by Samira Ahmed
And that’s my cue. We haven’t even made it to the restaurant yet, but it’s time to draw on my trusty shield. I reach into my purse and pull out my tiny camcorder, switch it on, and focus on Kareem. Roll camera. I adopt my documentary voice-over tone. And action. “Kareem, where are you taking Maya tonight?”
“You’re referring to yourself in the third person now?”
I pull back to meet his gaze. “I’m the director. Kareem and Maya are the subjects in the movie. Go with it.”
“Fine.”
We’re both smiling and trying not to at the same time.
I pick up where I left off. “So what are your plans for tonight?”
Kareem straightens an imaginary tie. I love that he plays along; I also love that he can’t see how delighted I am. “I want to show Maya a good time, and so I chose Geja’s Café. It’s terribly romantic, but I fear that it might also be terribly messy—all that melted cheese.” He pauses with exaggerated drama and strikes a ridiculous pose. “I’m willing to take that risk because I’m the kind of guy that lives on the edge. You know, carpe diem. Suck the marrow out of life.”
“So you’re a Thoreau fan.”
“Nah, just pretentious.”
I stifle a laugh. “So besides tempting fate with melted cheese and literary airs of pretension, what else is in your risk-taking repertoire?”
“The usual: skydiving, Formula One, feeding sharks …” He pauses, either pretending to remember or remembering to pretend. “My mom does say I was an adventurous kid. A troublemaker. Mainly I was curious. Oh, and I loved pirates. Anything on the high seas that involved danger and swashbuckling—you know, big swells, treasure, damsels in distress. My mom loved it, too. She provided the pirate booty. She would put her banged-up jewelry and broken bangles in a small box and bury the treasure chest. I’d have to find it and dig it up. It was pretty awesome, actually.”
I envision a skinny, buck-toothed version of Kareem, running around with his mom, shrieking with laughter. “Arrh, matey!” they shout at each other. I’m smiling, but I feel a twinge of sadness. I don’t have those Kodachrome images of my own childhood escapades. It’s just not how I grew up.
“And now?” I ask, determined to bring us back to the present. “Do you still live a life of adventure?”
“My high-seas days are over, but I’d say tonight has the potential for excitement.” He looks directly into the camera. “Don’t you agree?”
“I’m documenting, I can’t interfere—it’s not my story.” I’m blushing behind the camera. This time, I’m sure he notices.
And I’m right, because he approaches and gently pushes the camera away from my face. “This is totally your story.”
I look into his brown eyes. Out here on the street, they’re less dazzling but more gentle and warm and inviting. They embody him. We continue walking.
Suddenly he stops short. “This is it …”
Our arrival catches both of us by surprise.
Kareem pushes open the door, holding it for me. I step into a dark labyrinth of fluttering candles, shadowy nooks. A flamenco band plays somewhere. Wine bottles line the walls and create partitions between tables. I put my camera back in my purse and let myself breathe it all in; there’s no point in trying to film because there isn’t enough light. A host shows us to our table—a booth toward the back, partially hidden by velvet curtains that can be undone to shroud the space entirely. A waiter quickly arrives with menus, explains the three-course fondue meal, and leaves.
“I guess this place is kind of over the top, huh?” Kareem asks.
I smile back. “It’s very film noir. All we need is a fog machine and a dame with a gun and checkered past.”
Kareem laughs. “Wait. That’s not you?”
“You never can tell.”
His eyes narrow; he strokes his goatee. “So you’re not actually this sweet girl who lives in the suburbs. You have a whole double life where you’re carrying on in a nefarious way …”
I totally get into the act. I love that I feel comfortable enough to do it. “I’m not as simple as you might think.”
Kareem shakes his head. “Simple is never a word I’d used to describe you.” He smiles, then reaches across the table and takes my hand in his.
I’m frozen. But I don’t want to move. I stare at the candle between us, feeling as if the flame has leapt inside me. I know I’m blushing, but I don’t care about that, either. Kareem holds my hand tighter. I bite the inside of my lower lip.
