by Umm Zakiyyah
“Look, Tony,” Veronica said, “Muslims aren’t angels. Nobody’s able to follow the rules perfectly.”
Anthony grunted, a smug grin on his face. “You seem to be doing a pretty good job.”
“Oh please.” Veronica waved her hand. “I’m far from perfect.”
“You don’t act like it.”
“Why? Because I speak up when something’s wrong?”
“You make people uncomfortable,” Anthony said after a thoughtful pause. “You need to realize that.”
Veronica was quiet momentarily. “I realize Islam isn’t the most comfortable subject.”
Anthony leaned on the railing, the cigarette dangling between two fingers. “What happened with you and Chris?”
At the mention of her ex-husband, Veronica’s heart constricted. Chris had been her high school sweetheart, and in the innocence of youth, they had vowed to always be together. Chris had proposed to Veronica the day of their high school graduation, and, teary-eyed, she’d accepted.
Veronica sighed. “Tony, you already know the answer to that.”
Anthony looked at his sister. “You really hurt him, you know that?”
Veronica looked away from her brother. “It wasn’t easy for me either.”
Anthony brought the cigarette to his mouth then blew out a cloud of smoke. He tapped the cigarette on the railing as he stood upright. “Chris started studying religion after you left.”
Veronica drew in a deep breath, uncomfortable with the conversation, but she didn’t know what to say.
Anthony chuckled to himself. “And he came across something that really got to him.”
Anthony was quiet for several seconds as he smoked.
“What?” Veronica said quietly, glancing at her brother.
“It was about a man who wanted to marry a woman,” Anthony said, prompting Veronica to look away. “And she said no because she was Muslim and he was a pagan.”
There was a long pause.
“But she finally agreed to marry him.”
Veronica’s eyes widened, unable to hide her shock as she looked at Anthony. “Really?”
“And she didn’t want money or a ring or anything,” Anthony said, a slight smile on his face, but it was clear his thoughts were elsewhere. “She just asked him for one thing.”
Veronica narrowed her eyes as the story began to sound vaguely familiar. She recalled reading a similar story in Arabian history. “What’s that?”
“That he become Muslim so they could be together.”
Veronica’s heart grew heavy and she averted her gaze. Yes, she knew the story after all. It was the famous story of Abu Talha and Umm Sulaim.
Anthony and Veronica were quiet for some time.
“But what about Inaya?” Anthony said, looking at his sister, concern in his eyes.
Veronica furrowed her brows as she looked at her brother. “What do you mean?”
“How does she feel about all this?”
Veronica felt herself growing defensive. “All of what?”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Anthony shook his head. “You walk around as if everything you do is right for everyone else. I just hope you don’t lose your daughter in the process.”
Veronica glared at her brother. She started to respond, but Anthony spoke before she could.
“I swear, every time I see that girl, I feel sorry for her. She has no identity.”
“She’s Muslim, Tony. That’s identity enough.”
“For you,” he said. “Don’t forget, she didn’t choose Islam. You did.”
“She loves being Muslim, Tony. In many ways, she’s stronger than I am.”
“I don’t doubt that, Ronnie. I just wonder if it’s only because she wants to make you happy.”
Veronica rolled her eyes. “I think you just have a hard time understanding how a sixteen-year-old can be stronger than you.”
Anthony coughed laughter. “Most youth are stronger than people my age, if you ask me. Once you hit forty, you aren’t trying to change your lifestyle, even if it’s the right thing to do.”
He tapped his cigarette against the railing again. “But this has nothing to do with me. I was just hoping you’d be more concerned about Inaya than your pride.”
***
“Eww…” Inaya wrinkled her nose as she read the label of the container her cousin had just handed her. “Margarine? Are you trying to kill us? Where’s the butter?”
“What’s wrong with margarine?” Kayla said as she took the container from Inaya and carried it back to the refrigerator.
“Are you kidding?” Inaya laughed. “It’s not even a food substance.”
