Muslim Girl

by Umm Zakiyyah

  Veronica groaned. “Next thing you know, he’s going to ask me to start wearing colored hijabs.”

  Silence followed for several seconds before Inaya heard her mother moan in exhaustion. “I know, ukhti,” Veronica said. “I’m not saying it’s haraam. I’m just scared he might ask me to take off hijab eventually.”

  Inaya dragged herself to the kitchen, sadness weighing on her as she thought of her father. She wondered when her mother would take her to see him.

  “I’m not overreacting,” Veronica said defensively. “Why should I uncover my face? Even if niqaab’s not obligatory, what’s the point of taking it off? I fear Allah, not the people.”

  Inaya glanced at the clock. It was almost four o’clock, and she hadn’t even prayed Dhuhr, the early afternoon prayer, and it was almost time for Asr.

  “Because that stupid Arab culture made Sa’ad ashamed of his wife.” Veronica’s tone was indignant. “And now I’m supposed to feel ashamed for practicing the Sunnah?” She huffed. “They can keep their on-off hijab crap to themselves.”

  Inaya hurried to the bathroom in the hall and closed the door, shutting out her mother’s conversation.

  “Bismillaah,” Inaya whispered, marking the start of her pre-prayer ablution. Inaya reached over the sink bowl and turned both knobs, releasing a thin stream of water into an upturned palm.

  But even after mentioning Allah’s name, anxiety still knotted in her chest, and she felt the beginning of a migraine.

  Had she really spent the entire day without hijab?

  Inaya rubbed the water on both hands then filled a hand with water before bringing it to her nose and mouth. The pounding in her head made it difficult to keep track of the steps of wudhoo’, but she squinted her eyes in concentration.

  Wash your right arm three times. Wudhoo! Wudhoo! Wash your left arm three times. Wudhoo! Wudhoo! The rhythmic chant that Veronica had sung and clapped with her nine-year-old daughter came back to Inaya right then. At the time, Islam was still new and confounding to Inaya, but she recalled enjoying “playing in the sink” before prayer each day. It was like being baptized over and over again.

  As a child, Inaya had prayed to “Allah” by following her mother’s strange bowing and by muttering gibberish in an effort to imitate the foreign words her mother stumbled over. But Inaya never felt she got it right.

  Veronica had told her daughter that God wasn’t Prophet Jesus, and Inaya thought, Okay, that makes sense. But how could Inaya pray to a God she couldn’t see? What was she supposed to think about if she couldn’t imagine “Allah” in real form?

  The Unseen Creator that Veronica spoke of was the same God that Inaya had imagined when she said “The Father.” Why then was it so difficult for Inaya to erase from her mind the image of a white-haired man with long hair and a flowing beard?

  After seven years of being Muslim, things were not as befuddled in Inaya’s mind, but there was still that lingering feeling that something was missing. It was as if her mother took off in a sprint and had grabbed Inaya’s hand and dragged Inaya along before Inaya knew where they were going. Inaya had felt that her legs were too weak and her breath too short as her energy steadily waned.

  Then one day her mother snatched Daddy away too.

  Inaya turned the faucet knobs, and the stream of water disappeared as the bathroom grew suddenly quiet. In the mirror above the sink, a sad girl stared back at Inaya.

  Still, at sixteen years old, Inaya found that no motions of the Muslim prayer and no talks of an Unseen God—or even her mother’s promise of everlasting bliss “one day”— helped Inaya make sense of Daddy being snatched from their lives.

  “Pretty brown eyes,” Chris used to sing to Inaya, “you know how much I love you.”

  Inaya averted her gaze from her reflection. Why couldn’t Inaya have done something to make her father stay?

  No, Daddy, don’t go. Don’t go!

  Such simple words, a simple protest.

  But Inaya had sat mute, a frozen smile on her face. She said nothing as her father kneeled in front of her and brushed her forehead with a kiss.

  “It’s okay, Pretty Brown Eyes,” he’d said as he wiped her eyes. But Inaya hadn’t even known she was crying. “You’re Daddy’s gift.” He pinched her cheek playfully, but Inaya remembered how sad his eyes had looked that day.

