by Samira Ahmed
We wade back to shore.
Phil collapses onto the blanket, faceup in the afternoon sun. He closes his eyes.
I wind my towel tightly around myself and sit down. I pull out my ponytail and comb my fingers through my hair. It falls loose across the width of my back, the wet strands sticking to my body. The sun warms my skin as I tuck my knees up under my chin. Phil’s eyes are still closed, and I watch his chest rise and fall with his breaths. Droplets of water on his skin slowly dissolve into the heat. Phil’s arm is bent under his head, the muscle in his biceps taut and smooth. I twirl a small section of dripping hair around my index finger and try and force myself to look away and out across the water. It’s hopeless.
Phil touches the small of my back, startling me. “Are you hungry?” he asks, sitting up. He reaches for the cooler and pulls out sandwiches, a bag of potato chips, and a couple of pops. “Turkey and Swiss. No pork. I remembered.”
“Thanks,” I say as Phil hands me the sandwich. “It’s sweet of you.” Violet is the only one of my friends who ever thinks about my dietary restrictions.
“Swimming always makes me hungry, so I figured I’d bring provisions.”
“I wasn’t exactly swimming.” I take a bite, realizing how hungry I am, too.
“You’ll get there.”
I chew for a while, pretending to focus on my food, but really focusing on him. “You’re a good teacher. You have way more patience than me.”
“When’s our next lesson?” Phil asks.
It’s the question I’ve been hoping for all afternoon. On the other hand, it means flailing around in the water again. “After the pond hits ninety degrees?”
He laughs. “That will be … never. How about tomorrow? I’m not working until the afternoon. Same time?”
I hesitate. I should hesitate. But I can’t help myself. “I have to be at work at three.”
“Perfect. I’ll pick you up at eleven.”
I’ll probably regret it, but for now, for a minute, I allow myself to be the character in the romantic movie. The adorkable girl who gets the guy. Because this definitely doesn’t feel like real life, not mine, anyway.
His training has prepared him. He’s ready.
Every day for the last week, he scouted the route, noting when the mail arrived, by what hour the parking lot filled, when the guards went on break and took lunch. From across the street, he watched the cars drive by the manned security gate—a simple red-and-white metal arm, operated by one guard in a wooden kiosk.
Easy.
Today, four blocks from the building, he eyes a slow-moving police car in his rearview mirror. He pulls up to the curb and lets the cop pass, holding his breath, waiting to see if the car circles the block.
It doesn’t.
Chapter 8
It’s Wednesday and freakishly warm, and it’s my third swimming lesson. I walk out of my room, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and bump into my mother. Literally.
“As-salaam-alaikum, ummi.” I sound too chipper.
“You are in a fine mood, beta,” my mom replies. Of course, a wave of suspicion passes over her face. “What are you up to?”
“Can’t I just be in a good mood?”
“That’s more like it,” my mom says, a rare twinkle in her eye. It strikes me as weird that she’s not pushing me on this, but then I realize she must think my “fine mood” is because of Kareem. I wonder if she talked to Kareem’s mom and if they are planning something. Crap. And I can’t ask her. Now I’m obsessing. And guilty. She has this uncanny gift of delivering guilt tied up in a bow, and without fail, I accept it.
My dad honks from the driveway. My mom kisses me on the cheek. “Your dad is always rushing me.”
“Khudafis, Mom.”
“Khudafis, beta. And don’t forget—”
“I know, I know. I’ll eat something.”
The front door closes as I step into the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. Definitely tanner. One more day of sun and Mom will notice. I’ll have to lie again to explain how I could possibly get this tan at the bookstore or at the mall. I don’t have a choice. The lies make life easier for everyone. It’s not even that I’m interested in someone other than Kareem. That’s tiny compared to the big, fat NYU lie of omission.
The response deadline is May first, only days away. I’m still fantasizing that a deus ex machina will descend from the heavens to resolve the situation. Greek tragedies with their revenge, suffering, and extreme sorrow are roughly equivalent to dealing with my mother, so an intervention from Zeus or Athena seems a fair ask.
