Mrs. Turner cleared her throat. “And this is Kyle Junior.”
Only then did I notice that the couch was occupied. I’d been so focused on the walls that I’d missed the kid in frayed jeans slumped not five feet away. His brown hoodie nearly matched the color of the cushions; it was pulled tight over his forehead. I couldn’t see his eyes. He was about our age, skinnier than Amir and clearly just as shy. I didn’t blame him for that, though.
“Just Kyle,” the boy murmured.
He drummed his fingertips together. His hands were much paler than his dad’s. Something else I hadn’t noticed: a huge harlequin Great Dane with cropped ears, lying peacefully at Just-Kyle’s feet. I broke into a huge smile.
Mrs. Turner caught my gaze and laughed. “Oh, I almost forgot! The most important member of the family. That horse of a dog is Drexler.”
I resisted the urge to bend over and pet him.
“I didn’t catch your names…?” she asked.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” I quickly apologized. Good thing Mom hadn’t come with us. She’d be mortified at my lack of manners. “I’m Salma, and this is Amir.”
“Amir, you say?” Mr. Turner asked. He muted the TV and finally turned to us. “Come, have a seat. Both of you.” He raised his empty bottle in the air. “Hon, you said you were getting me a new one. Five minutes ago.”
“I’m sorry.” She hurried to grab the old one from his hands. “And how about you, dears, can I get you some lemonade?”
As I opened my mouth to tell her no thanks, Amir cut in.
“I’m good,” he said, placing his hand over his heart, “but I bet Salma would love some. Lemonade is her favorite. Thanks, Kate.”
I shot him a quick glare. Yes, lemonade was a favorite. And even though Amir was fasting and was used to others—ahem, me—not fasting, he didn’t need to go out of his way to show that or extend our stay. Hello, Amir? In and out: that was our plan. But he didn’t notice my glare. His eyes were on the TV as he made his way over to the farthest section of the couch, leaving me no choice but to follow. I slumped beside him. I knew he was doing this for my mother, but he could also watch the game at our house.
“You know, I have a good buddy named Amir,” Mr. Turner said, settling back into his chair. He flashed us a rueful grin. “He lives about nine thousand miles away, though. Where is your family from, originally?”
Amir shrugged. “Um…different places?” I knew he wouldn’t say more than that.
Mr. Turner’s eyes shifted to me. They were hazel, bright. They softened him. Still, his question made me bristle. Of course a brown boy, a Muslim, wouldn’t be local. But maybe I was overanalyzing. After all, his wife had just invited us inside her home. And if I wanted to wrap up this visit, I should at least try to match his neighborly warmth.
“We were both born and raised right here in Arlington,” I said, mustering a smile.
Mr. Turner tilted his head, as if to say Go on. Like there was more to the story.
“My mom’s side of the family is all from Tennessee,” I added. “Nashville. My dad’s…North African.” I almost cringed. I was about to say Berber, but Dad would never identify himself as such; Berbers rarely do. Besides, this was not the time to get into ancestry and postcolonial North African politics, or about how Berbers are still fighting to be heard, to be Amazigh—meaning “free.” The seconds ticked by in clumsy silence.
“Now, that’s what I’m talking about!” Kyle Jr. loudly exclaimed.
I shot a puzzled look in his direction. Oh, right. The game.
“Thank you for coming by with these gifts,” Mrs. Turner said. Sharp lady: she knew it was time to wrap up this supremely awkward meet-and-greet. But then she pulled back the aluminum foil from Mom’s tray. Her smile faltered but just as quickly returned. “Wow, these look delicious!” Ugh. She was lying, of course. Not only had Mom gifted them all the good stuff, dessert leftover from last night’s iftar fundraiser (Titi’s finest ma’moul, sesame cookies, and date bonbons), I figured I would have to explain each dish.
Amir suddenly tensed up beside me. His eyes widened, riveted by something on TV.
