Rizwana explained that the big difference between a dholki and a mehndi is that the latter has more of an important ceremonial feel. The word mehndi literally refers to the henna paste put on the bride-to-be’s hands and feet, and besides the designs being absolutely gorgeous and ornate, there’s a symbolic significance, too: the deeper the henna color, supposedly, the deeper the love the bride feels for her groom. If only.
Technically, mehndis are done closer to the wedding, too, but due to the rush and the fact that this was the only date that worked for everyone, here we are. According to Riz, Deen’s mom was not happy about it and kept going off about how they’ll have to redo the henna before the wedding.
But I have bigger concerns. I try not to think about how I’ll be needing to pack my bedroom soon—and find a safe place for Faisal’s journal entry—and instead help Riz clear away the family room to make more space for tonight. Still, it’ll be a tight fit. Riz promised to keep it a small affair this time, with only thirty or so close friends and family (again, much to the dismay of Deen’s mom), but even that is pushing it for our humble little row house.
After Riz drops off a giant bowl of water filled with floating rose petals and tea candles, and I thread a couple more string lights across the ceiling, we get to the pièce de résistance: the sofa.
“Put down your phone for one sec and help me,” Riz says.
I nod and drop my phone on the table. I’ve been obsessively refreshing my Facebook in-box since I sent a message to Leah a week ago, hoping for a response.
Still nothing.
The floor groans beneath us as Riz and I uproot our cream-colored sofa—also the least-stained sofa in our house—and slide it against the wall, now a colorful backdrop of curtains and floating, glowing mason jars, and trellises of real jasmine flowers, at the front of the room. The sofa is now a makeshift throne for Amira. It must be weird, watching your friends and family celebrating your own wedding festivities while you just sit there, like some kind of puppet king. I remember Nani saying she wasn’t even allowed to smile during her wedding, because that would be seen as disrespectful to her own family. Knowing Amira, though, she’d last one minute playing the meek bride-to-be, and ruin her own freshly hennaed hands to join in on the singing, even though her Urdu’s as bad as mine.
We’re debating whether it would be creepy to hang a photo of my mom on the wall—“Does not that feel, I don’t know, vaguely pagan or something to you?” Riz asks—when I hear Amira’s voice.
“Oh my God.”
Her hands are over her mouth as she descends the stairs. She’s wearing glasses and loungewear, and her bramble forest hair is barely tamed in a fat bun on her head. Not even close to being ready for tonight.
“You’re not supposed to be here!” Riz barks.
“Don’t look! We’re not even done yet!” I whine.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I just needed to come down for some water.” Amira beelines for the kitchen, throwing not-so-subtle glimpses over her shoulder at the string lights overhead.
She pauses at a stack of printed Quranic prayers and wedding schedules that I’ve shaped into a star and gently traces a finger across them. I look at her curiously.
“God, it’s starting to feel real now,” she says softly. But her voice is laced with something else, something . . . sad.
Riz grins. “Good. Because it is real.”
“Where’s Dad?” I ask.
Amira blinks hard, as if just waking up. “Oh, I had to force him to rest up in his room. I think he might be coming down with something.” She rubs her tired eyes. “I’m a little worried about him. He’s been working himself too hard.” The way she looks, though, I wonder if she’s worried about a lot of things.
“What? But the wedding’s in, like, two weeks.” Dad’s clinical research job is rough, but he’s rarely had trouble taking time off when he needs to.
“I know.” Amira pours herself a glass of water. “But Hamza chacha’s flying in from Houston this evening. Nani, too. Actually, Kiran, you’ll have to pick Nani up from the airport soon, so maybe she can stay on Dad’s case. Hamza chacha will stay out of the way and make sure Dad doesn’t push himself.”
Our uncle Hamza is Dad’s younger brother. He never got married, claiming he was too handsome for anyone, but I think it’s because he’s actually married to his work as a genetic counselor. And Nani, our mom’s mom, is the closest grandparent we’ve got; Dad’s parents still live in Pakistan. But I haven’t seen her in months.
