“Ugh. Does that mean I’m Gorsuch?” Leila says.
Dua groans. “Y’all are serious nerds.”
I recite the Isha prayer that night for the first time at home, feeling grateful for the day. I face the Qibla, taking a few deep breaths and stilling my mind as I set my intention. I raise my hands to my ears, my gaze soft, my heart light. As I say Allahu akbar, I feel a whoosh of energy and love and peace. Hamdullah, I’m not alone.
I repeat the motions: putting my hands on my knees, bending down, curling myself into a ball, resting my forehead on the ground. I try to be present in the moment, doing more than simply saying the mindful words of devotion and appreciation.
I feel them.
Generations of my family have done this before me: my father and my grandmother and my great-grandmother; relatives in Jordan, relatives in the Caucasus. I picture them on their knees, uttering the same words I’m saying now, whispering up their dreams and desires for the same God. Maybe their intentions are different. Maybe their interpretation is not the same. But right now, at this very moment, Muslims across the East Coast are doing the exact same thing. Today, hundreds of millions of Muslims—maybe more—have gone about these five prayers, showing God the strength of their intentions and humbly submitting, quietly asking for recognition. Countless millions more will tomorrow, and the day after.
I am finally part of something bigger than myself, part of the ummah, and it is beautiful.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I don’t know much about dating, but I’m pretty sure it’s twice as hard when your boyfriend’s father is a famous jerk.
And ten times as hard when the famous jerk invites you to dinner.
And fifty times as hard when the same famous jerk absolutely, positively cannot find out you’re Muslim.
As Wells drives us through the back streets of Providence, lush with trees recalling the sleepy one-horse town it used to be, I ask myself for the fifteenth time what I’m doing.
“Do you think it’s a good idea?” I say.
He turns down the long road leading to his property. We both know what I mean.
“It’s probably an awful idea,” he says.
“I can’t promise I’m not gonna go off on him.”
“I hope you will.”
I shoot him a look. “We both know you don’t mean that.”
We hold each other’s gaze, but he looks away first. “It’s better if he doesn’t find out. I don’t want him to…”
“Hate me?”
He chews on his lower lip.
When Wells told me his father had invited me over for dinner, I nearly vomited. How could I break bread with this man?
But I’ll admit it. Curiosity got the best of me.
So here I am on a Saturday night, hair perfectly done, wearing the preppiest dress I own, sitting across the table from Jack Henderson for my Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner moment.
“Allie,” Mr. Henderson says. My name is loose in his mouth, his drawl an untraceable jumble of accents. “Thanks for coming! Wells is very taken with you.”
Wells’s mom smiles at me while Wells’s ten-year-old brother, Sawyer, plays with an iPhone under the table. Wells and I exchange looks.
“Are you from Providence?” his dad says.
“I’m originally from Texas. We moved here last year.” I leave out the details. Details are for people I feel safe with.
“Texas! What a state. I spent some time in Dallas myself. Decent barbecue. Gorgeous houses. And good shopping! You wouldn’t think I’d care about that, but…” Mr. Henderson grins at me, a dimple popping on his right cheek. “You like Georgia?”
“It’s great,” I say. “I love so much about the South. The trees, the food, the people.” He doesn’t seem to notice what I’ve left unsaid.
“So do I! It’s much more authentic than the North, don’t you think?”
I take a bite of my salad, wishing I were anywhere else but here. Wells’s dad is nothing but charming and polite. I guess I’m the small-minded jerk, because I can’t get past our political differences.
“And what brought your family to Atlanta?” He looks at me expectantly, a pleasant smile on his face. It irritates me that he’s handsome. His outside should match his inside.
“We moved for my father’s job. He’s a professor at Emory.” Without meaning to, I’ve slipped into my best For the Adults voice.
Not coincidentally, it’s also my I Might Be Muslim, But Don’t Worry—I Am Not a Threat to You voice.
“Emory’s wonderful,” he says. “I gave a talk there years ago. I had a good friend on the board.”