  “Is that you, Inaya?” Veronica called out as Inaya opened the bathroom door and stepped into the hall. A second later, Veronica stood opposite Inaya, Abdullah resting his head on his mother’s shoulder as she patted him rhythmically on the back.

  You know how much I love you. The song Inaya’s father had sang to her was in his eyes when he’d said goodbye, and even now it made Inaya’s throat close in sadness.

  Inaya forced a smile as she met her mother’s gaze and closed the bathroom door. “As-salaamu’alaikum,” Inaya said, offering the Muslim greeting of peace.

  “Wa’alaiku-mus-salaam,” Veronica replied, a tired smile on her face.

  In the awkward silence that followed, Inaya saw the question in her mother’s eyes. She was wondering if Inaya had overheard any of the conversation.

  “I didn’t know you were home,” Veronica said.

  “I just got here,” Inaya lied. “But I had to rush to the bathroom.”

  “Alhamdulillaah.” Veronica looked relieved as she praised God, and Inaya sensed that her mother was grateful that Inaya hadn’t come home while she was talking to her friend.

  Veronica drew Inaya into a half hug, and Inaya inhaled the scent of breast milk and baby powder.

  “Did you pray Dhuhr?” Veronica asked after she released Inaya.

  “I’m about to now.”

  “Good,” Veronica said as she hurried back down the hall toward her room. “I’ll pray with you,” she said over her shoulder. “I lost track of time.”

  ***

  The first thing that Inaya saw when she walked into her room after prayer was a large Macy’s bag. Curious, Inaya walked to her bed and lifted it from the comforter before peering inside. There was an unwrapped gift box inside.

  Inaya sat on the edge of her bed and carefully pulled out the box then set it on her lap. She held the sides of the top and shook it to release it from the bottom. Inside was a card with a picture of falling leaves on top of translucent white paper.

  Inaya lifted the card and opened it. She recognized her stepfather’s script immediately.

  Congratulations, Inaya. Your mother told me you’re a Qur’an teacher now. Don’t worry. First days are always tough.

  You’re a bright girl, maashaAllah. Just be yourself and the children will love you, bi’idhnillah.

  Here’s something I hope will make you feel better.

  Love, Dad

  The word Dad made Inaya feel distant momentarily. She already had a father. Why did Sa’ad and Veronica imagine he could be replaced?

  The sound of paper crumpling interrupted Inaya’s thoughts as she removed the white paper and tossed it on her bed. There was the faint scent of new clothes as folded fuchsia cloth came into view.

  Inaya set the box to the side and stood as she held the reddish-purple material in front of her.

  A smile creased a corner of Inaya’s mouth, and tears welled in her eyes. Maybe Sa’ad would never be “Dad” to her, but that didn’t keep him from wedging a place for himself in her heart.

  Inaya rushed to the mirror to try on the new khimaar. She would wear the hijab to Qur’an school every Saturday, she decided as she wrapped the cloth around her head. She tucked a corner under her chin and ran a palm over its softness. She liked how the color brought out her smooth complexion and brown eyes. She couldn’t keep from smiling at her reflection.

  Inaya thought of school the next morning, and her heart dropped. Did she have the strength to put her hijab back on?

  Did she even want to?

  Chapter 7

  The Competition

  “Sorry about yesterday,” Kayla said Tuesday morning as she turned o
ff the ignition and put the car in park. “I should’ve waited for you to get your head cover instead of rushing to class.”

  “It’s okay.” Inaya felt a sense of dread as she leaned forward to pick up the backpack she’d set at her feet. She didn’t want to talk about hijab right then.

  “No, really.” Kayla frowned as she looked at her cousin. “I felt so bad when I saw you walking around without it.” She sucked her teeth. “We could’ve washed it or something.”

  “Let’s just forget it, okay?” Inaya pulled the door handle and shoved the car door open, swallowing the frustration building inside. She wished Kayla would shut up.

  Kayla got out the car and pressed the button to lock the doors after they closed them. “I know you’re probably pissed.” She sighed. “But I’m really sorry.”

  Inaya dropped her book bag on the cement next to the car and tugged at the sleeves of her unbuttoned jilbaab. She slipped the garment off then kneeled to quickly unzip her bag and stuff the black bundle inside. She pulled a strap of her book bag over her shoulder as she stood.