An alert streamed across the bottom of the screen, hashtag #DCterror. The game switched abruptly to a newsroom. My heart began to pound, drowning out the grave voice of the normally goofy local news anchor. But I got the gist—an explosion near the National Cathedral; another on Massachusetts Avenue near the synagogue on Macomb Street; no casualties reported. The screen flashed to an image of a flaming dumpster, accompanied by the bolded words: LIVE BREAKING NEWS—AUTHORITIES CONFIRM TWO EXPLOSIONS IN WASHINGTON, DC. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. With news flashes like these, there is a collective holding-of-breath for every Muslim. Dear God, let it not be a Muslim. Please. And a prayer: Audhubillah. May God protect us all.
With a sigh, Mrs. Turner fell into the rocking chair, shaking her head. “God help us.”
Her words echoed my own. I opened my eyes and offered a smile of gratitude, which she returned. I felt a knot growing in my stomach. Time to go. I took a deep breath and stood. “I’m really sorry, but we should be—”
“Of course,” Mrs. Turner interrupted, but her voice was soft. She stood as well. “Thank you so much again for the gift. Can I walk you home? I can give you the lemonade to go—”
“Oh, no, thank you,” Amir interrupted politely. “That’s very kind.” Before I knew it, he was up on his feet, too, already halfway to the door.
“We live right across the street,” I explained. My eyes flashed to Mr. Turner and his son. Both were staring at the TV, shaking their heads, their faces stony. “It was nice to meet you all.” I turned and hurried after Amir.
“It was nice to meet you, too,” Mrs. Turner called after us. “Despite the circumstances.”
* * *
—
Amir and I didn’t exchange a word on the short walk back to my house. There was no need. I knew what he was thinking, and I’m sure he knew what I was thinking, too. Another echo of what Mrs. Turner said, what everyone says. May God protect us all.
He paused at my doorstep. “I…um, I should practice. With Yasmin’s project coming up…” He stopped. A strand of wavy brown hair fell in front of his face. He brushed it aside, and looked right at me. “Doesn’t it feel weird? Talking like this, like—”
“Nothing happened?” I said, completing his thought. “Yeah. It is. But what else are we supposed to do? Watch the news?” I reached out and took his hand. “Bite our nails?”
I was needling him, and he knew it.
“Funny,” he said dryly. “I’ve switched to the clippers.” Nail-biting is Amir’s only bad habit. Which I’ve pointed out many times. Of course, being the mellow guy he is, he just counters with how it’s the only thing he does that gets on my nerves, whereas nothing I do gets on his nerves. (Liar, although I can’t prove it.) He also claims it serves him well. This is because Mr. Epstein, our music teacher—who “shreds” on guitar (Amir’s word)—actually inspects Amir’s nails on his left hand, to make sure they’re short enough. Apparently this has something to do with crisper tone and faster fretwork.
“Is Sheikh Epstein cracking the whip?” I teased lightly.
Amir shrugged. His smile faded. I reached out and squeezed his hand. “Kidding. Go practice. Wage some beauty. It’s exactly what the world needs right now.”
He squeezed my hands back tightly. Normally he might try to pull me close and sneak a hug, perhaps even nuzzle my ear, but Amir was fasting and Titi had eyes of a hawk. He leaned in, just a little. “Be good to yourself the rest of the day, okay?”
* * *
—
I couldn’t sleep. And after I learned that there’d been a third explosion, near a DC post office, not even being online would offer comfort. I trudged upstairs to warm some milk.
The kitchen light was on.
&nbs
p; Mom was at the table, staring blearily at her laptop. “I’m so sorry, love,” she said.
“About what?”
“About the world we live in. With the shootings and the bombings…”
“You didn’t make the world we live in,” I said.
She sighed and offered a tired smile. “I haven’t made it any better, though. Apart from you and your sisters. Did you see the latest?” She turned her laptop around so I could read the screen.
AL-QAEDA IN NORTH AFRICA CLAIMS RESPONSIBILITY
Weird: I’d never even heard of that particular splinter group. Not that it mattered; I wanted to soothe my mother. “Yeah, but I also read that an old ISIS flag was left on the White House lawn, and that there are a hundred other, undetonated bombs out there.” I wasn’t lying. I had read those things. But my mom could never truly parse the differences between internet rumors and what was real. Nor could my dad. I couldn’t blame them. They grew up in a different age.
“Thank God nobody was killed,” I said, just as Mom said the exact same thing.
She laughed. I returned the laugh as best I could. I knew she wanted to say more, but she was probably worried she would sound either too cynical or too upbeat.
