All-American Muslim Girl

by Nadine Jolie Courtney

  “Is that true?”

  “I mean, don’t go quoting me in the school newspaper, but yeah. Basically.”

  “Typical. Once the foreigners and the poor people like something, it’s not good enough—oh, but the women can have it.”

  “Yup.”

  Shamsah stands up and grabs a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge. Without asking, she pours a glass for each of us, leaning across the counter and handing me one. “How’s it all going?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “School, study group, the haram dude. Life,” she says, making a dramatic sweeping gesture before laughing. She seems more relaxed than I’ve seen her with the rest of the group—it’s like she’s always putting on a facade with them, but alone in her kitchen, she’s accidentally forgotten to keep it up.

  “I mean—fine. Good. Great.”

  “A resounding endorsement,” she says, and laughs again.

  My phone pings with another text from Wells. I glance at it: Big news: my dad’s paying for a music video!

  I roll my eyes. Wells was telling me yesterday about having to intervene when his parents got into a fight. Jack must feel guilty again.

  “Everything okay?” Shamsah says.

  I’d forgotten she could see my reaction. “Yeah, it’s…” I pause. What to say?

  “You can tell me.”

  “The dude. The one I’m hanging out with? He’s kind of … problematic.”

  “You mean, more problematic than hanging out with a dude in the first place?”

  I laugh. “Believe it or not.”

  She starts chewing on a nail.

  “It’s just like … why is it such a big deal if we date? We’re not living in the seventh century anymore. I mean, you have Jamil, I have Wells—that’s his name, by the way. And before you ask, yeah, he’s a generic white boy,” I say. “Actually, he’s worse than a generic white boy. His dad basically hates Muslims. And my dad doesn’t even know about that. And, obviously, we’re not having sex—like not even a little bit—but part of me thinks I’m the worst Muslim ever for dating in the first place.”

  I blurt it out, without thinking of the consequences. I have to get it off my chest, and for some reason, in this moment, Shamsah feels like a safe space.

  She stares at me, and I wonder if I made a mistake.

  “Please don’t judge me,” I say.

  “I don’t judge you.”

  “I know I should tell my dad. I’m just … scared.”

  “I get it.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah.”

  She chews on another nail. I take a giant gulp of water.

  “I wanna tell you something,” she says. “You have to swear you won’t tell.”

  “Okay.”

  “Not good enough. Swear it.”

  “I swear,” I say, putting my hand up solemnly.

  “I … look, I know it’s weird. We barely know each other. But I’m sick of carrying it around. And I’m good at reading people. I know I can trust you.”

  “Okay, now you have to tell me.”

  “It’s about Jamil.”

  “Right…”

  “Swear it!”

  “Shamsah, good Lord, yes, I swear it! I double swear it. My lips are zipped forever, and I mean it. I’m a vault.”

  “Jamil’s a girl. Her name is Jamila.”

  It takes me a second to realize what she’s saying.

  “You’re dating a girl?” I ask.

  She nods.

  No wonder she was so irritated with Samira when she said dating was haram. If dating a boy is haram, dating a girl is next-level bad.

  Obviously, I don’t share that viewpoint.

  Shamsah chews on her lip. “So,” she says. “Are you going to say something?”

  I feel that whatever I say right now is of critical importance. “To be honest, I don’t know what to say. I’ve never had anybody come out to me before. I support you one hundred percent. And I’m here for you, if you need me.”

  “Do you judge me?”

  “Absolutely not,” I say quietly. “And I get why you haven’t told the girls.”

  She twists the rubber band around her wrist anxiously.

  “Is Jamila Muslim, too?” I ask.

  “Yeah. But her family is cool with it.”

  “And yours wouldn’t be?”

  She looks at me blankly. “My parents would die, and I mean it would literally kill my mother. Being gay is one hundred percent not okay with them. They think it goes against the religion, the culture, everything.”