Kayla groaned as she opened the refrigerator and put the margarine back inside. “Is this something else Muslims can’t eat?”
Inaya rolled her eyes. “No. It’s something humans can’t eat, you included.”
“I didn’t know you guys were health nuts.”
“We’re not. I just want to live past forty.”
“My dad is forty-four, and he eats margarine all the time.”
“Kayla,” Inaya said, sighing, “can you just pass me the butter? I’m craving chocolate chip cookies, and I want to be done before my mom announces we have to leave.”
Kayla shut the refrigerator then set four sticks of butter on the kitchen table next to Inaya. “Can I help with anything?”
“You can crack the eggs.”
“Is this some secret family recipe or something? Why can’t I mix the batter?”
“If it was a secret, I wouldn’t let you watch.”
Inaya removed the foil wrapping from a stick of butter then set it on a glass plate before doing the same with the other sticks. “We’ll have to microwave these for about twenty seconds. They need to be soft.”
“The margarine was already soft,” Kayla said, a half grin on her face as she carried the plate to the microwave. “We’d be halfway done if you weren’t so picky.”
“Things that are bad for you are always easier,” Inaya said, flashing a smile. “It’s better to be picky than sick.”
The humming buzz of the microwave filled the silence between them.
“Is that why you guys are Muslim?” Kayla glanced hesitantly at her cousin. “You think being Christian was bad for us?”
Inaya creased her forehead as she looked at Kayla. “What? I’m talking about food, Kayla, not religion.”
“I know. I’m just—” A beeping sound prompted Kayla to turn around and open the microwave. “I’m just wondering if that’s why you guys left the church.”
Inaya sighed as her cousin set the plate of butter in front of her. “I think it’s more complicated than that, Kayla. My mom didn’t just wake up and decide Christianity is bad for us.”
“That’s how is seems to us,” Kayla said as she sat on a high stool and reached for the carton of eggs.
Inaya was silent as she used a rubber spatula to scrape the soft butter into the large mixing bowl. “You and I were only nine when my mom became Muslim.”
“But don’t you remember church?” Kayla smiled, lost in a pleasant memory. “We used to sit in the pew and pass notes during the service.”
Inaya laughed beside herself. “Yeah, and then my mom would pinch me so hard I felt like screaming.”
“Oh my God.” Kayla shook her head. “Those sermons were so boring.”
“I just went for the songs.”
Kayla chuckled. “Girl, you went because your mom made you.”
“Yeah,” Inaya agreed, laughter in her voice. “Just like you.”
“You don’t miss church?” Kayla raised her voice over the sound of the electric mixer. She tapped the side of an egg on the small mixing bowl in front of her before pulling the shell open and emptying the whites and yolk inside the bowl.
Inaya shrugged as she steered the mixer around the bowl. “Not really. I mean, for me, there wasn’t much to miss. I was too young to really care either way.”
“I can’t imagine my
mom becoming Muslim. I think I’d freak out.”
Inaya wore a smirk as she lifted her gaze to her cousin before looking at the mixture again. “Why?”
“I can’t imagine giving up everything I love.”
“Oh please, Kayla. It’s not like that.”
“Well, to me it is.”
“How do you know? You’ve never been Muslim.”
“I see Aunt Ronnie and you. It’s like being a nun, except worse.”
Inaya’s eyes widened playfully. “Worse? You make it sound like religion is a punishment.”
“Maybe it is.”
Inaya glared at Kayla, but Inaya’s pleasant expression remained.
“I sort of like the idea that Jesus died for my sins,” Kayla said.
“But he didn’t.” Inaya turned off the electric mixer and set it on the table.
Kayla handed her the bowl of eggs. “Yeah, I know.”
Taken aback, Inaya creased her forehead as she met Kayla’s gaze. “And you still believe it?”
Kayla shrugged. “No, but I want to.”
Inaya regarded her cousin skeptically. “Don’t you think that’s kind of hypocritical?”