I’m excited to see them, but I’m also dreading it. On one hand, I know they’re here for the wedding—they wouldn’t miss it for the world. But on the other hand, I know they’re also here to help Dad move to Houston. To take him away.
“Any word from the hubby-to-be?” asks Riz, lighting some tea candles. “I’m sure he’s counting down the hours now.”
Amira shakes her head. “He’s been busy trying to wrap up some AFFEY stuff before the move to California. There’s still a lot to sort out, so we haven’t really . . . been talking lately.”
“That’s understandable,” says Riz comfortingly. “You two will have the rest of your lives to spend chatting each other to death, anyway.”
“True.” Amira’s eyes are cloudy. Distant.
I wonder if Amira’s told Riz about the stripper. Hell, I’m still not sure if Amira’s talked to Faisal about the stripper. I haven’t really had a chance to talk to Amira about the aftermath; for the past few days, she’s been busy with Riz and a bunch of her old college friends, doing last minute wedding prep, and I haven’t even had the chance to ask her about Dad’s big move.
And as usual, I can’t get a read on what Amira’s really thinking.
“It’s normal to feel . . . nervous right before a wedding, right?” Amira murmurs suddenly. For a moment, Riz and I stop moving, stunned.
Riz is the first to regain her composure. “Of course it’s normal. Everyone gets cold feet. It’s a huge commitment!”
“I guess. Yeah. Between the radio silence and things feeling a little . . . out of sync between us, I’m feeling antsy. And then with Dad moving, and me moving . . .” She swallows. “It’s a lot at once.”
My head’s a whirlpool of emotions. I can’t believe it. The Plan to Save Amira is working. It’s just like I thought: all it took was a few pokes and prods at their relationship and already things are starting to fall apart. And with the wedding fourteen days away, it’s not a moment too soon. But if she’s doubting whether she can make it work with Faisal, then all they need is just one more push. One final blow.
I glance at my phone.
The Dark Horse.
Except I’ve never seen Amira doubt herself, ever, about anything. And even though I’m happy my plan is working, seeing her like this is a little . . . painful.
But it’s for the best.
“These are the kinds of things you should talk to your imam counselor guy for,” says Riz before waving Amira away. “But one step at a time. For now, go finish getting ready. We still need to wrap up here.”
Amira bites her lip.
“Right. Okay,” she says finally.
Amira starts for the stairs, then turns around. She opens her mouth, as if to say something else, but decides against it.
I watch her finally retreat upstairs and bite down the guilt sprouting in me like a sharp weed.
The house is so stuffed with people, I can feel the walls straining, and the music is so loud, I can feel the floor trembling beneath me.
Amira is on the sofa, surrounded by giant plush pillows. She’s wearing a pastel, sunshine-yellow lehenga, and a translucent, silver-threaded dupatta that covers her long hair. Her neck is weighed down by multiple flower garlands. Mona khala is sitting next to her, and I try not to let the annoyance show on my face because she really should be sitting on the floor, where all the other guests are sitting. That’s why there are pillows there, damn it.
Nani’s holding a tray of laddoo when she finds me leaning against the
kitchen counter, on the far edge of the crowded family room. “Kiran, my jaani, you keep looking at your phone.” She points a finger at the henna artist Riz hired from Edison, already hard at work on Mona’s feet. “Go, sit down with your sister. Get your hands done.”
I smile in a way I hope she can’t see right through. When I picked Nani up from the airport earlier, she was quiet the whole ride. Of course she was; the last time she’d come to Philadelphia was for Mom’s funeral. When she walked into the house, I could see the way her eyes lingered on all the spots Mom used to frequent. As if waiting for her to reappear. Just seeing her like that was enough to tear at barely healing wounds.
“Maybe later, Nani,” I tell her. Plus, if I get henna on my hands, it’ll be hard for me to check my phone, and I need my phone to keep distracted.