  “Are you sure the girls wouldn’t support you?” I ask. “Everybody loves you. I know I’m still learning, but … didn’t Allah make you this way?”

  “That’s not how they’ll look at it,” she says. “A lot of Muslims see it as a choice. And not only choosing to be a lesbian, but choosing to be in a relationship with another woman?” She shakes her head. “Nope.”

  “Dua said she didn’t like me dating, but she’d still support me,” I say. “They’re more open-minded than you realize. If you tell them, they might surprise you.”

  She grimaces.

  “You’re sweet, Allie. I appreciate it. But you’re new to this. You don’t get how it works.”

  My mom’s car pulls up. I wave at her through the kitchen window, indicating I’ll be outside in a minute.

  I try not to feel wounded by what Shamsah says. It’s not about me.

  I lean forward, giving her a hug. “Your secret is safe. I’m honored you shared.”

  She wipes away a single tear with a clenched fist. “Whatever. Don’t get mushy about it.”

  “Text me if you want to talk.”

  “’Kay.”

  “You’re not a bad Muslim,” I say firmly.

  Her eyes well up again.

  After I get in the car with my mom, I quickly lapse into silence, staring out the window.

  I’ve been thinking about it a lot, this good Muslim/bad Muslim thing.

  What makes you bad?

  Is Samira a bad Muslim because she thinks the scholarly positions could be reformed? Is Shamsah a bad Muslim because she was born liking girls? Is Leila a bad Muslim because she doesn’t want a rope separating her from the guys while she prays?

  Am I a bad Muslim because I want to kiss Wells?

  Is there any wiggle room?

  Does it have to be all or nothing?

  There’s a war on Muslims, but I’m starting to realize it’s not just from everybody else. It comes from within us, too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “Hey. So I’ve got a master plan,” Dua says, calling me one night after school.

  “Sounds dastardly.”

  “I keep thinking about what happened at the mall. I’ve wanted to wear a hijab for like ever—see if it’s for me. So tomorrow’s the day. Wanna do it together?”

  My breath catches in my chest.

  The truth is: I’ve been thinking about it, too.

  Nothing visibly identifies me as Muslim. And whereas I used to feel weird about it, now I want people to know. I’m proud.

  But I don’t have the guts to do it alone.

  “Yes,” I say. “Let’s do it.”

  I spend the next half hour in front of my vanity, watching a series of YouTube videos while trying to find a flattering style. Dua calls back on FaceTime as I’m struggling to properly arrange a random scarf around my face.

  She bursts out laughing. “Wooow. That’s a look.”

  “Not. Helpful.”

  I stare at myself. My face looks like a pumpkin.

  “Hijabs are like hairstyles—one size doesn’t fit all. You need a different style.” She’s wearing a hijab, too, but whereas my thick beige scarf looks dumpy, hers is thin black silk: elegant perfection setting off her heart-shaped face. “An al-Amira might work, since you don’t have to fiddle with pins.”

  “Amira? How do I do that one?”

  “It’s not one you do; it’s one you bu
y. It’s a piece of fabric you slip over your head. Easy-peasy.”

  “Well, that doesn’t help me now, does it?” I say, feeling panicked.

  “It’s going to be okay,” she says soothingly. “I’ll send you this tutorial I found. Watch it and call me back.”

  I hang up, then watch the video and try to replicate the style. It requires hijab pins, something I don’t have.

  She answers on the first ring. “Yeeees?”

  “I don’t have hijab pins. I’m screwed.”

  “You can use a safety pin. Or borrow one of your mom’s brooches. Or use an earring.”

  “Call you back.”

  I grab a tiny safety pin from my desk drawer.

  After ten minutes of arranging the fabric and pins … just … so … I finally have a style I’m pleased with. I snap a few selfies, pick the best one, and then text it to Dua.

  Thoughts?

  She texts back immediately.

  You look AMAZE!!!

  Let’s do this thing.