“That’s nice,” I say. “Uh, you went to Yale?”
“Wells told you?”
I nod.
His eyes sweep over me, as if he’s sizing me up. He pauses before smiling. I wonder how often he whitens those teeth.
“I can tell you’re smart, Allie. Just the kind of person I’d like to see Wells with. He’s a lucky guy.”
“Wells is smart,” I say, “so I’m lucky, too.”
“Of course,” Mr. Henderson says, looking over at him. “But that’s only because he’s like his mom.” He puts his hand on his wife’s, and she faintly lifts the corners of her mouth before pulling her hand away and taking a sip of wine.
I notice the gold bracelet on her wrist—one of those expensive lock bracelets that have to be removed with a screwdriver. They’re supposed to symbolize love. Clamped around Serena’s dainty wrist, it looks more like a handcuff.
“Did you know Serena and I met in college?” Mr. Henderson says.
“Oh?” I move my food around my plate, trying to look interested. I was worried tonight might devolve into a shouting match as incendiary political ideas were hurled. Instead, it’s a snoozefest.
And as an only child—I don’t get bored easily. Conversing with adults has been drilled into me since birth. It’s the reason I’m able to spend so much time with my parents.
“Young Republicans mixer,” he says. “She was a big-city gal from Vancouver, too good for the slowpoke likes of me.”
“Oh, please!” Wells’s mom laughs, coming alive. “I lived in Victoria, and I barely left the island! I had to make myself seem sophisticated to keep up with you.” She turns to me. “He was full of ideas, full of enthusiasm,” she says. “It was the end of the nineties, there was this fervor in America, and I wanted to be a part of it. I joined Young Republicans but didn’t tell Jack for several months that I couldn’t vote.” She laughs again, caught in a reverie. “He assumed I was a dual citizen—impossible for him to fathom anybody who wasn’t American!”
“I had to ask her to marry me immediately,” he says, stabbing his filet. “Couldn’t let her get away.”
“There was no saying no,” Mrs. Henderson says, a faraway look in her eye. She takes another sip of wine.
Wells makes a discreet vomiting motion, forcing me to swallow a giggle. As much as I can’t stand Jack Henderson, even I think it’s cute watching him and Wells’s mom reminisce.
Then I remember Jack makes money by exploiting fear. He denies millions of Americans their humanity. He’s not cute. He’s dangerous.
Don’t forget it, Allie.
“You’re Canadian?” I ask Wells’s mom.
“I’m afraid so,” she says, smiling, her tone playfully apologetic. It’s a tone I recognize. It’s the same tone I employ whenever my family’s background comes up, or somebody says, “Abraham? What kind of last name is that?”
“Um. Where did you go after college?” I say.
“We made our way down to DC, where I took a job with the government,” he says. “Nothing but bloat and bureaucracy. Total indifference to human suffering. Heartbreaking.”
It’s funny hearing somebody like him talking about human suffering when he’s directly responsible for so much of it. I’m pretty sure I know what he’s talking about. White suffering.
The right kind of humans.
“Wells was born in DC,�
�� his dad says. “Best day of my life. Nothing prepares you for becoming a father for the first time. Being responsible for another human.” His voice is tender. He smiles. “Of course, when Sawyer was born, it was equally spectacular.”
His younger son yawns.
Mrs. Henderson suddenly looks sad. “Wells was such a cute baby.”
“Uh, I’m right here,” Wells says. “I’m not dead.”
His dad drinks wine. “We moved to Georgia after Sawyer was born. That’s when I woke up,” he says. “The poverty. The way the government plays politics with its own people. The cancer eating away at the heart of this country.”
Mrs. Henderson clears her throat.
“I decided to use my voice. I got involved in local politics, started reporting for a small TV station … and the rest is history,” he says.
I look at him, eyebrows raised: Is this guy for real?
Should I stand up, flip over the table, and shout, We all know what you mean when you say “cancer.” You’re nothing but a bigot!
I mean, really. That’s not happening.
Do I break up with Wells because his father’s a jerk?
