So I don’t know.
Maybe I’ve been reading into this whole thing.
Maybe he doesn’t like me back.
Maybe he sees me as his awesome gal pal Allie—she of mouthy quips and neurotic tendencies—and the idea of kissing me (which has never crossed his mind) would make him cringe.
On the drive home, I keep retreating into myself, doing that thing where I shrink into a protective emotional shell, getting into my own head—until I’m giving monosyllabic answers to his questions and pretending to ignore him.
“You okay?” he asks. On the radio, Tom Petty sings about girls raised on promises.
“Hmm? Yeah. Fine.”
“You seem … off.”
“Nope. All good,” I say in what I hope is a breezy I Couldn’t Care Less tone.
Except, I couldn’t care more.
When he drops me off at my house before dinner, the February sky a dusky purple, I can’t bounce from the car fast enough. I lean over the seat stiffly, patting him twice on the back and mumbling, “Catch you later,” before bolting into my house.
* * *
Mom and Dad are on the couch doing work when I get home, cable news on in the background and dinner simmering on the stove.
“Have fun?” Mom asks, looking up from her laptop.
“Uh-huh.” I plop down on an armchair, feeling dazed. I might have screwed things up with Wells for no reason.
“Where’d you go?” Dad asks, looking up from a World War I book. Research. He’s writing his next book, a take on “the Great War” (as he calls it), focusing on how the closing years and the aftermath transformed American society, heightened consumerism, and led to greater isolationism and an increased sense of American exceptionalism.
I’ve heard the summary a time or two thousand.
“To the movies,” I say.
“With that horse girl? Emilia?” His brow furrows. He doesn’t seem to like her, and I’m not sure why. She’s the kind of straightlaced student any normal parent would love their kid to hang out with. No wild keggers on Emilia Graham’s watch.
“No, uh, with Wells.”
He sets his book down on the couch. “Ah. Right. The boy.” The word—boy—is heavy in his mouth, laden with meaning.
“Oh, Mo, lighten up,” Mom says. “She’s sixteen next week.”
He looks back and forth between the two of us, eyebrows raised. “Am I being ambushed? Is this some sort of mother-daughter plot to pull one over on your doddering old dad?”
I think he’s kidding. Like, 95 percent sure.
“Please,” I say. “You’re not old. You’re nearly a millennial.”
“How dare you,” he says, chuckling. “And, might I say, your attempts to distract me are weak. More details on this boy you’re suddenly spending time with, please.”
I fight to keep my voice even.
Yeah, he’s mostly chill, but he’s still my dad. If I get defensive, he might change his mind about the dating thing, and then I’ll be screwed. “It’s not sudden, Dad. We’ve been hanging out all year. He’s in chorus. And algebra, too. He’s smart—he used to do Quiz Bowl. He loves soccer, like you. And he’s just a friend, by the way.”
“Hmm.” Dad frowns, not looking convinced.
“I’m pretty sure he’s a Galaxy fan,” Mom says in a teasing voice.
“At least he has good taste,” Dad says.
I don’t bother to correct them.
He looks back down at his book, rapping on it with his fingers. He sighs. “Is this happening?”
“Is what happening?” I ask.
“You’re almost sixteen,” he says, sounding resigned. “I gave my word you could start dating. I guess I didn’t expect—”
“News flash: Just because a guy and girl hang out doesn’t always mean it’s a date.”
He shoots me another patented Mo Abraham look. The one that’s always been way more effective than getting angry or arguing his case. The look that says: You can’t get anything past me.
Dating was something I never thought about until I turned twelve. When I asked my mother if I’d someday be allowed, she demurred, saying, “I’ll talk to your father.” That surprised me, because my mother grew up American and so I automatically assumed she’d be on my side. Wrong. The two of them were big on Team Abraham. She’d need to talk to my dad and formulate a plan.