  Without the bulky over-garment, Inaya felt less constricted. The wide-legged jeans she wore were loose, but when she had gotten dressed that morning, she had trouble finding a shirt she liked. Now, the khimaar that her stepfather had bought covered her head and was draped low to conceal the bust of her fitting long-sleeve black shirt. But she still felt stifled. The fuchsia didn’t match anything she wore.

  “I like your new look, by the way,” Kayla said with a smile.

  Inaya grinned beside herself as she fell in step next to Kayla. “Thanks.”

  Inaya’s heart pounded as she counted the steps to the bathroom. Inaya had already decided she would wear the khimaar to and from school—but not in the school building itself. She felt horrible about this decision, but she just couldn’t imagine being taunted and stared at each day.

  Allah is Merciful, Inaya told herself. No sin is too great for Him to forgive.

  At least that’s what her mother always said. Inaya didn’t know if that was true, especially as far as her own soul was concerned. But it’s what Inaya decided to believe. It was easier than thinking the alternative.

  “Oh my God,” Kayla said in the bathroom after Inaya removed her head cover. They were standing in front of the mirrors, and Inaya was stuffing the cloth into her bag. “Are you really taking all that off?”

  Annoyed, Inaya rolled her eyes. “Yeah, so what?”

  Kayla threw up her palms in defense. “Chill. I don’t care what you do.” She shrugged. “I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

  “Why?” Inaya said defensively. “You’re the one who said I looked like I’m going to a funeral.”

  Kayla chuckled at the reminder, but her face grew concerned a moment later.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Kayla spoke in a low whisper as she leaned toward Inaya in front of the large mirror. “Can’t you get in trouble?”

  Inaya responded by walking toward the bathroom exit. “Let’s go,” she said, her tone laced in irritation as she glanced over her shoulder to look at Kayla. “We’re going to be late to homeroom.”

  In the hall, there was the sudden sound of droves of students rushing to class, and a smirk tickled a corner of Inaya’s mouth. Bareheaded, Inaya was invisible, just another student going to class. The sense of empowerment this gave her was intoxicating, and laughter crawled in her throat. It felt so good to be normal.

  “Hey, Kayla,” a male voice called seconds after they emerged from the bathroom.

  Kayla looked over her shoulder then broke into a grin. “Hey, Raymond!” she said with a wave, slowing her steps.

  Inaya’s face grew warm, and she turned to follow Kayla’s gaze.

  Raymond quickened his steps until he was next to Kayla. Inaya trembled in nervous excitement as she imagined how different—and attractive—she would look to the student ambassador. But her heart nearly stopped when she saw that he was holding someone’s hand.

  “Lyrica,” Kayla said, a broad smile forming on her face. She pulled the girl into a hug, the girl still grasping Raymond’s hand.

  Inaya turned away as Raymond smiled fondly at Lyrica. But in that brief moment, Inaya had seen enough to make her feel insignificant.

  Lyrica’s rich brown skin glowed almost bronze, and her closely cropped hairstyle accented the model-like bone structure on her face. Lyrica stood at least three inches taller than Inaya and carried herself with a demeanor that exuded self-confidence and intelligence. A “Raymond Dirks for Student Council President” sticker was on her chest, drawing more attention to her attractive shape.

  Inaya had to fight the urge to run back to the bathroom and put back on her khimaar.

  “This is my cousin Inaya.” Kayla stepped to the side and placed a hand on Inaya’s shoulder.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Lyrica said, her wide smile brightening her face. She reached out to shake Inaya’s hand. “I’m Lyrica, an old friend of Kayla’s.”

  Inaya forced a smile as she accepted Lyrica’s hand. She hoped she hadn’t pulled her hand back too soon. She just couldn’t stand the feel of the girl’s soft palm and thin fingers that sported several silver bands.

  “And I’m Raymond,” the student ambassador said, reaching for Inaya’s hand.

  The formal introduction took her aback, and her face grew warm as their hands touched, her hand limply in his. For a moment she wondered if she was taking this “no hijab” choice too far.

