run for student council!”
Emilia looks relieved. “I’m sorry, too. I know you meant well. And I love your passion.”
Thank goodness they’re letting me off the hook. I’ve spent the entire year trying to coast below the radar, and here I am, ruining it in five seconds.
“I don’t,” Mikey mutters, riling me right back up.
“While you’re at it,” I snap at him, “don’t talk about Coach’s sexuality. That’s none of your business.”
“Jesus, Allie,” Mikey says. “What’s got your panties in a twist?”
I stand up, taking my tray over to the trash and dumping it out to the sound of giggles behind me. Across the room, I see Dua eating lunch with a few girls.
>
By the time I storm through the lunchroom doors, I can hear Mikey’s voice carrying: He’s already talking about Claire Sanchez and some epic party she’s planning.
Five seconds, and forgotten—just like that.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As soon as I get home, I collapse on the couch. I put my phone in do-not-disturb mode, leaving it facedown on the coffee table, next to my dad’s history books and out of arm’s reach. I can’t with social media right now. I need a break from the world.
Mom gets home later than usual, wearing her personal uniform: black jeggings, white button-down shirt, and black flats. On the weekends, it’s her other uniform: Lululemon leggings, V-neck tees, and old-school Adidas, which makes her look like she’s always one protein shake away from hitting the gym.
“Hi, honey,” she says, her voice exhausted.
“Long day?” I ask.
She nods, rubbing her hand across her eyes and looking vulnerable. “Yeah.”
Considering how warm my mother is with me, she’s surprisingly tight-lipped about work. Maybe it’s too tough to bring home with her. It must be difficult, hearing people complain, talking through their issues nonstop, being a repository for so much suffering. She’s like a crab—tough on the outside but a big, gooey softy on the inside.
“Nobody went off the deep end, though, right?” I say.
She laughs. “Not quite, Allie. Thank you for your confidence in my skills.”
“Okay, good.”
She sits down next to me, and I put my head on her lap, like I used to do when I was young. She strokes my hair, and suddenly I’m six years old again.
“How was your day, love?” she says.
“It was okay.” I think about Mikey, and how much it hurts when people bash Muslims in front of me, not realizing they’re insulting my family. Insulting me. I think about meeting Dua, and about how I’m a horrible Muslim … because I’m barely a Muslim at all.
Her hand is soft on my head.
“The thing with Dad on the plane last month,” I say, looking up at her. “Has something like that happened before?”
There’s so much unsaid in Mom’s look: surprise, concern, pity, fear. She’s quiet for a long time, as if weighing her words.
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