by Aisha Saeed
“And bonus?” I tell him. “I can start counting down the dinners I have to go to with my parents starting this Saturday. I can’t wait to finally start doing what I’d like with my weekends.”
I expect him to be happy, but he stares down at the turkey sandwich in his lap.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing.” He smiles at me, but I notice his eyes don’t crinkle with the upturn of his lips.
“It’s something,” I insist. “You know you can tell me anything.”
“I know.” He takes my hand and holds it in his. It’s a habit. Something he does whenever we’re about to talk about something that’s not easy. Whenever he wants to remind me, without having to say a word, that no matter what it is, it’s not enough to change anything between us.
But right now it worries me.
“It’s not a big deal.” He finally shrugs. “It’s just, well, you mentioned Saturday, and I got a little bummed because Saturday is prom and all. I know you can’t go”—he squeezes my hand—“and it’s okay. It’s fine. I’ll go stag like I do every year, but you know, they booked the Brinks Hotel, right off the water, everyone just keeps talking about it and going on and on, and I just keep thinking, man, it would have been nice to take the smartest, prettiest girl in school to this one final prom.”
I’ve been tuning out the chatter about prom. I knew I couldn’t go, so why get fixated? But I had no idea until this moment that it might matter to him. I grip his hand tighter.
“I’m sorry.” I look down. “I feel like a broken record. You know I want to go. But my parents . . .” I trail off. The words have been said so many times, they feel like sand in my mouth. I’m tired of always giving him these same reasons. These same excuses for missing out on the important milestones in our lives. I swallow back tears.
“I just don’t get it. Why do your parents hate me so much?”
“You know that’s not true. It’s not you. They’d hate anyone I was dating, because I’m not allowed to date. It has nothing to do with you.”
“I’ve heard the gossip, though,” he says. “Apparently my sister ruined our family name by running off with some guy she barely knew, and me? Well, I’m too busy playing sports to ever amount to much of anything.” He looks at my stricken face and nods. “Yep, thought so. And my parents? They don’t know how to control their kids. Does that about cover it?”
“Don’t listen to them.” My eyes fill with tears. “Their words don’t make any of it true, do they? I love your parents. I love you. I know the truth. Isn’t that what matters?”
“It matters what your parents think of me, Naila. If they’re ever going to accept us, it matters.”
“They will accept us one day,” I insist. “And when they do, they’re going to see what I see. They’ll love you too. They don’t get it right now. They think there’s only one way to do things because it’s all they ever knew, but they’re not bad people, Saif. They can be reasoned with. One day we’ll show them there’s another way to look at all of this. I wasn’t exactly planning to fall for you. I just did. It’s going to happen to them too.”
“Oh, yeah?” He laughs now.
“Cupid is staking out the house as we speak.” I grin. “And maybe this time next year, they’ll be telling me how awesome this Saif boy I found really is.”
“Well, at least in a few months we won’t have to sneak around anymore.” He puts his arm around me. “We’ll get dorm rooms near each other. Take all the same classes.”
“Oh, yeah? The girls’ dorm my parents are going to make sure I get? Will you be sneaking into my medical classes too?”
“Yep.” He smiles. Our foreheads touch. I smell the sweetness of his breath and then he kisses me. It’s been a year, but every time still feels like the first time.
“We’ll make it work,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says. “And, hey, don’t listen to me. It’s only prom. Not the end of the world.”
Still, I can’t get Saif’s crestfallen expression out of my head for the rest of the day. Suddenly it feels like all anyone can talk about is prom. Everywhere I turn, people are exchanging photos, debating shoe colors, and bragging about the kind of stretch limo their boyfriends rented for the night.
Even Carla is talking about it when I stand with her at the curb waiting for my mom to pick me up.
“Remember the red dress I told you about?” she asks. “I changed my mind. Look at this one.” She hands me her phone. “Look at the straps on it. It’s an exact match for my shoes! I nearly died. Naila? What’s wrong? Oh, no.” She looks at me. “Are you crying?”
“I’m not.” I wipe away my tears. “I just . . . Saif really wanted to go. I know we’ll be together soon, but this is prom. It meant a lot to him.”
“Aw.” Carla hugs me. “It’s okay. You know they have homecoming dances and stuff in college too.”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “But it’s prom. The last one.” I shake my head and force a laugh. “Now I sound like you! It’ll be fine. I’m just getting worked up for no reason.”
She looks at the road, and suddenly her eyes light up. “Your mom is coming.” She points to the minivan careening toward us. She leans into my ear and whispers, “Naila. You are going to love me.”
“Carla! No!” I call out, but she’s already ten steps ahead of me. Before I can say another word, the passenger window of my mother’s car rolls down and Carla leans in.
“Hi, Mrs. R!” Carla exclaims. “Guess what? Saturday is my birthday! We’re not doing anything special, really, but my mom is making a cake and we’re ordering in Chinese food, and it would mean so much if Naila could be there and spend the night. I know, I know, she’s not allowed—I’m her best friend, so I know.” She laughs. “But if you could make an exception just this once. I have a bunch of magazines on decorating our dorm I’ve been saving up since middle school, and I need Naila’s input. We’ll be roommates soon enough anyways. Please? Pretty please?”
