“Are Wells and I going to be together in a year? Two years? Five years?” I say. “Maybe Jack is right. Maybe the smartest thing to do is cut our losses now—and we raise a ton of money, too.”
She closes her eyes and lets out a puff of frustration. “Look. I want to raise money for the cause—but you can’t trust a single word out of that man’s mouth. He’s trying to manipulate you.”
“Obviously. But what if he’s right?”
“He’s a big ol’ liar.”
“Probably.”
“And besides, we don’t want any of his tainted bribe money.”
“I know.”
“Like, not a dime.”
“You’re right,” I say, hanging my head.
“Here’s what I find more curious … Why are you willing to throw Wells under the bus?”
“I don’t want to stand in his way,” I whisper. “I want him to be happy. I don’t want to be the thing standing between him and his family.”
“He’s a big boy,” Dua says. “There’s something else you’re not saying.”
I pause. Finally I say it: “I feel guilty for dating him. I can call it whatever I want—but he’s still my boyfriend. You and I both know what the Qur’an says. He kisses me, and I kiss him back. When he looks at me, it’s … it’s … indescribable. It’s like the literal reason clichés exist. And I want to be a good Muslim, but I want him, too. And I don’t know how to have both at the same time.”
“Allie. Habibti. Stop feeling guilty for being normal. We’re not robots.” She reaches over and gives me a hug. “Our culture tries to erase Muslim sexuality, but it still exists. Like, sorry, Mom and Dad: You don’t stop wanting the second the hijab is on. It’s another form of erasure—Muslim erasure and female erasure.”
“We talked about doing halal dating,” I say hopefully.
“Look,” Dua says. “A lot of people will judge you for trying to have it both ways. I did for a hot minute. But the fact is, your parents allow you to date, so you’re not sneaking around. Your boyfriend respects your limits, so you’re not being pressured to do something you’re not comfortable with. You want to marry him down the line? Let’s circle back and chat about the shahada. Until then, the busybodies can keep it to themselves. We don’t have to be perfect twenty-four seven.”
“Don’t worry, nobody thinks you’re perfect,” I crack, smiling weakly as I try to lighten the mood.
She playfully brushes something imaginary off her shoulder.
“We spend so much time worrying what our fellow Muslims will think of us,” Dua says, “if they will judge us for our behavior. The only judgment we should be worried about is Allah, subhanahu wa ta’ala. And right now, the only person we know still judging you is you.”
Her words are a balm. “I need to talk to Wells,” I say. “I need to tell him what his dad said.”
“As if he doesn’t already know what a snake his dad is.”
I think back to Wells’s panic attack. “I don’t want to hurt him. But he has to know.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
As Dua gives me another hug, I catch sight of Abdullah across the room.
“Hey, Abdullah’s here,” I say. “I wonder who his date is.”
She squirms. “Um … I am. Sort of.”
“Wait, what?”
“Zaki couldn’t get out of something tonight—he made this commitment ages ago, and he’s all about keeping his word—so Abdullah agreed to be my chaperone. My parents arranged it.”
A grin spreads across my face. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Stop,” she says, clutching my arm. “Abdullah is the most gentlemanly gentleman who ever existed. He wants to become a hafiz—he’s already halfway through memorizing the entire Qur’an. His father is the imam at the mosque my dad goes to. There’s nothing there. Less than nothing. Double zero.”
“Okaaaay.” I smile.
“He’s here to make sure I’m okay.”
“So it’s not a date date?”
“It’s not a date date.”
“That’s a shame,” I tease.
I glance back across the room, to where Abdullah is filling up two glasses of punch. As we watch him, he makes his way over to us and then offers one to Dua. “I thought you might like some,” he says. Then he turns to me. “Hi, Allie!”
“Hi, Abdullah! I’m about to take off. Later, Dua.”
“Let’s go find your friends,” Abdullah says to Dua. “I’m sure you don’t want to be stuck here with me.”