Of course, I hate when that happens in movies. Because it is one hundred percent the opposite of real life. Like if Lord of the Rings were a documentary, Frodo and Sam would’ve totally died in the fires of Mount Doom, but instead giant eagles fly into the end of all things after a fade to black to rescue them. So why didn’t Gandalf give the ring to the giant eagles in the first place? This has always bugged me. Whatever, though. Violet and I just watched the trilogy for twelve hours of Aragorn. No regrets.
I step into the shower, hoping to wash away my anxiety. It doesn’t work. If I don’t make NYU happen, I might doom myself to the stay-close-to-home-become-a-lawyer-and-marry-a-suitable-boy life that my parents dream of.
I grab a towel as I step out of the shower. “I have to tell them,” I say out loud, hoping to convince myself. Hoping to work up the courage.
I take a peek at my phone. Three missed texts. All from Kareem.
Kareem: Morning, sunshine.
Kareem: Sleeping in?
Kareem: I have a surprise for you.
My spirits sink a little lower. He’s trying too hard. Death knell. Of course, it’s not like I’ve been discouraging him. I mean, I text-flirt and wink my virtual lashes at him. I desire his interest. Basically, I’m leading him on. Now I feel like garbage.
At least the texts, while not exactly a deus ex machina, reveal a stark truth: Kareem isn’t the one. He hasn’t actually done anything wrong, except not be Phil. I know I have to break it off, but it’s never been totally on, I guess.
We did kiss, though. And it was a good kiss. Better than good. It was romantic. He is romantic. And it’s still not enough. I have to tell Kareem the truth about Phil, or I’ll be halfway to engaged by next summer. My mom already has visions of a big Indian wedding dancing in her head; I could see it in her eyes when she said goodbye.
I fall back on my bed, pulling my knees into the towel knot. A montage of the kiss plays in my brain. The flower petals. The rain. The closeness of Kareem’s skin to mine. I close my eyes for a moment, take a deep breath, then another. I trace my collarbone with my index finger. He might not be the one, but so far at least, he’s been the only.
When I turn to the clock, it’s 10:50. Phil will be here in ten minutes.
Whirling around the room, I throw on my clothes, pull my hair tight into a low ponytail, and snag my bag and camera. Hearing Phil’s car in the driveway, I look in the mirror and frown, then slather on lip gloss. It’ll have to do, because the doorbell is ringing.
My camera rolls as Phil and I walk toward the garden. He pushes open the hip-high, rusty iron gate. I zoom in on the metal curlicues and then pan up from the gravel path to Phil’s face. He gazes directly into the camera, reveals the dimple, and begins his smooth narration. “We’re in the Fabyan Forest Preserve.”
He talks and walks, and he’s not self-conscious at all.
The camera loves him. He’s an easy subject to follow. He points out the sun-bleached wooden moon bridge, slats missing, that arches across the dried-up pool. When he points, I train my camera on the knotty dead trunks of Japanese maples and the cherry and ginkgo trees—gnarled limbs reaching toward blue sky. The buds on a weeping spruce cascade over a small embankment—a little hint of life beneath the desiccated vines and leaves. He knows all their names.
When we reach the foot of the bridge, Phil pauses, sweeping his hand over the vista as he talks about the vision of Taro
Otsuka, Fabyan’s private gardener who designed this place. I walk up a gentle slope that leads to the bridge to get a long shot of Phil with the garden around him. I lose myself in his voice, imagining the garden in full bloom—pink cherry blossoms, burgundy leaves of the maple tree, yellow forsythia, red azaleas …
I’m not paying any attention to where my feet are. My flip-flop slips on some loose earth, and all at once I’m skidding downhill.
“Careful,” Phil says. He’s at my side in a flash. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I was still rolling, so it’ll be a good action sequence.”
Phil laughs. “Is that all you think about?”
“Not all,” I manage to whisper. I bite my tongue and look away. I don’t trust myself not to blurt something ridiculous.