“My dad says we’re all hypocrites.”
Inaya grunted laughter as she emptied the bowl of eggs into the butter-sugar mixture. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, maybe not you and Aunt Ronnie, but—”
“And what would make us the exception?” Inaya turned on the electric mixer and glanced curiously at Kayla as she maneuvered the mixer around the bowl.
“You’re living what you believe,” Kayla said, raising her voice again over the mixer.
“I thought your family believed all that stuff from church.”
“We used to.”
“Wait.” Inaya drew her eyebrows together as she looked at her cousin. “You’re saying the whole family doesn’t even believe in Christianity?”
Kayla contorted her face. “Girl, I’m just talking about me and my parents.”
“Aunt Sharon and Uncle Tony aren’t Christian anymore?”
“Well, maybe my mom is,” Kayla said thoughtfully. “But my dad doesn’t go to church much these days.”
“Why?”
Kayla shrugged. “He doesn’t really talk about it. But Uncle Chris says it’s because he’s going through a spiritual crisis.”
At the mention of her father, Inaya grew silent. She hadn’t seen him since she arrived to America three weeks ago. They spoke briefly on the phone the day she arrived, but her mother hadn’t had time to arrange a visit—at least that’s what she said.
“And how does my dad know what Uncle Tony is going through?” Inaya’s voice was devoid of the energy of seconds before, but she hoped her cousin didn’t notice.
“They hang out a lot.” Kayla chuckled. “Uncle Chris even took him to an open house at a mosque.”
Inaya’s eyes widened at she looked at Kayla. “What?”
Kayla creased her forehead as she met Inaya’s gaze. “You didn’t know your dad is thinking about converting?”
Inaya halted her motions and turned off the mixer. She set it on the table as she stared at Kayla in disbelief. “What?”
Kayla shrugged. “Maybe I misunderstood. But that’s what my dad said.”
Uncertain what to say, Inaya walked over to the counter and opened a cabinet. Her thoughts were distant as her eyes scanned the shelves.
“Because he wasn’t Muslim, sweetheart.” It was her mother’s constant response to why she divorced Inaya’s father. “So it just couldn’t work.”
Inaya’s heart raced with hope. What if…? Inaya thought of her stepfather and her baby brother Abdullah, and she immediately felt ashamed of herself.
It could never happen, she thought sadly.
“The flour’s on the table,” Kayla said, humor in her tone.
Inaya started as she turned to Kayla. She had momentarily forgotten her cousin was in the kitchen.
“Oh yeah,” Inaya said, an awkward smile on her face as she closed the cabinets and walked back to the table.
“You think he’ll convert?” Kayla was looking curiously at Inaya.
Inaya contorted her face as she opened the bag of flour. “I don’t know. He never mentioned it to me.”
“I know, but…” Kayla’s gaze grew distant. “But do you think he’d do it, you know?”
Inaya shrugged, her deflated hope making it difficult to pay full attention to her cousin. “If he wants to.”
“But what about Dana?”
“What about her?” Inaya’s tone was sarcastic. She didn’t want to talk about her father’s girlfriend. Inaya hated the way the woman always tried to be so sweet and polite whenever she talked to Inaya. But Inaya sensed Dana looked down on her and her mother because they were Muslim.
“Are you kidding?” Kayla said, laughter in her tone. “Dana is practically married to the church.”
“And?” Inaya said, rolling her eyes. “My dad doesn’t owe her anything. He can find someone else.”
“After being together for four years?” Kayla chuckled. “Come on, Inaya. She’s already talking about them getting married.”
Inaya halted dipping a measuring cup into the flour as she regarded Kayla. “Did my dad say that?”
“No, I don’t think so, but—”
“Then he can find someone else.” Inaya resumed measuring out the flour and dumping it into the cookie batter.
In the silence that followed, Inaya felt Kayla studying her curiously.
“Yeah,” Kayla said finally, but Inaya could hear the insincerity in her cousin’s voice. “Maybe he can.”