The funny thing is, my dad is the cool one in the family. He’s even-keeled when it comes to dealing with obnoxious strangers, and he’s great about giving advice to other family members when they get too hardhanded with their children. (“You don’t own them. You’re only there to steward them,” he’d said to his brother-in-law when he threatened to boycott my cousin Danna’s wedding for choosing a Christian husband.)
But apparently my dad’s levelheadedness goes out the window when it comes to dating and me. He got weird in seventh grade when Mom told him I had a massive crush on Dusty in my chorus class.
One evening, he said out of nowhere, “You’re not allowed to date until you’re sixteen, you know.”
“Huh? I’m not dating.”
Dad looked at me, unblinking. Suddenly, it felt like a game of chicken. Finally, he said, “Okay. But just … remember … no dating.”
“Until I’m sixteen. I know, I know,” I said, laughing.
He didn’t laugh back.
Later, I yelled at my mother, threatening not to confide in her ever again. But, of course, I did tell her when Dusty said hi to me unprovoked during gym class, and I told her about another time when he passed by me in the hallway during Colors Week and said “Heyyy, Allie,” smiling.
I didn’t tell her about the time Chloe Stern dared me to ask him to play Spin the Bottle with us downstairs at her house after her bat mitzvah.
How he turned me down.
How I cried for a week.
Then we moved again, and it was a nonissue.
I understood Dad was disappointed in himself, because he wanted to be better than his parents. Although a lot of Muslim parents were becoming more progressive, the old generation was still conservative.
To be fair, this was something my Catholic cousins had to deal with, too. My older cousin Julie told me at an aunt’s funeral that Uncle Robert once made a sexist joke about a shotgun and an alibi.
So maybe it’s not a religious thing. Maybe it’s generational.
Or maybe it’s just my family.
Lucky me.
Mom ignores me, turning on her soothing psychologist voice for Dad. “Your child turning sixteen, starting to date, perhaps displacing you in your mind, making you feel older than you see yourself … these are milestones. It’s only natural to have big feelings.”
Big feelings. OMG. She’s using toddlerspeak to pacify my dad.
He frowns again. His face is one permanent, never-ending frown.
“I swore I wouldn’t be like Jido was with my sisters. And here we are.” He clears his throat a couple times. “I gave you my word, and I intend to keep it. Why don’t you invite Wells over to the house? Give us a chance to meet him.”
Abort! Danger!
“I mean, he really is just a friend … but sure,” I say, knowing there’s no way out of it. “He mentioned doing something for my birthday. Maybe he can come inside for a few minutes beforehand.”
Dad looks wounded. “You’re not spending your birthday with us? I thought we could pick up a cake, pop some Martinelli’s, watch whatever movie you like…”
His face breaks my heart.
“Sounds incredible, Dad. Could we do it the night before, instead?”
He sighs. “It begins.”
I give my parents kisses on the head and race up the stairs two at a time, feeling as if I’ve won some battle I didn’t know I was fighting.
After closing my door and double-checking to make sure it’s locked, I scoot against the headboard, reach into my purse, and take the Qur’an out of the bookstore bag. I run my fingers over the cool, smooth cover and flip t
hrough the book, turning the pages. Contraband.
I remember once hearing there were special rules for handling the Qur’an, but I feel embarrassed that I don’t know if this is true. I grab my phone, turning to Professor Google, which says:
The central religious text of Islam, the holy Qur’an is a divine revelation directly from God through the archangel Gabriel to the final Prophet Muhammad (PBUH). Due to the Qur’an’s sacred nature, there exist special rules that Muslims must follow when touching, handling, or reading from it. It is haram to touch the Qur’an before performing ritualistic wudu cleansing, and it is haram to touch the Qur’an while unclean. When not in use, the Qur’an must be stored in a clean, respectable place, with nothing on top of it, and should never be placed on the floor or brought into a bathroom. Above all, it is always essential to show respect for the Qur’an’s sacred nature.