  * * *

  The stares and whispers begin from the minute I step onto the school bus.

  I stare straight ahead, my heart walloping the inside of my chest.

  How’s it going? Dua texts me.

  ME: Heart attack. I snuck out so my dad wouldn’t see, and now everybody’s staring at me.

  DUA: Let them stare.

  ME: You?

  DUA: Soooo many stares

  I avoid Wells before school, hiding out in a corner of the cafeteria and ducking into French just before the bell. Normally, I would have told him last night, but something stopped me. He might have stopped me.

  So now, here I am in first period—which I don’t share with Dua.

  And, in fact, we don’t have any classes together.

  Which means until lunchtime, I’m basically on my own.

  * * *

  In French class, this random guy stares at me before turning to the kid next to him and whispering. He’s not subtle. I smile brightly at him. I’m not going to be angry. I’m not going to be a stereotype.

  I’m not going to let him make me feel less than, either.

  My hands feel clammy with each step I take. Still, I force myself to plunge forward.

  In chorus, Mr. Tucker raises an eyebrow when he sees my headscarf.

  “Hi!” Emilia says. “So, what’s with the … uh…” She points to her head in a circular motion as she sits down.

  “It’s a hijab.”

  “I know, but isn’t that only for, like, devout Muslims? I thought your family wasn’t that religious? Is your dad making you?”

  “I am a devout Muslim,” I say sweetly. “And it has nothing to do with my family or my dad. It’s my choice.”

  That shuts her up, to my face at least.

  Just before the bell rings, Wells strolls into class.

  He sees me, stopping so abruptly in the doorway that another student runs into him.

  “Mr. Henderson. Today, please,” Mr. Tucker says, his voice full of irritation.

  Wells comes over and sits next to me, eyes wide. I’ve saved him a seat with my purse.

  “Hi,” he whispers.

  “Hi,” I say back. “How do I look?”

  “Are you … Is this … Wow.” His eyes sweep my face, as if he’s trying to piece together familiar details to reassure himself I’m the same person. “You didn’t tell me.” He sounds hurt.

  I lick my lips. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

  The truth is, I knew Wells would be weird about it, and I knew he would have the power to talk me out of it.

  And it’s not about him.

  * * *

  Later in the day, I’m walking down the hallway before comp sci when somebody yells, “Allahu akbar!” It echoes all the way from the lunchroom to the library.

  A hush descends.

  I turn around, trying to figure out where the voice came from.

  “Who said that?” I say.

  A few people giggle nervously. As I look from face to face, I notice Mikey laughing. He’s with a few of his football teammates. Guys I know casually. Guys who have always been nice to my face.

  They glance at him, confirming my suspicions.

  I mean. What a cliché.

  I walk up to him. With each step I take, his smile grows smaller.

  “Not cool, man,” a guy’s voice mutters quietly.

  “Douchebag,” somebody else says under their breath.

  The support surprises me—but maybe it shouldn’t. Maybe I’m not giving my classmates enough credit.

  “Hi, Mikey,” I say.

  “Hey, Lincoln.”

  “You’re so clever, right? Do you even know what it means?”

  “Yeah,” he says, and laughs. “That’s what terrorists say before they blow everybody up.”

  “No, Mikey. It means, ‘God is great.’ It means you love God.”

  He looks at me and shrugs. “Okay. So?”

  “Are you making a public declaration that you love Allah? I can take you by the mosque with me if you want to convert.”

  He snorts. “Naw. I’m good.”

  “Except you’re not. A good person doesn’t insult somebody because of their religion—especially a religion they don’t understand. And that’s what you just did: insult me, and my friends and my family. Oh, and Muhammad Ali, who I know you’re obsessed with,” I say. “You can’t just go around bashing somebody’s religion because you think it’s funny.”

  “Lighten up, Lincoln. I was playing.”

  “Say it one more time to my face. Say it.” I take a step closer to him. “I dare you.”