I stepped toward her and wrapped my arm around her shoulder.
“Nobody was killed,” I repeated, a whisper in her ear.
In the end, that was all that mattered. The rest was all part of the same giant lie, even though it pointed to the same truth. People were afraid. And on one level I got it. I did. If the narrative of “radical Islamic terrorism” was all you knew—if you lived in that bubble—then your lens was distorted. Trouble is, when people don’t see clearly, they don’t think clearly. Ignorance warps into fear, fear hardens into hate. But it didn’t have to be that way, did it? Didn’t some wise person somewhere once say that fear is the first step of wisdom?
I WOKE UP Monday morning certain I should do something different. I thought of the sign at All Souls Church. LOVE RADICALLY. Maybe this was the way to get into that Ramadan spirit. Yes! Perfect.
Today was a day for radical love. It would have to be. Especially because my EDS—the reason I couldn’t fast—was acting up, and that always made me grumpier than usual.
I was first diagnosed with Ehlers-Danlos syndrome when I was five. EDS is a genetic disorder that affects roughly one in five thousand people. So: Lucky me! Basically it means I have more elastic tissue and weaker ligaments than most people. It also means I can wake up feeling extra fatigued and achy. (Like today.) On the other hand, I’m one of the lucky ones. For many, EDS can be degenerative, even fatal. It’s why I’m not allowed to play competitive sports. It’s also the reason why I spent my childhood glued to my desktop computer…and of course the reason that this morning it took me a little longer than usual to get myself ready and down the stairs.
The kitchen was in typical chaos. I sat down and started gobbling my bowl of cereal as quickly as I could. Hala was clearly in a pissier mood than I was. Yasmin’s eyes were on her oatmeal.
I wondered what my sisters were thinking. And how much they knew. Mom and Dad had made a point to keep them away from the news all day Sunday. Which I got. It was Ramadan. A month of mercy and peace. And their anniversary.
Mom and Dad got married ages ago during the last week of Shaban, the month prior to Ramadan. And then a week later, instead of going on a typical honeymoon, they went on umrah—the lesser pilgrimage to Mecca—during the first week of Ramadan. Mom said it was like an Islamic baptism, a divine bath in the ocean of humanity; Dad said it was like a total reboot. They went to the Kaaba, that black cube-shaped “House of God” in Mecca, the directional beacon toward which all Muslims pray. Tradition holds that Adam and Eve built the Kaaba as an earthly manifestation of the heavenly home from which they were cast. The outside is draped in flowing black silk and embroidered with gold verse. The inside is empty, a void. In a way, that’s the whole point of Islam—to empty the heart (and mind) of everything but God and love. And to know that the two are one and the same. To feel that awe and to humbly submit to it, with gratitude.
But that was then, in the all-consuming presence of the Kaaba. Here in Arlington, Hala had no gratitude—for anything, especially breakfast. And today was her day “off.” Mom didn’t want her to fast every day since she’s so petite, and besides, she’s a third grader. Not necessary. “This bread is burnt,” she grumbled.
I wasn’t feeling a whole lot of gratitude, either. I stood to dump my dishes in the sink. Dad lifted a slightly blackened slice from Hala’s plate. He dangled it between his thumb and his forefinger.
“I know that young people sometimes refer to a failed thing as toast,” he said in a mock-serious voice. “As an academic, I understand the roots of this symbolism. But I am a stickler for the literal. I believe that toast should be defined as bread burnt to the point of crispiness.” He turned to Mom. “Your thoughts, Madame Professor?”
“I concur with your definition of toast, Monsieur Professor,” Mom said with the same exaggerated formality. She grabbed the offending slice from him. “You, Monsieur, may have your own toast at iftar.” She walked over to Hala and put a bowl of oatmeal in front of her. “I do apologize for the toast, but these are your options. Eat something, or you will be toast!” she said, placing her hands squarely on her hips.
Hala protested, but quickly dropped it when Mom continued to stare her down. She lifted a spoonful of oatmeal to her soured face.
