I put it in my mouth. “I’ve never tasted anything so sweet. It’s amazing!”
“Yes, yes, it is.” He hands me another slice.
“Wow,” I say, biting into the second piece. And this time when I look into his green eyes, I forget all about Baba’s warning. All I want is to spend the afternoon eating mangos with him.
“You still here?” Sittu pushes the kitchen door open. He pulls me out of the way before I get hit in the back of the head.
“Thanks,” I say.
“I see you’ve met my granddaughter,” Sittu says.
“Well, not formally.” He extends his hand. “Hassan.”
I shake his hand. “Mariam.”
“My pleasure,” he says.
I can feel my neck turning red.
Sittu says, “Hassan lived in England, but he’s in his first year of university here now. His grandfather owns this building. Watch him. He loves pretty girls.”
“You’re ruining my reputation.” Hassan smiles, and he’s even more beautiful.
“Ruining? I’m giving you one. So thank me.”
Sittu is flirting with him!
“Oh, and before I forget, please tell your grandfather he needs to fix—” Sittu looks me up and down.
“Mariam, what is that you’re wearing?” She sounds upset—very upset.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I’ll change out of it.”
“Where did you find that?” She touches the sleeve of the dress.
“In the closet in our room.”
“I thought I had taken everything out of that closet,” she says, touching my sleeve again. Her voice gets softer. “That’s the last dress my sittu made for me. The only thing she had left to do was the trim on the right sleeve.”
“Wow, this dress is from when you were…”
“Yes, about the same age you are now—a very, very long time ago.”
“Not that long.” Hassan smiles. “It looks like new.”
“I never wore it—I think maybe because it was unfinished and it reminded me too much of her.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll go change,” I say again.
“Wait,” she says. “Turn around.” She twirls her finger, and I slowly turn.
I feel Hassan staring at me, and my neck feels like it’s on fire. I can’t tell whether it’s a wow-I-think-she’s-pretty stare or a wow-she-looks-awful-in-that-thing stare. All I know is that I want to run to my room and hide under the covers.
Sittu sighs as she says something in Arabic.
“Yes,” Hassan agrees. “She looks so much like you.”
Hassan thinks I look like Sittu? Sittu’s beautiful. Okay, now I know I can’t trust this guy. It’s not like I expect him to say, “She’s a dog” even if that’s what he thinks, but to say that I look like Sittu? That’s an exaggeration.
Hassan avoids my gaze. Is he pretending now to be shy? I’m pretty sure this guy’s a big fake.
“Mariam?” Deanna calls out. This time, the kitchen door does hit me in the back. “I’m sorry,” Deanna says as she slips around the door to see who she hit.
Hassan is no longer staring at me. He’s staring at Deanna. And she’s staring at him. They’re staring at each other. And it’s not the way two people stare when they’re thinking, “Who’s that?” It’s the way two people stare when they’re thinking, “Whoever that is, I’m in love.”
“See, Deanna? I’m wearing the dress,” I say, hoping to divert her attention from Hassan—and get her to forgive me for what happened earlier.
“That’s great,” Deanna says, but her eyes are still fixed on Hassan.
“Well, I’m going to change now,” I say.
“Are you okay?” Deanna asks, finally remembering that she hit me with the door.
“Fine. Just fine.”
“Okay, habibti—” Sittu starts.
“Habibti?” I repeat. I can’t believe how much she sounds like Baba when she says that.
“You don’t know what that means either?” Sittu asks.
“No, of course I do. My love,” I say, and I see Hassan in the corner of my eye, staring at Deanna. Now I wish I’d never tried his mango slices.
The phone rings. “Maybe it’s your father,” Sittu says, and heads off to answer it.
“Deanna, you coming?” I ask, trying to get her away from Mr. Phony.
“Are those mangos?” she asks Hassan. Did she even hear me?
“Would you like to try one?” Hassan smiles at her.
“Mariam!” Sittu shouts.
I leave the kitchen before Deanna can answer, and walk into the dining room, where Sittu’s talking on a phone that looks older than I am. “Your baba,” she says, handing me the phone.
“Baba?!”
“No, sweetie, it’s Mom.”
“Where’s Baba?”
“He was running late for work,” she says, “but he said to tell you he loves you very much. Did you have a good flight?”
“It was okay,” I tell her. I try not to sound too disappointed that Baba’s not on the line. I feel bad about the way we left things between us. Hearing his voice would have made everything feel right again.
“You okay?” Mom asks. “I was worried about you.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’m just a little jet-lagged.”
“Well, I won’t keep you, then. Deanna okay?”
I look at the kitchen door. I hope so. “She’s fine.”
“Her mom called earlier, but there was no answer. She sounded a little worried when I talked with her.”
“Customs took a long time,” I say. “Mom, I’m pretty tired.”
“Well, I love you.”
“Love you too.” I hang up the phone, and I look up at the apple-shaped clock on the wall. It’s 1 p.m.
Sittu’s sitting at the dining room table, reading a newspaper. She looks so engrossed I don’t want to disturb her.