There is a long pause. I wait for my mother to sternly tell me to get in the car. To see through everything Carla is trying to do.
The pause is interminable. And then my ears start playing tricks on me.
“No boys will be there, right?”
“Well, my brother”—she laughs—“but he’s seven, so hopefully that’s okay.”
“Okay,” my mother finally says. “It sounds like fun.”
Carla moves aside. I walk past her. I can’t look at her, much less process what just happened.
I get in the car and stare at my mother when she says, “Maybe it’s time for me to start practicing how it will be when you’re not here anymore.”
She smiles at me, and I feel something much like hope swimming through me. She didn’t want me to go away to college. But I’m going. She has never let me spend the night at Carla’s, but today she said yes. Maybe there is hope.
Maybe the things I told Saif were true.
My parents will eventually come around.
It’s only a matter of time . . .
Chapter 4
What are you doing?”
I jump at the sound of Imran’s voice. He’s standing by my bedroom door, watching me with barely concealed laughter.
“What?” I shrug. “Carla’s almost here. I’m just straightening my hair.”
“You never straighten your hair. Finally trying to look like a girl?”
I give him a playful shove. “How about you stick to being my brother and not my sister? If I need fashion advice, I’ll ask.”
“Seriously, though,” he says. “It’s pretty cool Ami’s letting you hang out with Carla.”
“I think you were barely out of diapers the last time that happened,” I tell him.
“You know what this means, right? Ami has really accepted you’re going away to college.” He looks down. “It’s
going to be so weird when you’re gone.”
“Are you going to miss me?” I grin. “No more banging on the door for the bathroom, no one complaining the music is too loud for her to study.”
“Yeah, that stuff will be pretty awesome.” He smiles and looks at me. “But I’m still going to miss you.”
I feel a lump in my throat and give him a hug. “I’ll miss you too.”
I watch him leave and then look at myself in the mirror. The straightener did its magic. My hair falls straight and soft against my shoulders. My cheeks are tinged pink. I feel slightly flushed.
Nerves? I wonder.
Or is it guilt?
* * *
“Oh. My. God. Naila. Is this really happening?” Carla greets me when I get into her car with my overnight bag.
“I can’t believe it,” she continues. “If there were Olympic medals for best friends, I’d be getting the gold, right? I can’t believe it worked!” She looks at me and frowns. “Why aren’t you pounding the dashboard with giddiness? Why do you look like we’re heading to a funeral?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. It’s the first time I ever flat-out lied to them.”
The car slows as we approach a red light. She turns to me. “Okay, yeah, that sucks. But listen, you can’t let that get you down tonight. You want to sulk about it later and figure out what it means, I’ll be there to work out all the ways you feel awful about this, but tonight? Tonight is going to be special, and you won’t ever have a chance to experience it again.”
She’s right. I know she is. And somehow, just like that, the burden lifts. Tonight, Saif is going to take me to prom. Tonight, this is all that matters.
I lay my suitcase on her bed and pull out my outfit. Carla’s dress hangs by her closet, the slinky, strappy dress cut just above the knee. I look at mine. My traditional Pakistani dress seemed beautiful at home. I run my hand over the fragile silk floor-length gown with hand-stitched ivory beads and pink flowering tulle along the edges, sent by my aunt in Pakistan. It’s pretty, but compared to Carla’s dress, it’s not exactly going to fit in.
My phone blinks. It’s Saif. What color is your dress?
Well, pink, I type out, but it’s sort of . . . not a dress? I’m wearing a lengha. Just warning you! Promise you’ll still go with me? ;)
I rest the phone on the dresser, waiting for the fast response he usually gives me. But this time it’s silent. He’s busy getting ready too, I tell myself.
I sit on the white kitchen stool Carla dragged into the bedroom. She pokes at my eyes, her hands fluttering with the makeup brush. “Sit still.” She exhales. “I swear it’s like working on a five-year-old.”
“You’re tickling me.” I laugh.
Finally, she’s done. I take a look in the mirror and gasp at the person looking back at me. Aside from lip gloss, I never wear makeup, but right now, with the shimmering eye shadow, the eyeliner, the mascara—
“Oh, my gosh. I’m a princess. You made me into a princess,” I whisper.
“Yep.” Carla grins. “Future makeup artist to the stars.”
“More like my fairy godmother.” I hug her.
“Okay, don’t mess up my makeup now,” Carla says, but she’s laughing, and hugs me back. “You look so pretty, Naila. The outfit totally works. I’m so excited for you.”
The doorbell rings in the distance.
They’re here.
Carla’s mother knocks on the door and pokes her head in just as Carla laces up her strappy heels. “Beautiful. Both of you!” she gushes. And then—my eyes are blinded by a flash.
“Sorry.” Carla grabs my arm. “I forgot to warn you, my parents just got their newest camera, and they’re slightly obsessed.”
But Carla’s protestations over the brightness of the flash and being photographed keep me distracted from a tiny worry that has crept in and is growing as we get closer to the living room: Saif never texted me back.
The fear vanishes once I see him.