On any other day I would have rolled my eyes and left. But seeing my parents now, united in their corny sense of humor, I tried to imagine them as two lovestruck young pilgrims. I tried to see them in the vast crowd around the Kaaba. I actually thought about what our imam said during Saturday’s iftar, how everything we do as Muslims, whether it is fasting or going on pilgrimage or giving in charity, we do for the sake of emptying ourselves, to rid ourselves of the human ego. Ultimately the only thing that matters is whether we go out into the world with love and light guiding our hearts.
I vowed to approximate some of that feeling today. Or to try.
“Bye, everyone,” I said.
“Call Mrs. DLP today if it gets too bad!” Mom called as I moved slowly to the door.
“I will,” I yelled back. I got the subtext. Mrs. DLP—aka Lisa de la Pena’s mom—and I had an appointment for later in the week. But it wasn’t that the EDS was acting up so badly; it was that Mom knew how Mrs. DLP always gave me a mood lift, ever since I’d been first diagnosed. She was practically an honorary auntie.
“Thanks, Mom,” I added. “Love you.”
“Love you, too, dear.”
* * *
—
As I walked outside, I put my game face on. At the very least, I would focus on the positives. I would start with Sunday’s scare itself. There’s a verse in the Quran that basically says: Each soul is as valuable as the entire universe. All these little universes, living, breathing…all had survived. I have to admit that I was also relieved for a selfish reason. Because what if those rumors about Al-Qaeda in Yemen were true? Would people think that I had blood on my hands because I was Muslim, that I was somehow complicit? That maybe, even remotely, a part of me sympathized with Muslim asshats?
I thought of something Mrs. DLP once told me, back in seventh grade. “You can’t control other people’s garbage. You can only keep your side of the street clean.” Funny: I’d been complaining about some idiotic boys at school after I’d overheard them whispering that EDS was contagious and that I should be quarantined. The stuff of classic middle-school rumors: completely outrageous. It made me laugh now…not so much then, though. But Mrs. DLP was right. People would think and say what they wanted to think and say. All I could do was show that my faith, like my EDS, was nothing to fear.
When I reached the end of our front walk, Mariam’s front door (ugh, the Turners’ front door) flew open. Mrs. Turn
er exited the house with her dog in tow, then cut across the lawn—heading in the same direction as my bus. She looked dressed for morning exercise, in an orange tracksuit that was probably stylish in 1977. Don’t be mean, I chastised myself. Right. I would resist the urge to wallow in resentment and self-pity, even though a tiny voice in my head kept telling me that Mariam should have been walking across that lawn. Instead I waved and smiled and kept to the game plan.
“Good morning, Mrs. Turner!” I called.
She held the leash tight and took in a deep breath, as if she, too, were mustering a game face for the day. “Salma! Hello…” Then she paused. “Are you holding up all right? Sunday was so—”
“Catastrophically awful?” I finished.
Mrs. Turner nodded and exhaled, offering a sad smile. “That’s the right way to put it. The weekend went by in one big blur. I never did catch your last name.”
“Oh. It’s Bakkioui.”
“I’m sorry. Bakk…” She blinked and shook her head. “I’ve never been good with foreign names. One more time, sweetie.”
I ignored the word foreign because it was an honest request. (And yes, in spite of the fact that when it came to Mason Terrace, she was the foreigner.) Besides, I’d rather have her ask for a quick tutorial than have her mangle it for the next ten years. “Bak-ee-we,” I said. “Rhymes with kiwi.”
“Bak-ee-we. Right. Not so bad, is it?”
“Nope, it’s really not.”
Drexler’s tail began to wag. He was looking at me, his tongue hanging out, eyes soft.
“Looks like you made a friend,” she murmured. “You can pet him if you’d like. Don’t let his size fool you. He’s just a big baby.”
I stepped across the lawn and bent down beside him, stroking the top of his head. He panted in my face, his wet nose nuzzling mine for a second. I giggled and stood, and then froze for a second, struck by Mrs. Turner’s makeup. Wow. Maybe it was the bright morning sunlight, or maybe it was because I was standing so close to her…but she had on a lot of concealer and eyeshadow. Slathered on and overdone. Sort of begging to be noticed. But maybe that was her style. I reminded myself not to judge, because being a judgy douchebag was definitely not in the spirit of Ramadan, but she caught me staring and—crap. I’d made her self-conscious. She pulled her bangs over her face.
No True Believers Page 3