Do I smile and nod and take another bite of steak?
Whatever I do, I lose. I’m either going to be patronized and ignored, or I’m complicit. I wonder again if it’s possible for me to keep dating Wells when he’s related to this man.
Mr. Henderson misunderstands my silence, taking a sip of his wine and chuckling in a self-deprecating way.
“Sorry. This isn’t appropriate dinner-table conversation,” he says. “What do you do in your spare time, Allie?”
I sneak a glance at my cell phone. It’s 8:05 p.m. I’ve showed up. I’ve played nice. How much longer do I have to sit through this before I can go home?
“I don’t have much spare time with my studies, sir,” I say, “but I’m doing the school musical. Last semester, I joined the Quiz Bowl team and cheerleading and was volunteering at a senior center.”
“That’s great. Giving back is essential. And how did you two meet?”
“Dad, you’re grilling her,” Wells says, jumping in. “It’s not a work interview.”
Mr. Henderson smiles again, although his expression is tighter this time. Across the table, Wells’s mom pours herself more wine.
“I wanted to make our guest feel welcome,” he says.
“It’s fine,” I say politely. “Wells and I met at school. In Algebra Two. We do chorus together, too.”
“Hey, by the way, I forgot to tell you,” Wells says. “I uploaded a new video to YouTube, and it’s had over five thousand views in ten days.”
I smile at him gratefully.
“That’s great, son,” Mr. Henderson says. “But please don’t interrupt our guest while she’s speaking, okay? We can talk about your little videos later.”
“She wasn’t speaking,” Wells says.
“That’s enough,” his dad says with a frown. “We don’t want to give the wrong impression.”
“She’s not a guest. She’s just Allie.”
“That’s enough,” Mr. Henderson snaps. He turns to me with a smile. “And your mother? What does she do?”
I look back and forth between Wells and his dad, not sure what’s happening.
“Um, she’s a psychologist specializing in child development.”
“That’s must have been a pain in the butt growing up—pardon my French! I bet she was always torturing you with the latest child development theories.” He chuckles.
I laugh, despite myself. “Yep. It was pretty annoying.”
“Brussels sprouts, Allie? I made these specially for you—without bacon,” Wells’s mom says, pushing a platter my way and giving me a conspiratorial look. “I hope you like them.”
Wait. Does she know?
“Uh, thanks, Mrs. Henderson.”
“Call me Serena.”
“And you can call me Jack,” Wells’s dad says.
“Um, okay. Thanks, Mrs.—Serena.” What is up with parents wanting to be called by their first name?
“You don’t eat pork?” Jack asks, looking at me with interest as he tucks into his bacon-laden brussels sprouts.
You can’t tell him. You promised Wells.
I rack my brain, searching for an excuse. “I had a bad incident last year. I haven’t been able to stomach it since.”
Why not tell him?
I could just say it:
Actually, Mr. Henderson, there’s another reason I don’t eat pork. I’m Muslim. You know, like those people you give speeches against and write books about.
But I don’t.
And I sort of hate myself for chickening out.
“Have you gone to any of Wells’s shows?” Jack asks. “He’s very talented.” His tone is odd, especially after condescendingly calling Wells’s YouTube uploads his “little” videos.
“Not yet,” I say. “I can’t wait to see one.”
Wells groans. “Don’t get your hopes up. I’ve been trying to lock down a gig for months. Why aren’t clubs dying to book a kid with more than twelve hundred whole subscribers on YouTube?” He looks at me and makes a silly face.
“You know, when I was a kid, my favorite band was Talking Heads,” Jack says. “I’d blast it in my room and drive my father up the wall. He’d call it noise and tell me real music wasn’t the garbage I listened to but stuff like jazz and blues—Buddy Guy, B. B. King, Robert Johnson.” Mr. Henderson shakes his head, and his eyes go fuzzy as if lost in a memory. “I didn’t get it until I became a dad. That stuff you listen to.” He rolls his eyes at Wells. “That’s not music.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Wells’s face goes slightly pink.