Because there is Saif. His smile, the smile I love, is breaking into a grin when he sees me. But—I stare at him again—he’s not wearing the tux he sent me a photo of earlier that morning. Instead, he’s wearing a fitted black sherwani. I take in the silver embroidered cuffs, the handwork on the collar. It’s more stylish than anything my brother or father have ever worn to a Pakistani wedding or special event, but it’s a sherwani.
“But you rented a tux . . .” I walk up to him, running a hand over his sleeve. “You did this for me?”
“Had to coordinate with my girl.” He grins. “Look okay?”
“Looks amazing,” I say, trying not to cry.
“Here.” He opens a box, and inside is a delicate pink rose tied with a cream ribbon. He holds my hand, tying the corsage around my wrist.
We step out onto the lawn for photos, and everything feels tinged with a gentle starry haze. The black stretch limo and waiting driver. I am aware there is a world out there, real and tangible, but all that matters in this moment is Saif.
“We’ll catch up with you guys in a minute,” Saif tells Carla and Eric when we arrive at the hotel. He takes my hand, and we make our way to the boardwalk overlooking the ocean.
“You look beautiful,” Saif whispers in my ear. As he stands behind me, his face brushes against mine as his arms wrap around me. I turn to look at him. He’s looking at me so intently, so intensely, I can’t breathe. And then his lips are on mine, and I know life can’t possibly get better than this.
At the hotel I take in the ornate chandeliers, gold ceilings, and the classical music in the lobby before we enter the hall. It’s like we landed in a fairy tale.
We get compliments. I’m certain we give some too. Speeches are given. A king and queen are announced, but I can’t focus on any of it. All I see is Saif.
On the dance floor, I wrap my arms around him and rest my head on his shoulder as a slower song begins. The dance floor is packed with people, but the rotating lights flickering through the room make me feel like we’re enclosed in our own canopy together.
“I don’t want this night to end,” I tell him.
“That’s good.” He pulls me closer. “Because we just got started. You may not have known this about me, but I kind of love to dance.”
“Um, I think my feet already got that message loud and clear.” I laugh. “You may have to carry me to the limo at the end of the night.” I lean up and kiss him.
He doesn’t kiss me back.
He’s stopped dancing altogether.
I look up at him. He’s staring at something just over my shoulder. Some of our friends have stopped dancing too, though the music continues playing. They are all looking in the same direction. I follow Saif’s shocked expression.
And then I see.
My parents.
They are standing three feet away on this very dance floor—my mother in a gray cotton salwar kamiz, smudged kohl around her eyes. My father, brown sandals on his feet, his pepper-gray hair in disarray.
For a moment no one speaks. Then I hear Saif’s voice. “Can we talk?” He clears his throat and does his best to appear calm. “Outside? It might be a good idea if we all just go outside and talk about this.”
My mother takes a step toward us, and only then do I realize how tightly I’m holding Saif’s hand. With one fluid motion, she slaps my hand from his and grabs my wrist.
“Please,” Saif says. “If we all could talk. Just for a second.”
“Don’t.” She glares at him. “Don’t you dare speak to me. Ever.”
I look at my father. He’s not really looking at me. More like through me.
My mother’s grip is tighter now. She’s pulling me off the dance floor. Toward the door. I look back at Saif. His face has gone pale. He walks toward me. I shake my head at him.
“Ami,” I whisper, though choked sob
s, “if you could just listen to us. If we could just step outside and talk for even five minutes and explain to you what’s going on.”
“I think the explanation is clear enough,” she responds. “And now let me explain something to you, Naila. It’s over.”
Chapter 5
The pale moon shines on us as we get into the car. The ride home is silent, but it’s a heavy silence, closing in on me. I feel like I’m suffocating.
“I’m sorry,” Imran says once we’re inside the house. His hands are in his pockets. His face is stained with tears. “I got a text. It was a photo. From Omar—you know him, right? And then someone else sent me the same picture. And then it was like over and over again, the same photo of you from all different people. I wasn’t going to let Ami know,” he insists, “but she heard the pings and grabbed it from me and . . . ” His voice trails off. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”
“Imran.” My mother glares at him. “Go to your room. Now.”
“I’m so, so sorry.” His voice grows small.
I try to process Imran’s words, but before I can, my father’s silence explodes into rage.
“Boyfriend?” he yells. “My daughter has a boyfriend?” His words reverberate through the house. They shake the walls.
I shudder. Boyfriend is a dirty, shameful word.
But Saif isn’t my boyfriend. He’s Saif. The boy who brings me my favorite granola bars and teases me relentlessly, until my sides ache from laughter.
“Guess who called us on the way over to collect you?” He looks at my mother. “Shela’s mother, Balkis. Shela’s your classmate, remember? Didn’t you stop and think that someone might see you there? Everyone is talking about us now. They’re laughing at us. How can we ever show our face anywhere again?”
My mother reaches for a napkin to dab her eyes.
I think of Balkis. How many times has she visited my mother with a smile on her face as she leans in and whispers about someone’s son or daughter, or rumors of discord in the house of a mutual acquaintance? I imagine her in someone else’s house, her ears and neck draped with gold, sipping tea and pouring forth all my secrets.