“You’re bleeding … your knee.”
A drop of blood trickles down my leg. “Crap. I don’t suppose you have a tissue?”
Phil rifles through his backpack, pulls out a napkin, and holds it to my knee. For a moment I forget about the sting of the cut and the embarrassment of my awkward nerd-crash. Phil’s hand is on my knee. Separated by a questionably clean napkin, but still. “I have a first-aid kit in the cabin,” he says, blotting and squinting at the wound. “Are you okay to walk?”
I almost laugh. “I think I can make it,” I say dryly.
He helps me up and wraps his arm around my waist. The gesture is completely unnecessary, but I pretend my little injury is maybe worse than I thought. I luxuriate in the warmth of Phil’s arm holding me. When we arrive at the stone cottage, he directs me to the recliner and disappears into the small back room—a simple kitchenette—and emerges with the first-aid kit.
“You’re such a Boy Scout.”
“Always prepared.” Phil uses alcohol-dipped swabs to clean the small gash on my leg.
“Ouch.”
“Sorry. I want to make sure it won’t get infected. It’s not too deep.” Phil slathers bacitracin on the cut and covers it with a couple bandages, then uses his water bottle to rinse away the dry blood from my leg. “We shouldn’t go into the water today. The pond is pretty clean, but there’s still random stuff floating around in there, and those bandages aren’t waterproof.”
“Okay, doc. Should I take two aspirin and call you in the morning?”
“Aspirin is a blood thinner. If it hurts, take ibuprofen.”
“You really know your first aid.”
“Hope so. I want to study to be an EMT. I have ever since middle school.”
I’m taken aback. There is so much I don’t know about Phil. So much more I want to know. “Really? I had no idea.”
Phil walks toward one of the paneless windows. “My dad had a heart attack when I was in seventh grade.”
“What? Oh, my God. So glad it all turned out okay.”
“Yeah. Me, too. It’s totally because of these two EMTs. He wouldn’t have made it without them. The two of us were at home, shooting hoops in the driveway, and suddenly my dad starts clutching his arm and having these chest pains. I totally froze. But my dad told me to call 911. I did. And when they got here, they basically diagnosed it, stabilized him, and ten minutes later, they were wheeling him into the surgery.”
“That must’ve been terrifying.”
“It was. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so scared and helpless in my life. And I never want to feel that way again. All I could think was, I didn’t want my dad to die … I didn’t know what it was called then, but the EMTs basically performed an ECG—an electrocardiogram—right there, transmitted the data to the hospital, and an interventional cardiologist was waiting for us when they wheeled him in. They got a balloon to open his blocked artery in less than sixty minutes from when I called. That’s what saved his life. I’ll never forget how calm and together and fast the EMTs were. After they got my dad secured in the ambulance, the EMT who rode in the back with me made sure I was okay and explained everything to me. She didn’t talk down to me like I was some dumb kid, which is what I basically felt like. She was so kind and understanding and answered all my questions and stayed with me until my mom and brother got to the hospital.”
“She sounds amazing.”
“She was. After that, I wanted to learn everything about what happened to my dad, so I researched everything I could, and I, like, put myself in charge of his rehab at home and was on him all the time about his eating habits.”
“So that’s your origin story,” I say, brushing my hand against his shoulder.
“I guess it is,” he says, a shy smile emerging on his face, which had turned serious when talking about his dad.
“So if we’re not going swimming, do you want to head back?” I pray the answer is no.
“Not unless you want to. I’m not working till later,” he says.
“Me, neither.”
“Cool. I left our lunch cooler in the car. I’ll be right back.”
The door shuts behind him. The spare room is shadowy even with the sunlight filtering through the small windows. I notice a rolled-up sleeping bag in a corner along with an inflatable camping pillow. I get up to explore and step into the little kitchen. Cans of food line a built-in wooden shelf. There are a couple gallons of water, a thermos, and a large plastic cup filled with plastic forks and knives. The ultimate rustic bachelor pad, I think. I wonder how much time Phil spends here alone versus with Lisa.