“But you’re talented—at least there’s that.”
“I can’t wait to hear him play live.” I look over at Wells and smile. “Don’t always listen to a ton of jazz or blues, but I do love country.”
“American music, like jazz,” Jack says, turning toward Serena. “Serena hates country music, don’t you, honey?”
She flushes, smiling at me apologetically. “I don’t have an ear for it. We didn’t get much country music in Victoria when I was a kid.”
As Serena serves the dessert and Jack continues talking, Sawyer plays a noisy iPhone game under the table. Jack is quick to discipline Wells but doesn’t pay much attention to his younger son.
“I made strawberry shortcake for you, Allie,” Serena says, presenting the whipped-cream-covered dessert—my favorite—with a flourish. “Wells said—”
“Speaking of your music, Wells,” Jack says, interrupting his wife, “why aren’t you playing Danny? The school’s doing Grease, right? You should be Danny.” He’s gone through a bottle of red wine, his tone getting progressively louder as he drinks. Now he’s on to the bourbon.
Wells and his mom exchange a look. Volumes pass between them, but I don’t speak their language enough to decode it.
“He’s a sophomore, Jack,” Serena says in a soothing tone. “The best roles go to seniors.”
“If he’s good enough, he should get it. Right, Allie?”
I stare back at him, wide-eyed.
Wells clears his throat. “I’m playing Kenickie. It’s a good role.”
“Not good enough. Who’s playing Danny?”
“This kid Billy Jackson.”
“What year is he?”
Wells’s jaw tightens. “A junior.”
Jack turns to Serena. “So much for that excuse. He must be better than you. Why did I spend all that money on your drum kit and your guitars and your lessons if you can’t even get the lead in a high school musical?”
My heart pounds as I clear my throat, wanting to defend Wells. “Actually, Mr. Henderson, it’s kind of political. The chorus teacher loves Billy Jackson. And I guess he made him Scarecrow last year in The Wizard of Oz.”
Jack startles, as if he’d forgotten I was there. “I’m sorry, Allie. You must think I’m a buffoon. I’m hard because I love him. I want Wells to
succeed.”
“Of course,” I say tentatively.
“He’s talented,” he says. “Sure, he’s my kid, but I can be objective. He’s got ‘it.’ When you’re a parent, you want everybody to see your kid through your eyes.”
Although Jack is technically complimenting his son, Wells scowls at him.
Serena clears the dishes while Jack holds court at the head of the table, oblivious to the emotional disruption he’s caused. “Let’s play a board game. Something competitive,” he says. “I know! Risk!”
I look at Wells, alarmed.
“Dad, it’s late. Allie needs to get home,” he says. “She’s working on a huge comp sci project.”
“Computer science?” Jack says. “That’s unexpected.”
“Why?” I ask.
Jack pauses. “What am I saying? Of course you’re right. Girls can do anything boys can do.”
This time, I don’t fake a smile.
I clear my throat. “I do need to be getting home. My curfew is nine thirty. Thank you both for your hospitality.”
Serena is now in the corner, sipping a cup of tea with her feet tucked under her, looking emotionally drained.
If Jack is annoyed, he doesn’t show it.
“Of course. It was an absolute pleasure meeting you, young lady,” Jack says. “Thanks for putting up with us. We’re a madhouse, huh?”
I give him a tight-lipped smile in return, running through all the things I wish I had the courage to say.
I say nothing.
* * *
Wells is quiet as he drives me home, his posture hunched and self-protective. I address it as we round the bend and turn onto Holcomb Bridge Road.
“Whew,” I say. “That was intense.”
“I know.”
“It’s strange. He wasn’t what I expected. Kinda … charming? Although the musical stuff was weird.”
“He knows how to turn it on. When he wants to.” The bitterness in Wells’s voice is tangible, shimmering. I could reach out and touch it, and it would burn me. “Plus, he probably assumes you’re like him.”
“Safe.”
“Right.”
I laugh harshly. “Been on that receiving end before.”
All-American Muslim Girl Page 14