  “Nice to meet you again,” Inaya said, a stiff smile on her face. She felt a burning urge for him to remember her right then.

  He creased his forehead, his polite smile lingering. “You do look familiar…”

  Kayla looked as if she wanted to say something, but Inaya hated her cousin for keeping quiet. Inaya didn’t want the burden of reminding him. She was hoping he would remember without her help.

  “We met last week,” Inaya said with a confidence that sounded as if it belonged to someone else. “You thought I was Arab.”

  Raymond’s face slowly registered recognition. “Oh…” The expression on his face was difficult for Inaya to read. “You’re the Muslim from Saudi Arabia?”

  A tinge of guilt pinched Inaya’s chest. “Yes,” Inaya said, maintaining a smile. “The fundamentalist,” she added sarcastically.

  Raymond laughed, and Inaya relaxed in that sound. He wasn’t judging her after all.

  “Well,” he said, still smiling, “I didn’t recognize you. You look...” His voice caught for a moment as he held her gaze, the admiration in his eyes sending Inaya’s heart racing. “…different.”

  Inaya averted her gaze and waved a hand dismissively. “It’s okay. I guess I don’t recognize me either.”

  “You’re Muslim?” Lyrica said, her eyes widening in pleasant surprise.

  As she met Lyrica’s gaze, Inaya felt a pang in her chest, and she knew at that moment, she would never like Lyrica, no matter how nice she might be.

  “Yes,” Inaya said in as even a tone as her annoyance would allow.

  “That’s awesome.” Lyrica’s eyes shined in sincerity. “I hope you don’t mind if I bombard you with questions,” Lyrica said with a laugh.

  Lyrica grasped Raymond’s hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and Inaya found herself hating Lyrica for taking Raymond for granted.

  “That’s fine,” Inaya said, her strained smile fading.

  “Good,” Lyrica said as she smiled at Raymond briefly. “Because Raymond and I are completely fascinated by your religion.”

  Lyrica punched Raymond playfully with her free hand. “But don’t let him near you unless I’m here.” The words made Inaya stiffen, her lips twitching in an embarrassed smile. “I don’t want him running off and finding God,” Lyrica said. “It’ll ruin our relationship.”

  “Women.” Raymond shook his head, a pleasant expression on his face as he met Lyrica’s gaze. “They’re even jealous of religion.”

  “I didn’
t know Raymond was the religious type,” Kayla said, her eyebrows rising. “I would’ve never guessed.”

  “Oh, he’s not religious.” Lyrica quickly brushed his cheek with a kiss. “I just want to keep it that way.”

  The sound of the bell ringing prompted Raymond and Lyrica to turn quickly and start down the hall, still holding hands.

  “Inaya, it was nice meeting you,” Lyrica shouted over her shoulder. She waved then blew a friendly kiss to Kayla, who did the same before rushing toward the staircase.

  Groaning, Inaya shuffled behind Kayla, feeling completely uninspired to face the rest of the school day.

  ***

  “I think it’s a toss-up,” Raymond said from where he sat next to Lyrica at the lunch table with Kayla, Inaya, and two of Kayla’s friends. He removed the plastic wrapping from the tuna sandwich he’d taken from a paper bag. “It’s either Nasra or Lyrica this year.”

  Lyrica laughed with her lips closed as she swallowed the spoonful of pudding that she’d just put in her mouth. She waved the plastic spoon toward Raymond. “And why don’t you think you’ll win the Distinguished Student Award?” A smile played at her lips. “You won it your freshman year.”

  “That was three years ago,” Raymond said, smiling affectionately at his girlfriend. “But I’m glad you haven’t lost hope in me.”

  “They don’t pick the same student twice,” Kayla said before taking a sip of chocolate milk through a straw and looking toward Raymond. “It’s like an unwritten teacher code or something.”

  Raymond and the other students chuckled, but Inaya only smiled. Her discomfort from earlier had loosened somewhat, but she still couldn’t bring herself to participate in the conversation.

  “It’ll probably be Nasra,” one of Kayla’s friends said, boredom in her tone as she dipped a bundle of French fries in ketchup. “She’s Arab and Muslim. It’ll make the school look good.”