I cringe, thinking of the Qur’an jammed at the bottom of my bag all day. After putting my phone in do-not-disturb mode, I open the Qur’an and start from the beginning. The first chapter is Surah al-Fatihah—literally, “The Opening:”
In the name of God, the Lord of Mercy, the Giver of Mercy!
I lose myself in the pages, reading passages and pausing to cross-reference them online.
“Allie! Dinner!”
I startle at my father’s voice and shove the Qur’an into my nightstand, between my Bullet Journal and some old copies of Entertainment Weekly. I’m at the door before I guiltily realize what I’ve done. I remove the Qur’an from the drawer carefully with both hands, as if my sudden reverence will make up for everything.
* * *
We try to have a proper family dinner together every night. My dad says it was chaos when he was a kid, and Grandfather was always at the hospital during my mom’s childhood. Each of them vowed they’d do sit-down dinners when they had their own kids.
It’s wine for Mom and Dad, cran-raspberry LaCroix for me. We clink glasses and cheer.
Mom passes the meatballs, launching into a story about how she accidentally double-booked clients when her assistant was on vacation. The clients showed up within two minutes of each other and each tried to convince her their needs were more urgent.
As Dad talks about the stresses of grant applications, I smile and nod politely. I want to get back upstairs so I can read more of the Qur’an.
A thought I never thought would run through my mind.
When Mom brings up Wells again, I look at her like, What are you doing, woman?
“Do you know what you two are doing for your birthday?” she says.
“No,” I say.
“What’s he like?” Dad asks.
“Uh … I don’t know. Nice. Funny. Cheerful.”
“A rousing endorsement,” Mom says. She doesn’t mention she’s already met him. “What’s he into?”
I shrug. “Soccer. Classic rock. Conservation stuff. Star Wars.”
Dad puts his napkin on the table.
“What kind of things do you do together?” Mom says.
Seriously. She’s trying to kill me.
“I dunno. Do homework. Listen to music. Watch movies.”
She nods knowingly. “Netflix and chill.”
Dad and I exchange a look. I can’t help laughing, even though I’m mortified.
“Elizabeth,” Dad says, “that doesn’t mean what you think it means.”
“What?” Mom says innocently.
At the end of the meal, Mom brings out a plate of cupcakes.
“Stress-baking?” Dad asks.
Mom exhales in a puff. “Last week took it out of me.”
When Mom gets overwhelmed by the emotional demands of her job, she finds solace in flour and sugar. She once explained it to me: “There’s no concrete answer with people. Baking is different. It’s precise, like math. There’s an equation. You do it properly, you get it right.”
If only life were that simple.
After Mom heads upstairs to read, Dad turns to me. “I’m playing hooky from doing dishes. Should we do Quizzes before I grade papers?”
Quizzes is my dad’s shorthand for practicing a wide variety of Quiz Bowl topics: everything from world capitals to famous works of art to notable dates in history. It’s another way Dad and I have bonded: him shooting rapid-fire questions, me lobbing the answers back. We’ve been doing it since I was a kid, and it’s why I’m so good at Jeopardy! and Trivial Pursuit, and anything involving the parroting of useless, easy-to-memorize facts.
If I’m being honest? Quizzes is the last thing I want to do tonight. I want to read more Qur’an. I’ve got homework to do. I have to warn Wells about meeting my parents. Plus, after today’s awkwardness, I need to digest what the heck is going on with Wells in the first place.
I’m busy.
I can’t say that to my dad, though. After our conversation earlier, it would crush him.
“Sure, Dad.” I muster up every last bit of energy to make my smile look enthused.
“Should we do American history?” His favorite, of course.
“Perfect.”
“What year was Jamestown settled?”
“In 1607. Although obviously the Indigenous people were there long before Captain John Smith arrived.”
He nods. “Points for background. When did the Boston Massacre happen?”
“March 5, 1770.”
“Boston Tea Party?”