When the waiter arrives to take our order, I reluctantly pull my hand away.
“Let’s go for the works,” Kareem suggests, leaning back.
“Sounds good.”
Then Kareem asks me what I want to drink. “A glass of red, maybe? I’ll have a glass of the house Bordeaux.” He’s talking about wine, studying the wine list as if this is something he always does. This is … unexpected. I’ve only tried a drop of alcohol once in my life at Violet’s house, but the guilt left a bitter taste in my mouth that lasts to this day. Then I remember: he’s twenty-one. He’s allowed to do this. But that still leaves the question: Why is he doing it?
“I never … I don’t … really drink,” I sputter. “There was one time … Also, you may be twenty-one, but I’m not …”
Kareem smiles. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be corrupting you on our first date. Seriously, no worries. And no pressure. I enjoy a glass of wine with dinner once in a while, that’s all.”
I’m still at a loss. “But …”
“Why am I drinking in the first place?” Kareem raises his eyebrows.
I nod several times. “Does your mom know?”
“Of course. I had my first sip with my parents.”
My mouth drops open. The stars are misaligned. This is not normal, not for a desi Muslim kid. “But aren’t your parents … ? I mean, I heard your mom talking to my mom about going to the mosque and—”
His laugh stops me. “They’re not sitting around getting wasted, denying the existence of God or anything. My dad considers himself a believer. But he also believes in enjoying a glass of wine now and again.”
I’m too dumbstruck to think of anything else to say. My own parents aren’t exactly the fire-and-brimstone types, but they’ve never had a drink. Of that I’m certain. Guilt plows into me. They always take me to the mosque on important holidays; they fast during Ramadan; they sometimes close their office to attend Friday afternoon prayers. I’m wracked with guilt as the waiter sets a wineglass in front of Kareem, then pours a small splash from the bottle.
Kareem lifts the glass by the stem, swirling the dark purplish-red liquid into a little tempest. He tilts the rim to his nose and inhales deeply, then puts the glass back down on the table.
“It needs to open up a bit,” he says to the waiter, who seems to understand whatever this means. The waiter leaves us.
I am staring at him, not sure what to make of his expertise, but envious of it. I want to be worldly and sophisticated.
“Maya, relax. It’s not like I eat pork.”
We both crack up, because we know it’s the one line even most lapsed Muslims won’t cross.
The appetizer arrives—a steaming Crock-Pot of bubbling cheese fondue with three types of breads and apples with tiny dipping forks. I move the candles around on the table in hopes that the addition of the canned heat under the pot will maybe give me enough light to get a decent shot. I take my camera and film as Kareem dips a piece of bread into the cheese, spinning the melted strands around the end of his fork. He plops it into his mouth. “H-h-h-o-o-t-t!” he yells.
“Water,” I suggest, but continue to record Kareem’s openmouthed struggle with the piping hot cheese—total culinary drama.
He downs a full glass of water. “I can’t believe you didn’t stop filming. What if that cheese had burned off the roof of my mouth and it was the last morsel of food I would ever enjoy?”
“All the more reason to preserve the moment,” I reply. “Priceless.” I
put the camera down because I don’t need a shield anymore and because I’m hungry.
We dip and eat and talk about our parents and being Indian and the pressure to be a doctor and the Indian aunties who always think you are a little too skinny or a little too chubby and never perfect. We rate our favorite Indian foods and joke that how the first thing we both want when we fly back from India is an actual Big Mac.
“I wish getting a Big Mac was still my biggest concern when I pass through customs these days,” Kareem mutters.
“What is it, fries?” I joke.
“More like hoping I don’t get chosen for the special Secondary Security Screening lottery.”
My smile fades. He’s not joking.
“Crap. That’s happened to you?” I sigh. Not sure why I am at all surprised.
“Twice, coming back home. The first time they took me into this back room. I waited for, like, two hours with all these other brown dudes before being called into a separate room and being asked these basic questions like is this really my name and what was I doing in India and do I have relatives in Pakistan. Whatever.”
“That’s horrible.”