She shoots me daggers, her cheeks pink. Abdullah looks innocently between the two of us as I wave goodbye and pick my way through crowds of dancing kids, looking for Wells.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and swing around to see him, looking concerned.
“I’ve been trying to find you,” Wells says gently. “Everything okay?”
The conversation with Jack comes rushing back, full-force.
They say scent is connected to memory, and as I lean into Wells, breathing his crisp, clean scent, I know I’ll remember him forever, no matter where tonight leads us.
“Let’s talk a walk outside,” I say, threading my fingers through his.
We walk down the steps toward the sunken garden, where an ornate fountain splashes iridescent droplets backlit by shimmering blue lights. We sit on the edge of the circular fountain, our backs to the ballroom above.
“What’s going on, Allie?” he says.
I love that he can tell something’s wrong. But I hate what I’m about to say.
“It’s about your dad.”
He stiffens.
I tell him everything: how Jack cornered me in the hallway, how I did my best not to engage with him, how Jack told me I’m standing in Wells’s way, how I feel like a horrible Muslim for dating him, how Dua accepts us.
“He got in your head,” Wells says. He looks hurt, and I wonder if it’s because of me or because of his father. “That’s what he does. He can make you think something was your idea, not his.”
“Wells, maybe he’s right,” I say. “I don’t want to be a burden to you. I’m not supposed to have a boyfriend, you’re putting your music on the back burner, we keep butting heads over him … maybe we’re fighting an uphill battle.”
“Allie. Listen.” Wells gently cups my face in his hand. “I want you. As long as you want to be with me, I choose you right back.”
“That’s sweet, but maybe—”
“You’ve gotta hear me out. There’s always a catch with my dad. My dad told me if I broke up with you, he’d give me a full ride to whatever college I get into. He’ll stop giving me crap about Yale. I can apply to Juilliard or Oberlin or Berklee or wherever. No student loans. Total support. Just as long as I dump you.”
“And if you don’t?”
“The rug sweeps out from under me, I guess. He can’t stop me from doing what I want, but he doesn’t have to pay for it. That’s his trump card. Money.”
I wonder about the emotional toll it’s taken on him, knowing that everything he wants is within his grasp, if only …
“What are you going to do?” I say.
He shakes his head. “Nothing. I don’t want his stupid offer. He’s trying to play me. It didn’t work, and now he’s trying to play you, too.”
My hands ball into fists by my side. “What an absolute piece of—”
“He told me he’d let it go and that he respected my decision.” He laughs, but there’s no joy there. “I can’t believe I fell for it. Again.”
I look over my shoulder up at the ballroom, where the lights stream through the glass windows. “Who knew I was so powerful?” I say. “Jack Henderson terrified of little ol’ me. I’m like a superhero, if my power is Existing While Muslim.”
He laughs. “To be fair, you are pretty intimidating.”
“Quiet, or I’ll zap you.”
He pulls me closer and looks down at me with those soulful eyes. “Promise?”
I tilt my head, and his lips gently meet mine.
>
* * *
Back inside, Wells is on a mission. Hand in hand, we sweep the room, looking for Jack.
We find him by the appetizers, popping pigs in a blanket into his mouth.
“Dad,” Wells says.
He swallows. “There you two are!” Jack says, acting as if he’s the one who’s been looking for us.
“We need to talk.”
Jack’s eyes swivel back and forth between the two of us, and I see the mental calculations taking place. He knows.
“Okay, you gotta stop,” Wells says. “This is my relationship. My business, not yours.”
Jack doesn’t say anything, merely folding his arms across his chest and staring his son down.
“What you pulled on TV was messed-up. And I don’t care if you like Allie or not. She’s not going anywhere.”
Jack raises an eyebrow.
“If I need to apply for student loans and work a campus job and go into debt, fine,” Wells says. “Then that’s what I’m gonna do.”