  He looks at me, eyes widening.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Good for you,” a girl’s voice says behind me.

  Some mysterious girl I don’t even know has my back.

  The crowd of students gathered around us parts as I walk down the hall to my next class, my head held high, even as I have to hold my breath and clench my fists to keep it together.

  * * *

  At the end of the school day, I approach the bus line to find Wells waiting for me. Any lingering hurt seems to be gone, replaced by calm. Whatever mental processing he did, it worked.

  “You look cool, you know,” he says.

  “Hijab Barbie?”

  He laughs, leaning down to kiss me. But then he stops.

  “Wait, can I kiss you?”

  “Kiss me, dummy,” I say, reaching up and grabbing him behind the head.

  This moment sponsored by wildly confused all-American Muslim girls.

  “Can I drive you home?” he asks me.

  “Only if I control the radio.”

  And together, we turn and walk toward the parking lot, hand in hand, pretending to ignore the stares.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Despite Dua’s best fund-raising efforts, the needle has barely moved, so we make plans to brainstorm at my house over snacks. Incredibly, Dua suggests I invite Wells, in the hopes that they’ll get to know each other. He gives us both a ride home after school.

  Worlds colliding: Obviously, I’m petrified.

  We’re in my living room, the coffee table covered in snacks and laptops. I’m in the process of setting up a fund-raising page online, Dua next to me on the couch. Wells sits as far away from Dua as possible—whether out of politeness or fear, I’m not sure.

  “Dua? Allie?” he says. “Can I get you more Sprite?”

  “That would be great, Wells,” Dua says. “Thanks!”

  “I’ll get more napkins, too. Hmm. And maybe carrots.” He hops up, loping into my kitchen. I don’t know what he’s doing in there, but the sounds of various things opening and closing echo: thud, whoosh, slam.

  “Why are boys so loud?” I ask. “Can’t they shut a drawer like civilized human beings?”

  Dua laughs. “What are you complaining about? You’ve got that boy trained.”

  “He’s trying to impress you. He’s still terrified
you’re going to talk me into breaking up with him.”

  “Ooh, I didn’t realize I was so powerful,” she cracks. “Do my powers of persuasion extend into rides home from school every day?”

  “So that’s why you invited him. You needed a chauffeur.”

  “Busted.” She laughs, dipping a carrot stick into my dad’s homemade hummus. “Oh my God, this is so good.”

  “It’s my dad’s secret recipe.”

  “What’s in here—unicorn tears? I mean, good Christmas. This is freaking delicious.”

  “Garlic,” I say. “So … much … garlic.” I tear off a pita square and scoop up a giant bite. “Boyfriend kryptonite.”

  She smiles faintly, and I suddenly realize maybe a kissing joke wasn’t the best call.

  “Uh, what do you think of him?” I say. “He’s cool, right?”

  “He’s okay.”

  It takes me a second to realize she’s kidding. I crumple up a sheet of paper and lob it across the room at her.

  “He’s friends with that Mikey Murphy guy?” Dua says.

  “Unfortunately. They grew up together. They were closer as kids.”

  “I heard about him telling Mikey off,” she says. “In the hallway on hijab day.”

  “He did?”

  “You didn’t know? Yeah, I guess he cornered Mikey after last period and told him he was being an ignorant loser—or something like that. It made the rounds. Good for him.”

  “Wow. Go, Wells.” I pause. “But does he really get credit for basic human decency?”

  “C’mon, calling out your friends isn’t easy. Wells gets points in my book.”

  I lean back on the couch, chewing over her words.

  Wells comes back into the living room, with my mother following behind him. She’s carrying a giant snack tray: a bowl of air-popped popcorn, more carrot sticks, a bowl of fruit, and three cans of lime LaCroix.

  “I got help.” Wells laughs, gesturing toward my mom. She must be taking a break from work upstairs.

  “Hi, Dua! How’s it going?” Mom says, putting the food on the table and leaning down to give her a hug.