He flashes a bitter smirk. “Hey, at least I wasn’t handcuffed to a wall, right?”
“Don’t even joke about that.”
“It’s not a joke.”
“I’m sorry,” I say and lightly touch his arm.
He places his hand on mine. “Don’t be. You have nothing to apologize for.”
When we’re a block away from Hina’s apartment, I realize it’s drizzling. Maybe it’s been drizzling since we left the restaurant; I’m not even sure. Kareem clutches my hand, and we run to take cover under a crabapple tree. It’s April, so everything is in bloom. Pink petals fall on us, clinging to our wet faces. I glance up through the branches, backlit by the streetlamps. I breathe in the sweet, delicate scent. It lasts only a few weeks each spring. If I’d dreamed up this mise-en-scène, I would’ve thought it a cliché. But in real life, it is perfect.
“What are you thinking?” Kareem whispers.
I look at him. “If this were one of my parents’ retro-Bollywood faves, I’d run behind that tree right now and come out singing and in a different outfit.”
Kareem gently hooks a finger under my chin and draws my face toward his. “But if this were an old Indian movie, I couldn’t do this.” He bends down and gently brushes his lips against mine. The earth stops moving. I am frozen in this spot of time.
Turns out, I’m fond of kissing. Extremely. I close my eyes, losing myself in the falling petals, the light rain, the strength of his arms, his breath on my lips. I revel in the moment, the echo of his skin against mine.
Kareem pauses, strokes my cheek with his finger. “Your lips are so soft.”
I blush even as the rain cools my face. Kareem’s lips taste of wine and chocolate. He puts his left hand around my waist and pulls me closer so that our bodies touch. Thunder rumbles in the distance.
I pull away because I feel myself being overtaken. “I should be getting inside. I’m soaking wet, and—”
“Okay, okay.” Kareem nods. “You’re a good Indian girl. I shouldn’t move too fast.”
I cringe a little, but he’s speaking the truth. “No, I’m not … I mean, I am, but it’s that, you know, we’re in front of my aunt’s place.”
Kareem laughs. “Then please allow me to escort you to the door in a gentleman-like fashion. But first …” He grabs me and kisses me again, longer and harder. I let myself sink into the kiss—wild, reckless, until it’s suddenly too intense. I pull away, breathless.
Kareem takes my hand and leads me to Hina’s front door. He’s not merely being polite; my feet are wobbly.
“I want to see you again, Maya,” he says softly. “But next time, I’ll make sure there are no Indian relatives around.”
“Thanks for dinner,” I gasp. “I had a great time. Have a safe trip back to school …”
Kareem sneaks in one last quick kiss. I gape at him as the rain falls harder. Then he slips into his car. I unlock the front door, turning to wave goodbye before he speeds off.
Once his engine fades to silence, I shut the door and take a deep breath. I’m dizzy as I walk up the stairs to my aunt’s place. I can still feel the tickle of Kareem’s goatee on my face. I walk into the apartment and see the clock on the microwave flashing 12:05 a.m. and laugh out loud. If this were my house, my parents would have called the police by now. And there wouldn’t have been any kissing or handholding; I would’ve been too afraid of withering under their interrogation.
I slip out of my shoes, tiptoe quietly into the guest bathroom to strip off my wet clothes, and hang them over the shower rod. Wrapped in a fluffy white towel, I examine myself in the mirror. I run an index finger over my lips and notice a few flower petals in my hair. After brushing out the long, wet strands, I wash off what little makeup is left on my face.
I savor the memory of the moment under the trees.
But when I relive it in my mind, the lips I’m kissing are Phil’s.
As she opens the door, the young teacher shields her eyes from the bright sun. It’s been an unusually warm spring, especially for Springfield, she thinks. She’s overdressed for a day spent with toddlers, maybe a bit too professional-looking in her pale yellow skirt and white cotton blouse, her thick, dark brown hair twisted into a low bun. But the day-care center, mostly for the children of employees, isn’t what she wants to do permanently. She plans on getting certified to teach kindergarten by the next school year.
She dresses for the future.
And the springtime.