The music shifts to “Ghungroo,” a song that was popular, like, a couple years ago. People have already started dancing. It’s hot in here and I need some air; the back of my shalwar kameez is damp with sweat and my makeup already feels like it’s melting—the Maliks hired a professional photographer, surprise, surprise—though it’s barely been an hour since the mehndi started.
I know it’s my sister’s mehndi and everyone’s expecting me to be happy and involved, but right now, I can’t bring myself to do it.
Honestly, I just want to talk to Foxx. I want to play Cambria and pretend Amira is okay and that things are normal and that the wedding isn’t happening, that what remains of my family suddenly moving for no good reason isn’t happening.
I sneak to the back of the house, to another, less conspicuous staircase.
That’s where I find Deen, sitting on the middle landing, staring at his phone. He looks up, startled, and puts his phone away when he sees me.
Panic flares in me—did he sneak into my room? What if he finds Faisal’s journal page? Do I need to start carrying it on my person at all times now? But then again, there’s something off about him. Like if I look close enough, I’ll see a storm cloud floating above his head.
I raise a brow. “Hiding from the party, Deen? How unusual.”
“Mehndis are mostly for women, anyway. I’m only here for Faisal,” he says. “Plus, I can’t be the life of the party all the time.” He laughs almost . . . self-deprecatingly.
“I didn’t even know you were here. Where is Faisal, anyway?”
“Apparently your uncle Hamza convinced him to have a cigar with him out back because your uncle carries cigars around with him like a mobster, I guess?” says Deen, shrugging. “But for a relative of yours, he seems pretty chill.”
I roll my eyes. “Somehow, I’m not surprised you’d think that.”
Deen smiles weakly. He’s got a bad case of sunken, purple bruising beneath his eyes from lack of sleep, and a smattering of facial hair on his cheeks and chin where he missed a couple spots. For a guy as obsessed with his own looks as Deen, it’s a bit of a shock.
“You all right?” I ask, approaching him.
Deen recoils, surprised by my question. But after a beat, he relaxes.
“I appreciate you pretending to care, but I’ll be fine, Noorani.”
“All right. It’s just, you look like death.”
Deen looks away, a pained expression on his face, like I’ve pointed something out that he’d rather be ignored.
He grips the railing.
“Actually, do you have a second?” he asks, so softly I can barely hear him over the music.
Then he looks at me so earnestly, in a way so unlike him, that I find it hard to breathe. For so long, it’s felt like the two of us have been locked in some weird game of chess that I’d forgotten what it was like to be seen by him with something other than hate in his eyes.
But suddenly, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I fumble for it and yank it out, nearly dropping it from my trembling fingers.
A Facebook message notification. From Leah.
My stomach’s churning so hard I can feel my bones rattle, like a wash cycle on an old washing machine.
She replied. She actually replied.
“Sorry,” I say loudly. “I need to take care of something.”
Before Deen can say another word, I move past him and practically throw myself into my room, locking the door behind me.
I lean against the door for balance and open the message, holding my breath:
Hi Kiran,
I appreciate you reaching out, despite the stranger-than-fiction circumstances. Unfortunately, I haven’t been fully in touch with Faisal in some time now, but. Yes.
Let’s talk.
Chapter 27
Deen
Thursday, August 12
10 Days Until the Wedding
THE PROBLEM WITH MISSING SOMEONE is that you start seeing them everywhere.
Not just in person—I’ve caught eyes with Vinny a couple of times now, between the library and the dining hall, and each time he’s literally run in the opposite direction—but in everything I see or do. Right now, I’m on the bus I grabbed after class to meet Kiran in Philly for our last dance practice. But I can’t stop glancing at my phone, wondering if he’s finally going to reply to my texts. Earlier, I thought I heard his voice on the street, but it was just another guy with an equally strong Long Island accent. Before that, I got melancholy seeing chicken tenders in the cafeteria. Because of him.
I even can’t log into the guild chat room without thinking of Vinny, either. Hell, the name Devynius—it was Vinny’s idea.
Set the stage: My dorm room, first semester, freshman year. I’m sitting at my desk, waiting for Cambria to finish downloading, while Vinny is perusing my closet and my extensive collection of sneakers. Insert transcript:
ME: Hey, if you had to make up a badass fantasy name, what would it be?