“Dad. Come on. December 16, 1773. This is middle school stuff. Give me a hard one. More than just dates.” Despite myself, I’m getting into it.
He looks down at the floor as he strokes his face, pensive. “Which group of leaders was established by the National Security Act of 1947?”
“Ooh. Hmm. The Joint Chiefs?”
“Right. Which president’s farewell address warned against the unwarranted influence of the military-industrial complex?”
“Dwight D. Eisenhower?”
“Well done!” He beams. “My smart girl.”
I grin. “I’m getting good, right?”
“Proud of you. Should we try literature? I’ve got a few Shakespearean quotes up my sleeve,” he says. “Which character fears her husband is ‘too full o’ th’ milk of human kindness’?”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out. It’s Wells.
Hey. Did I say something to make you angry?
“Dad, I hate to stop, but I have a ton of homework,” I say. “It’s Lady Macbeth, by the way. Can we do more tomorrow?”
To his credit, if he’s disappointed, he doesn’t show it. “Sure, pumpkin.”
He stands up, giving me a kiss on the head and wincing a bit as he walks into the kitchen to fulfill his dishes duty. He was in the Jordanian army when he was young, and hurt his back during a military exercise. It’s been more than twenty years, and he says he can still clock the weather by his bad back.
I feel guilty as I watch Dad walk away. Being an only means there’s no buffer between my parents and me. It’s just us against the world. You have to be cool with your parents; otherwise, it wouldn’t work.
And anyway, my parents are cool people.
Most of the time.
My phone buzzes again, and I jump up, run up the stairs to my room, and close the door.
Privacy at last.
I pull out my phone, staring at Wells’s text.
The realization that I have any sort of power over Wells is a heady one. The simple act of me pulling away from him seems to have thrown him off-kilter, so he’s now reaching out to make sure it’s all good.
It’s a fascinating realization: Even the cutest guys get nervous, too. Wells is a person with insecurities, the same as me.
And suddenly, knowledge dawns with absolute certainty:
This guy really likes me.
CHAPTER NINE
“You look wonderful, Allie,” Mom says, beaming.
“You look very nice,” Dad says, looking like he’s smelled something slightly unpleasant.
The three of us sit in the livin
g room, waiting for Wells to arrive. I’m wearing a blue dress that flatters my skin and sets off my red hair.
“When we said you could date at sixteen, who knew you’d take us up on it the day of your birthday.” Mom laughs. “Eager beaver.”
Dad purses his lips as the doorbell rings.
Let’s do this thing.
I open the door, and Wells enters, looking edible. He’s wearing a pair of dress loafers and has on a nice button-down shirt tucked into a pair of khaki pants. His hair is slightly wet, and his curls are raked back.
It feels like we’re playing at being adults.
“Wells,” Mom says, stepping forward and hugging him. “It’s good to see you.”
Dad’s head swivels toward Mom. I read his thoughts: See? Not meet?
Wells clears his throat, looking at Dad warily. They reach out and shake hands, engaging in a rousing pumping: up-down-up-down-up-down-up-down.
“Allie says you’re a professor at Emory, sir,” Wells says.
“That’s right.” My dad takes a step back, fidgeting and scratching his nose.
“History?”
“That’s right.”
“Dad, Wells has family in New York,” I say, hoping to steer the conversation along.
“Is that so?” Dad asks. “Where in New York?”
“About an hour outside the city. In Purchase?”
Dad nods. “College town.”
“Yup.” Wells is nervous, too. “We spend holidays there every other year.”
“Nice place.”
“You’ve been there”—he clears his throat—“sir?”
“No, but I know of it.”
I’ve never heard of Purchase, but judging by Wells’s current fortress and the fact that Dad is now looking semi-impressed, it must be nice enough to warrant a drive-through and house-gawk.
“Oh, Dad. Wells loves soccer, too. He’s on the JV team.”
“You mentioned,” Dad says, looking interested. “Galaxy fan, right?”
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