Good morning, she singsongs to a little boy in tears. It’s his first day, and it has not started well. His mother is reluctant to leave him.
The young teacher has seen this a hundred times before.
She kneels down beside the boy and tenderly strokes the back of his head. It’s going to be okay, she says. She takes his small hand in hers, a chubby star against her broad palm. I think we’re going to have a lot of fun together. Do you like fire trucks?
Chapter 6
Sunday night. I’m uploading shots from the weekend onto my Instagram: the crabapple trees where I kissed Kareem (nearly stripped bare after the rain), a cat tucked behind a bush, Hina’s collection of silk patchwork pillows. I check Violet’s account and see she’s taken France by storm: religieuse pastries, macarons, rainy cobblestone streets, angled Eiffel Tower shots, and a selfie with a mystery guy kissing her cheek. For once, I feel unfettered happiness for her without a touch of envy. There will be stories. But this time, I might have one or two of my own to add.
A chat bubble pops up on my screen. Phil.
Guilt washes away any excitement.
I gave my mom a G-rated report on my date with Kareem. I wonder what Hina told her. She has not stopped talking about Kareem and his proper Indian manners since I got home. To my relief—and at my insistence—he promised not to ask my parents’ permission for any future dates. Best to take my mother out of the equation. But that’s also the trouble: the Future. I committed to seeing Kareem again. And I do want to see him. But I also wonder if I’ll be picturing Phil while Kareem kisses me. It’s pretty crappy, especially for Kareem. Maybe not so much for me.
I pull my hands away from my keyboard. Take the leap of faith, Maya. Suck the marrow out of life.
I should be thrilled, but I imagine I’ll either sink like a stone or flail like a clown. In front of Phil. It’s impossible to be cute or aloof while thrashing around in abject fear of drowning. But I don’t need to be cute or aloof, do I? Phil still has a girlfriend. There is no doubt about this. I wanted there to be doubt; I admit it. But Violet and I literally ran into the depressing, irrefutable PG-rated evidence of Phil’s and Lisa’s still-kissing coupledom.
I can’t imagine how Lisa will feel about these secret swimming lessons. Phil would be an idiot to tell her even if all our interactions are G-rated. Another wave of guilt crashes into me, but it doesn’t
knock me over.
I walk over to my dresser and dig out the red bikini Violet compelled me to buy. She sees these swimming lessons as my opportunity to nudge Lisa out of the way and assume my rightful place on Phil’s arm. She also knows about Kareem, of course. She is thrilled at how romantically frazzled this situation makes me. She lives for this stuff.
Damn it. I need to wax. Fortunately, almost any household with an Indian woman is well stocked with depilation products.
Big surprise: My mom’s never once spoken to me about sex. She’s never even uttered the word, but she’s covered all the bases regarding ablution, hair removal, and the power of kajal—the sooty black eyeliner favored by generations of South Asian women. During our first kajal demonstration, I poked myself in the eye. Mom heaved the dramatic sigh of a mother from an Indian movie whose daughter desires to marry a simple peasant instead of the rich, suitable suitor. You cannot mess with her kajal.
It’s only 9 p.m., but I’m exhausted.
As I climb into bed, my mom knocks on the door. Naturally, she barges in before I can respond. “See, I knocked,” she says.
“But you didn’t wait for me to—”
“Why are you always making things difficult, Maya?” she interrupts. “I’m your mother. You don’t have to hide anything from me.”
The irony makes me squirm.
“What do you want, Mother?” I groan.
My mom isn’t always the best at picking up on my subtleties, but she knows that “mother” equals annoyed. “Mom” is for regular days, and the Urdu “ummi” for increasingly rare moments of filial affection.
She sits on the edge of my bed. “No need to be so upset, beta.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t stand when you and Dad treat me like a child.”
“But you are our child.” Her voice catches. “You always will be, even when you have children of your own.”
My mom’s eyes moisten; I quickly turn away. I’m never quite sure what to do in these uncomfortable moments, so usually I pretend they aren’t happening.
“I knooow, Mom, but can you please give me my privacy?”