It’s not a big thing, not like some climactic movie scene where the hero gets onstage with a microphone. It’s quiet and private, Wells’s voice low. People a few feet away probably don’t notice it’s going down.
But to me, it feels as if Wells rented a billboard in Times Square to stand up to his father.
Through it all, I don’t say a word to Jack. No more trying to prove myself. No more caring if he likes me or accepts me or thinks I’m good enough.
Because he’s not worth my time—and not so much as a single word.
I write my story, not him.
* * *
“Can we go somewhere?” Wells asks. “I don’t want to be here with him.” Jack is now on the other side of the ballroom, holding court among a group of starstruck teachers.
I look at my phone. It’s 8:43 p.m. The prom isn’t over until ten, and my parents extended my curfew tonight until eleven.
“What did you have in mind?”
Half an hour later, we’re on the outskirts of Johns Creek, down by the Chattahoochee, where the town meets Suwanee. Wells texted Joey to tell him we’re not taking the group’s limo back to the house. Instead, he called a car, and Wells took me to his secret spot by the river.
“You sure you’re okay in that?” Wells gestures to my dress. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”
“Please. Like my dress is stopping me from the awesomeness that is your secret hideaway.”
“I think I oversold it.”
“No way, Henderson. Uh-uh. I’m expecting a lair.”
He laughs, hopping over a wooden KEEP OUT! sign and then holding out his hand to help me clear it. Hand in hand, we carefully navigate through a tangled outgrowth of trees and kudzu, stepping over rocks and branches as we make our way down to the river. Around us, fireflies spark.
A long wooden dock leads to the water. Near where the dock meets the riverbank, a gnarled tree holds a wooden swing, hanging from a thick branch. Gauzy moonlight streams through the tree, lighting Wells’s face angelically.
“Be real,” I say. “How many girls have you brought here?”
His cheeks go fire-engine red.
“Five? Ten? More than ten?” I ask.
“You’re the first,” he mutters.
“Why so embarrassed?” I tease, sitting down on the swing and reaching out for his hand. He sits next to me, and I lean my head on his shoulder, the deafening sound of cicadas rising up around us.
“I don’t know why you think I’m some big player. I’ve never had a girlfriend before.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“Allie Abraham, one. Girls of the world, zero.”
He snorts.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
His face falls. His fingers drum a staccato rhythm on the suit fabric stretched over his knees. “I hate him.”
“You’re allowed to hate him.”
“You don’t think it’s messed-up?”
“Nope.”
The swing creaks under our weight as we sway back and forth.
“I missed you,” he says in a rush. He’s stopped swinging and is looking down at his shiny shoes, the tips now flecked with mud, as if eye contact with me is too much. “Everything sucked without you.”
He’s opening up. I just need to listen. “Yeah?”
“When I was a kid, he was a good dad. He drove me to music camp. We played guitar together. He came to my soccer games. I remember him and my mom laughing a lot.”
I find his hand again, taking it in mine. We swing again, our hands clasped as our bodies sway back and forth. The sides of the bench are a little out of sync, but soon, our swinging is in tune.
And we swing in silence.
My phone pings. Please don’t be my parents. Curfew’s not for another hour.
But it’s just a Snapchat notification. Emilia’s posted a new story.
Wells peers over with interest as I press PLAY, gently resting his chin on my shoulder.
Everybody’s at Waffle House in their prom dresses, giggling and hopping around and looking about six instead of sixteen. Emilia shows a close-up of a plate of scattered, smothered, and covered hash browns before turning the camera on Joey and Sarah, laughing as they play Thumb War. The camera pans the group: Claire feeds Mikey waffles while Tessa and Zadie share a sweet kiss before Zadie notices Emilia is videotaping. “Girl, put your camera down and live a little!” she says. “You got this hottie Brian Davis on your arm and you’re filming us?” Everybody laughs as the screen goes black.
I discreetly glance back and forth between Wells and the video. Instead of laughing, he seems lonely.