VINNY: Fantasy name? What, you playing D&D? You holding out on me?
ME: No, no—nothing like that.
VINNY: Yo, are you downloading Cambria?!
ME: No! I mean, yes, but just to try it. Maybe. Anyway, answer the question. Fantasy name ideas. Go.
VINNY: How about . . . Vinné.
ME: Absolutely not. Actually, never mind. Clearly, I’ve asked the wrong person. I’m going with Deenius.
VINNY: DEENIUS? ARE YOU SERIOUS, DEENIUS?
ME: What’s wrong with Deenius? It rhymes with genius.
VINNY: Veto. Let’s spice it up. How about this: Devinnyus.
ME: That’s literally just Deenius with your name stuffed in it.
VINNY: Like the delicious pimento to your olive. The jelly to your doughnut. The cream to your—
ME: You know what? Fine. FINE. I give up. We’ll go with Devinnyus. But I’m spelling it differently, damn it.
And thus, Devynius was born.
I want to talk to him, especially after everything’s that happened with Kiran. I can’t talk to Faisal about Kiran, but Vinny—Vinny would get it, react exactly the way a best friend should upon hearing the maddening news that Kiran is actually Kasia: throw open the window and scream.
“God, I suck,” I say out loud, groaning, which makes the middle-aged woman sitting next to me on the bus stare at me with undisguised revulsion.
I even tried to talk to Kiran about it last night, but then she retreated to her room for the rest of the mehndi. I had half a mind to knock on her bedroom door. I even rehearsed what I’d say: Hey, you know that guy you talk to every day on Cambria, the guy who’s totally crushing on you even though he’s never met you in real life? Surprise! It’s me, the guy you hate [finger guns].
Except I don’t have a death wish.
Thinking about it now, though, maybe it’s a good thing I haven’t told her yet. I don’t know how she’ll react. She promised not to poke around Faisal anymore, but who knows how this news would change things. Maybe I’ll wait until after the wedding, when I know for sure things are safe and settled.
It’s in ten days. I won’t have to wait long.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
&nb
sp; Vinny: Sent you the song. It’s finished.
I look at the screen, staring intently at the three little dots that follow, a sign that he’s typing something else. After a beat, though, they disappear. He’s gone.
But he actually came through.
I let out a sad huff of a laugh.
I dig through my bag for my earbuds, shove them in place, and turn up the volume.
Then I click play.
The familiar song that Kiran and I have been practicing to runs through the background, but with a heavier weight to it, an intensity that wasn’t there before. And now there’s the beat of a second song deftly, seamlessly layered into the first. It’s modern and classic, East meets West, to create something entirely new. Before I know it, my foot’s already tapping to the rhythm.
I can’t help it; I grin, which I’m pretty sure makes the woman next to me inch further away.
The song is perfect.
I can’t even imagine what Kiran’s face will look like when she hears it, in front of all those people.
I let out a long exhale through my nose.
The wedding is so close. So close.
And if it all goes right, soon, everything will finally go back to normal. To what it should be. For me and Faisal.
I just hope this time, I don’t trip over the finish line.
“I have never been more insulted in my life.”
Kiran is scowling at me as I enter the yoga studio. She’s standing by the sound control table in the corner of the room, her arms sitting across her chest. Today she’s opted for black sweats and a boxy camo T-shirt under an open black hoodie. Like she’s ready for battle.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, keeping my voice level. Did I do something wrong again? I wouldn’t be surprised, at the rate I’m going.
“This!” She seizes a Starbucks coffee cup off the table and shoves it in my direction.
In a messy scrawl, someone has written her name for the order on the side of her cup.
I squint, and then I see it:
Karen.
I look at her exasperated expression, then back at the cup. I burst out laughing.
“I hate it! My name isn’t that difficult!” Kiran slams the cup back on the table. “You’re lucky. You probably never have to deal with people getting your name wrong.”
It All Comes Back to You Page 23