“Yes?” she asks, taking her reading glasses off and looking up at me.
“I didn’t say anything,” I say.
“You don’t want to ask me something, then?”
“Well, I just wanted to know what the time difference is between here and New York.”
“Let’s see.” She looks up at the apple. “Wintertime, so eight hours.”
“So it’s only five in the morning there?” So Baba still doesn’t want to talk to me. I look over at Sittu. I guess calling Sittu a horrible woman was out of line. I probably also shouldn’t have called Egypt a backward country, even if it’s true.
Sittu stands up, and without saying a word, she touches the sleeve of the dress.
“The one flaw—” Sittu smiles. “I think it makes the dress more beautiful. But if you want me to have it fixed before you wear it again…”
“You want me to wear it?”
“I have no use for it anymore,” she says.
I touch the unfinished sleeve. It would be nice to have it fixed; then, it would be perfect. Instead I say, “It’s fine the way it is.” I don’t know why she thinks a flaw makes the dress look better, but I don’t want to make her feel like I don’t appreciate it. Besides, I can always get it fixed back home.
• • •
The next morning, after we get dressed, Deanna logs in to Facebook.
“I can’t believe it!” she squeals.
“What? What is it?” I ask, looking over her shoulder.
“I have a friend request from Hassan!”
“Oh, great.” This time, the sarcasm comes through loud and clear.
“What’s up with you?” she asks, turning around to face me.
“Nothing’s up with me. I’ll meet you outside.”
“Hey.” She stands up and looks me dead in the eye. “I thought best friends don’t keep secrets.”
“It’s just…” I’m about to tell her what I think of Hassan, but I can see from the look in her eyes that she doesn’t want to hear it, so I say, “I don’t think Sittu likes me very much.”
“You’re crazy! You’re her granddaughter—”
“Girls”—Sittu knocks on the door—“almost ready?” She steps into our room.
“Are we going somewhere?” I ask.
“You sound surprised,” Sittu says. “What did you think? That I’d keep you locked up in this apartment all day?”
I don’t say that’s exactly what I thought.
“The question to be answered is what would you like to see?”
“The mall.” I look at Deanna and smile. I can’t think of anything that would be more fun for us to do than shop.
“If that’s what you want to do.” Deanna sounds disappointed.
“You don’t want to go to the mall?” Sittu asks.
Of course she wants to go the mall. What could be better than that? It’s our favorite place to hang out back home.
“It would be nice to do something more unique to Egypt,” Deanna says.
“You have something in mind?” Sittu asks. All I can think about is Deanna and her guidebooks. Please don’t say you want to do some stupid tourist thing.
“I’d love to see the pyramids,” Deanna says.
No! I want to scream. Not the stupid pyramids. Every time Egypt is taught in school, all teachers ever focus on is ancient Egypt, and it never fails, they always ask, “Mariam, would you tell the class what the pyramids are like?” Since my parents are Egyptian, I must be an authority on the pyramids. Well, I’ve never seen the stupid pyramids, and the last thing I want to do is see them today.
“Is that okay with you, Mariam?” Sittu asks.
“Excuse me?”
“The pyramids. Is it okay that we go to see them today and maybe the mall tomorrow?”
Deanna has her begging eyes on me.
What can I say? “No, it’s not okay to go see one of your country’s national treasures. I’d rather shop for jeans”?
“Sure,” I say. “Let’s go to the pyramids.”
“Before we go, do you mind if I use the computer for one minute?” Sittu says.
“Of course not.” Deanna pulls out the chair for her.
Sittu types something, and I see she’s on Facebook, but it’s not her page. Still, it’s in Arabic, so I can’t read what it says.
“Hey, Mar, check this out.” Deanna’s looking at herself in the mirror.
What, does she want me to see how great her reflection looks? “Look, my T-shirt. See what it says?”
“P!NK. You got it at the concert last October.”
“I know it says P!NK, but it’s not backward. Words in mirrors always read backward.”
“That’s a true mirror,” Sittu says without looking up from the computer.
“A what?” Deanna and I say at the same time.
“The mirror is designed to show you the way others see you. Your father sent it to me a few years ago. I think he thought I would get a kick out of it. But when you live an hour from the pyramids, it’s hard to be impressed by inventions.”
Deanna and I study our reflections. “Hey, Mar, see this freckle.” Deanna points to her cheek. “It’s on this side.”
“It’s always on that side,” I say.
“But not when I look in the mirror. I always see it on the other side. This is so cool,” Deanna says. “I can’t believe I can see myself the way others see me.”
That’s the last thing I’d ever want. I turn back to Sittu. She’s typing fast, like she’s only got one minute before the computer explodes.
“Mariam. Earth to Mariam.” Deanna waves her hand in my face.
“Huh?” I ask, looking back at our reflections. “What?”
“I said, are you sure this shirt looks good with these jeans?”
“Fine,” I say.
“Fine?” She opens the closet.
“No, I mean great. You look great.”
“Sure?”
“Positive.” Deanna could wear clown pants and a shirt stained with pizza sauce and she’d still look amazing.