I think of the angry looks his friends were shooting Jack at prom. All those friends, but no real emotional support.
I put the phone back in my pocket.
He sighs, and I know he’s still thinking about his dad.
“You can talk to me, Wells. Let me in.”
Wells breaks down. He sobs, putting his head in his hands. I don’t know what to do.
I jump off the swing, stand in front of Wells, and wrap my arms around him tightly.
I hold on to him as his shoulders shake, and I let him cry, let him pour it out onto me, let him empty his wounds for the first time, until there’s nothing held back and he feels free.
* * *
A few days later, Providence High School’s Muslim Student Association receives a donation.
Ten thousand dollars.
Anonymous.
PART
FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“Allie! Dinner!”
I close my textbook, putting a bookmark on the page. Final exams start Monday, the musical is this weekend, and then it’s the great summer beyond.
Downstairs, the dining room table is packed with steaming dishes. I’m barely hungry, however, because I’m hyperfocused on my goal.
I’ve decided to fast for Ramadan.
Every Muslim of a certain age is required to fast for the holy month. It’s one of the five pillars, along with donating to charity, embarking on the hajj pilgrimage to Mecca, praying five times a day, and making the shahada profession of faith.
I still need to tell my parents—and I don’t have to read my monthly horoscope to know Dad won’t be thrilled.
He’s talking to me again—but barely. As much as I’ve wanted my dad to back off and give me space to breathe, it hurt when he took me up on it. I hadn’t realized how much I needed his warmth until I was faced with a cold shadow.
“So, Ramadan starts next week.” I spear a forkful of potatoes and bring them to my mouth, looking back and forth between my parents.
“Ah.” Dad takes a large gulp of red wine, then reaches across the table to refill his glass. I frown at the wine.
“I’m going to fast.”
“Must you?” Dad asks, looking weary.
“Yes. I must.”
He picks up his cutlery, shoulders slumped.
“What
can your father and I do to support you, honey?” Mom asks.
“Nothing. I’ll wake up early to eat, and I’ll eat again when the sun goes down. Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to fast with me or anything,” I say, glancing at Dad. “I can do it myself.”
“We’ll keep dinner warm every night,” Mom says. “And of course we won’t eat in front of you.”
Dad looks annoyed. “Fasting isn’t good for your system, you know. When I was young, we had stomachaches all month long. And every Ramadan I gained weight, not lost it. The human body isn’t meant to be eating heavy meals at nine p.m.”
“Well, thank God I don’t care whether or not I gain weight,” I say defiantly, taking a large bite of chicken. “I’m not doing it to fit into a bathing suit.”
“You’ve never fasted before,” Dad says. “Your blood sugar will drop. It could be dangerous.”
“Good thing I don’t drive.”
“It’s difficult. You can’t drink water. No gum. Not a single bite. Nothing.”
“Dad, I get it. Ramadan is hard, and you think it’s ridiculous—what’s new? I want to do it, and I wish you believed in me. But I’m going to do it whether you support me or not. And I will succeed, inshallah.” The idea of speaking to my dad like this would have been unfathomable to me a year ago.
He takes another swig of wine, putting the glass down before stabbing his food.
“It’s your life.”
The hardest thing about telling your parents you want them to back off and treat you like an adult is when they actually start doing it.
* * *
Ramadan terrifies me. It’s become my white whale.
I confess to the girls a few days later at Fatima’s house. She’s testing new dessert recipes for her class, so we’re her lucky beneficiaries, the coffee table covered in fresh pie, muffins, and cupcakes.
“I can’t go two hours without food,” I say. “I’m like a toddler. Or a linebacker.”
“Don’t worry,” Samira says, smiling at me from the other couch. “Everybody is nervous for their first Ramadan.”
“And you’re lucky—it starts two days after school ends this year,” Dua says. “Literal godsend.”
All-American Muslim Girl Page 26