Lisa.
She probably wouldn’t be happy knowing I’m here now. Best not to dwell on it. I take a blanket and walk outside, spreading it over a grassy patch in front of the cottage. I lie back. Passing clouds cast shadows across my face. I shut my eyes.
“Maya?”
My eyelids flutter open. Phil’s face floats over mine.
“I thought for a second you’d fallen asleep.” He settles in next to me and hands me a sandwich. We eat quietly for a moment.
I catch him eyeing my cut, making sure the bandage is in place. “Can I ask you a question?”
He looks up at me. “Sure.”
“Why haven’t you told anyone you want to be an EMT? I’m sure your parents must be thrilled.”
“They say they’re cool with it, but I think they secretly wish I would go to school but then come back home and run our family gas station with my brother. And pretty much everyone else assumes that, too. I mean, some of my friends, they’re already making plans to come back to Batavia after college … That’s just not what I want.”
And by friends, I’m assuming he means Lisa.
“So the old expectation thing? Believe me, I totally understand.”
Phil nods. “It’s not that my parents are upset. They’re actually pretty happy that I’m interested in something other than playing college football. But they wish I wasn’t going so far away. My mom has been researching all these Midwestern places where I could get certified.”
“Where are you going?” I feel like I should know this, but realize I never bothered to ask.
“Green Mountain College in Vermont.”
“Sounds all outdoorsy and autumnal.”
The tone in Phil’s voice lifts. “It’s awesome. But, you know, in the wilderness. I’ll major in Adventure Recreation and take classes in emergency medical services, so when I graduate, I can be a paramedic or work with programs like Outward Bound.”
“Adventure Recreation?”
“I know, ridiculous name, right? My mom asked me why I couldn’t have adventure and recreation closer to home and someplace cheaper. But it’s one of the best programs out there that teaches survival skills—”
“Like surviving a bear attack?”
“When I find out how, I’ll let you know.”
“I can’t wait.” I place my hand on his arm. He doesn’t flinch. “But I still don’t get why you won’t tell any of your friends.”
“There’s no football team.”
This comes as almost more of a surprise than anything else Phil has told me because he’s literally the poster boy for Batavia High Sch
ool football. “But don’t you want to play football? I mean, at all?”
“I was recruited to play football at a couple smaller Division One schools. Eastern has a really good coach. That could’ve meant a partial scholarship, but I honestly don’t care if I don’t play football at school. Like I told you, it wasn’t even my first choice of sport. It sort of just … happened. I love it, but now everyone expects me to play, but I’m ready to move on—try something different.”
“If your parents are okay with it, then you’re set, right? Does Lisa know?” I don’t know why I say Lisa’s name. This time, this space between me and Phil, it’s like this perfect, intricate diorama, and when I say her name, it reminds me that we’re just paper figures taped inside a shoe box.
He shakes his head and lowers his eyes, twirling a few blades of grass between his fingers. “No. You’re the first person I’ve told outside my family.”
A tiny flicker of hope lights up inside me. If Lisa doesn’t know about his college plans, she and Phil can’t be that serious anymore. Right? This could mean … something. On the other hand, I am certain they haven’t broken up. Violet is definitely certain, and I rely on her to determine the truth regarding all affaires de coeur, especially long distance from Paris. Maybe I’m just another one of Phil’s secrets.
He lies back and stares into the sky. “It’s complicated.”
“How?”
“She’s going to Eastern. She thinks I’m going with her. I know I need to tell her. I just can’t bring myself … I’ve been avoiding it.”
“Tell her what you told me. She’ll understand.” I clamp my mouth shut, but too late; the words are already out. Not only am I giving him relationship advice, but it’s totally hypocritical because it’s advice I’m dishing out but totally not able to take. From myself. I’m hiding from my parents. And, to be honest, from Kareem, too. Phil’s hiding from Lisa. We both have truths that we’re hiding from practically everyone else, except each other.
“Doubt it. She is not into the outdoors, at all. I mean, maybe an outdoor mall …”