“You look great too,” she adds.
“Thanks,” I say, but it doesn’t really matter what I look like. When Deanna’s around, all eyes are on Deanna.
“Girls, meet me downstairs. I won’t be too long.” Sittu’s still typing frantically.
I want to ask her if everything’s okay, but I never seem to say or ask the right thing.
I’m hoping Deanna will ask Sittu what’s so urgent, but she just says “Yalla” and heads for the hallway.
chapter
TEN
We wait for Sittu in front of her building. She lives in the suburbs of Cairo, but there are no houses I can see, only apartment buildings. It looks more like a city block, but it’s even quieter than my boring street back home. I thought Cairo would be jam-packed, but the only other people around are a woman hanging clothes on a third-floor balcony and two older men sitting in chairs in front of what looks like a barber shop.
“There aren’t many people out,” I say.
“It’s still early,” Sittu says, coming up behind us. “It’s only eight in the morning.”
“In New York, that’s rush hour,” Deanna says.
“Did you get all your work done?” I say.
“Work?” Sittu says. “I’ve been retired for a long while.”
“I mean on the computer. You looked the way Baba does when he’s meeting a deadline for his job.”
“Yes, your father was always very serious when it came to his studies. I was just keeping up with the news.”
“I hope it was good news,” I say.
“Insh’allah, it will be,” Sittu says.
“Alhamdulillah!” Deanna shouts.
Sittu looks at Deanna. “You know alhamdulillah?” She smiles.
“Mariam.” Deanna turns to me. “Baba taught us, remember?”
Sittu and Deanna stare at me for an answer, but I can’t remember. Besides, what’s this “Baba taught us” business? What happened to “your baba” or “your father” or “your dad”? First, Deanna takes Sittu, and now she wants Baba too?
Sittu turns toward Deanna. “So, Deanna?”
“It means ‘praise to God,’ but it’s what people say when they are thankful for something.”
“Alhamdulillah!” Sittu hugs Deanna. “Mariam, you should have Deanna give you a few lessons in Arabic.” Sittu smiles when she says this, but I’m starting to wonder if she’d rather have Deanna than me as her granddaughter.
“Me? Teach Mariam? She’s, like, the smartest kid in school,” Deanna says. It’s nice that she’s trying to make me look like less of an idiot in front of Sittu, but if she’d stop showing off, she wouldn’t need to.
“Our ride should be here shortly,” Sittu says.
“Salam?” Deanna asks.
“He’s off today.”
“But Salam is your regular driver?” Deanna asks.
“Well, I let Salam use my car in exchange for driving me places. My eyesight is not what it used to be. I don’t feel so comfortable driving anymore.”
“You used to drive?” I ask.
“This is shocking to you?”
“No, I just thought women couldn’t drive in the Middle East.”
“That’s in Saudi Arabia,” Deanna says.
“Deanna, you can’t blame Mariam for what she hasn’t been taught,” Sittu says. “There is nothing Islamic about forbidding women to drive or hiding them from the world. But we have our struggles here too, like you do in the States.” She looks at me when she says this. “In this world, there’s a lot of repression in the name of Islam or Christianity or Judaism. Patriarchy will do all in its
power to oppress women.”
“Sittu, you sound like a feminist,” Deanna laughs.
“Is that what I sound like?” She seems offended.
“Sittu’s Muslim, Deanna,” I say. “She can’t be a feminist.”
“I didn’t mean to show any disrespect,” Deanna apologizes.
“My dear”—Sittu takes Deanna’s hand in hers—“you haven’t offended me at all, but, Mariam…”
But, Mariam? Is she kidding me? What did I say now?
“Feminism and Islam are not like oil and water; they are like the trees and the air.” She gestures toward the sky. “One can’t exist without the other. Islam is about equality and justice, so I can’t see how you can be a good Muslim without being a feminist.” She laughs a little. “Mariam, do you know you come from a long line of radical feminists?” Sittu looks at Deanna and smiles. “Have you ever heard of Huda Shaarawi?”
Deanna and I both shake our heads.
“Back in the twenties—that was even before I was born”— Sittu smiles. I don’t smile back. It doesn’t seem as though she is really even talking to me—“Huda Shaarawi was president of the Egyptian Feminist Union, and after she came back from an international meeting in Rome, she took off her veil and threw it into the sea.”
“Was that like burning your bra?” Deanna asks.
Sittu laughs, and it’s actually nice to hear, even if I’m not the one who made it happen. “In some ways, yes, it was just like that.”
“It’s just,” I say, “that on the news, Muslim women here are always all covered up and…you know, have no rights…”
“I’m curious, Mariam,” Sittu says, “what is it about me that is different from these other women whom you see on television?”
“You’re independent and confident and strong.”
“The woman at the airport who almost got arrested—she was wearing the whole deal,” Deanna says, “and she sure had guts.”
“Something happened at the airport?” Sittu asks nervously.
Deanna recounts the story.
“Ahmed said it could have been just about anything that got the man taken away,” I add.
Rebels by Accident Page 7