Chapter 3
A New School
It was a Monday morning in early September when Inaya followed Sa’ad and Veronica as they entered the glass double doors of the public school that Inaya would attend. Heart hammering in excitement, Inaya stared in awe at the massive main staircase and the ceiling-to-floor glass pillars displaying academic and athletic trophies, plaques, and medals. She slowed her steps to study the smiling faces in some of the framed pictures next to the awards.
“You can wait out here if you want,” Veronica said, prompting Inaya to turn toward her mother, who was holding open the door to the front office across the hall. “We’ll let you know if we need you.”
“Okay.” Inaya nodded as Veronica followed Sa’ad into the office, the door closing behind them.
Inaya walked slowly along the pillars, pausing to study the inscriptions on each award. 2nd Place National Varsity Cheerleading Competition. 1st Place Regional Spelling Bee Champions. Who’s Who Among American High School Scholars. Distinguished Student Award, 2008. National Scholars Award, 2010. Award for Academic Excellence, 2009. Future Hope Scholars, 2011.
“May I help you?”
Inaya started and found herself opposite a young man wearing a polite smile, his hands clasped near his waist.
Inaya didn’t know what to say so she just stared at him.
“Are you a student here?” he asked, the polite smile still on his face. Inaya sensed that he thought she was violating a rule of some kind.
It was then that Inaya saw the badge attached to the left side of his dress shirt. “Student Ambassador.”
His kind mannerisms and the walnut brown of his face held a vague sense of familiarity, but Inaya couldn’t explain this feeling.
“If so, you need a hall pass during class times.”
Inaya shook her head. “I’m not a student,” she said finally. “My parents are in the office registering me for school.”
His eyebrows rose in understanding. “Yes, of course.” There was an awkward pause, as neither knew what to say.
“If you would like to take a look around,” he said, “feel free. But you’ll need a visitor’s pass and a chaperone.”
Inaya lifted her eyebrows. “A chaperone?”
He laughed lightly. “I know it sounds like a first date, but it’s our school policy for visitors.”
&nb
sp; Inaya’s cheeks grew warm, and she averted her gaze. “I’m sorry… I didn’t know. I just…”
“No problem,” he said, holding up a hand. “Just wait here for a moment.”
Before Inaya could respond, he disappeared into an unlabeled door near the front office. He reappeared less than a minute later and handed her a badge similar to the one he was wearing. She hesitated momentarily then accepted it. “VISITOR” it said in all-red capital letters.
“Just pin it to your dress, and no one should bother you.”
“Thanks…”
There was an awkward silence as she struggled with the safety pin affixed to the back of the plastic. When she was finally able to close the pin, the badge hung lopsided.
“Where are you from?”
Inaya heard the question as she frowned at the visitor badge. “I’m sorry?” Inaya said, as she glanced up at the student.
“You have an interesting accent,” he said, his dark eyes kind as he looked at her. “I was just wondering where you’re from.”
Inaya’s eyes widened slightly. “I do?”
The ambassador laughed heartily, and the long dimples in his cheeks made Inaya realize why he seemed familiar to her. He resembled the singer Usher, whose public divorce and court case she and her friends had followed in the internet news in Saudi Arabia.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and it was then that Inaya realized his laugh was from embarrassment. “I didn’t mean it offensively. It’s just…Well, I thought you sounded Arab.”
Inaya creased her forehead, unable to hide her amused expression. “Arab?”
His smile faded, but he tried to appear diplomatic. “I’m not good at judging ethnicities. It was just a wild guess.”
“I’m American,” Inaya said, unable to keep from chuckling. “But I suppose it makes sense.” She shrugged. “My family just came back from Saudi Arabia.”
“Cool.” His wide smile returned. “Do you speak Arabic?”
Inaya nodded. “A bit.”
“Maybe that’s where the accent comes from.”
Inaya was silent, unsure how she felt about having an Arab accent. She would have to be more careful when she spoke.
An awkward silence followed.
