by Samira Ahmed
My family implodes before my eyes. Whatever we really mean to one another feels so lost and far away.
“Stop it!” I scream. I don’t even try for calm. I have no calm left. “This isn’t Hina’s fault. It’s my choice. It’s my life, and I have a right to do what I want.”
“You have a right? You have a right? If we were in India, you would never defy us this way. You would be a good girl who listened to her parents. And now look at you.” My mom’s hands shake as she steps behind my dad, grasping the back of his chair for support.
“Even if we lived in India, I would still be who I am and want what I want. Geography wouldn’t have changed that.”
My father shakes his head. “This is our karma for raising you with these … these American values.”
“Can’t you see, Maya?” My mom’s voice softens a bit, trying a different tack. “Look what happened after this bombing. We’ll always be the scapegoats. Even though it was one of their people who did this. See what happened to us and to you. We don’t belong here.”
“Yes, terrible racist stuff happened, but we’re part of this place, and it’s a part of us. And we can help make it better by being here and living our lives and being happy. We can be … We are American and Indian and Muslim.”
“And what will people think? How will we explain this to everyone?”
“Mom, can’t you for once care what I think? You and dad came to America—you left your parents back in India because that’s what you wanted for yourselves. You took a chance. That’s what I want, too.”
“And what if you fail in this … this … making movies? Then what?”
“Then I pull myself up by my bootstraps and start over. You taught me that. You came here, started with almost nothing, and built your practice. I know how hard you worked. Please, you have to let me at least try before you decide I’m going to fail.”
My dad has been quietly rubbing his palms for the last few minutes, not saying a word. But now, he brings his fist down on the table, rattling the cups and spilling his tea. “Maya’s right.”
“I am?”
“She is?” The blood drains from my mom’s face.
“She will be eighteen next month, and in this country she is an adult and can make her own choices.” The edge in his voice gives way to fatigue. “Maya, we can’t stop you from going to New York. But we have made our opinion clear. So now you must choose—your parents or New York.”
Gauntlet thrown.
For a second, I think of Kareem. I know what he would say. Carpe diem. “New York.” The words squeak out, barely. But I’ve said them. They are real.
My father pushes back his chair and stands up. “You’ve made your decision and now understand mine. As a daughter, you are dead to us. When you turn eighteen in June, you will leave this house.”
My dad’s words are like a punch to the gut. He can’t mean them. This can’t be real.
“But Dad, school doesn’t start till September, and—”
“You want to be emancipated. So be it.” He turns without looking back at me or waiting for a reaction and walks through the kitchen into the backyard.
I brush away tears with the back of my hand.
My mom’s jaw is taut. She looks at my aunt. “Leave my house,” she says, her voice barely audible. Then she directs her whisper to me. “You have broken your parents’ hearts.” She lumbers out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
I can’t move. I sit at the table, stunned.
Hina wraps her arm around my shoulder and clears her throat. “They’ll come around—maybe not right away, but someday. Consider what this means to them. They feel like they’ve lost their daughter. They love you, even if they don’t show it the way you want them to. But you ran away. You scared all of us. And now you’ve told them you’ve chosen New York over them. It’s an awful lot to handle. Give them time. I know you’ve made the right decision for yourself—even a courageous one—to pursue your dreams and the life you want. Don’t lose faith. Your mother forgave me after all, even if she doesn’t show it.”
“Forgave you for running away?”
“Forgave me for taking care of you.”
“She told you to leave the house.”
“But she didn’t say it was goodbye. Trust me, I know my sister. And trust yourself, you’re braver than you know.”
I don’t feel brave at all. I feel scared. No camera. No filter. Just my life, totally unscripted.
Michigan Public Radio, WDBN Dearborn
We’re joining the funeral service of Kamal Aziz, one of the victims of the suicide bombing in Springfield. Originally mistakenly identified as the bomber, Mr. Aziz is being laid to rest by well over a thousand community members of all faiths here in Dearborn, Michigan. Now we take you live to the eulogy delivered by Michigan’s first Arab-American senator:
On a beautiful spring day, Kamal Aziz went to take an oath to support and defend our Constitution and this nation, to follow in the footsteps of so many immigrants who came before him whose work and vision have stitched together the fine fabric of our country. From his volunteer work at a youth basketball league here in Dearborn to his goal of becoming a doctor and bringing quality medical care to poor neighborhoods, Kamal embodied the very best of America.
Tragically, his dream was cut short by an act of hate. It falls to us to pick up the mantle, to live by Kamal’s example and ensure that his life is not forgotten and that his death was not in vain. We must build bridges, conquer hate with love, and meet intolerance with a renewed commitment to education and open-mindedness. From many, we are one.
Chapter 23
“So you’re disowned for going to college?” Violet hoists herself into the hammock in her yard while I take a seat on a wrought-iron bench under the shade of a maple.
“For going away to college,” I correct.
“And you’re kicked out of the house?”
“I believe that falls under the terms of disownment.”
“You can stay here,” Violet offers.
Violet’s house never smells like onions. I noticed that right away when I first came over freshman year. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Violet or her dad use the stove. Maybe that’s why Violet loves my mom’s cooking so much. There are no tchotchkes, either. And the bare minimum of furniture.
But Violet’s room is the exact opposite of the rest of her house—a beautiful mess of strewn clothes and starry lights and a tangle of chargers under her desk. Often there’s a plate of pizza crusts or a half-eaten carrot sticking out of a bowl of hummus. Basically a germophobe’s nightmare, but somehow cozy and welcoming, too.
“My aunt said I could stay with her. Anyway, don’t you have to ask your dad first?”
“He’ll be cool with it. We have the space, and it’s only a couple months. My dad’s going to be in Switzerland for most of July, and when he’s home, he’s constantly at the lab—he’ll barely notice the difference. I mean you’re here all the time, anyway.”
“Seriously? That would be amazing. Like a summer-long slumber party. Also, it might be easier to see Phil …” I give Violet a little grin, the kind she used to give me before this all happened, when she flirted with everyone.
“Super easy, especially since he’s on his way here now.”
“You did not.”
“He texted because he was worried that it was going to be World War Three at your house, and I might have mentioned that you were coming over and that it would be okay if he came by …”
I don’t need to tell Violet I’m happy Phil’s coming over. The emoji heart eyes popping out of my head say it all.
“Look at you. A couple months ago, you could barely imagine talking to Phil, and now you’re planning on summering with him after macking, half-naked, in a secret cabin in the woods. I’m so proud.” Violet dabs away fake tears.
“Ha, ha. So glad to meet with your approval.”
I hear a car pulling up in the driveway. I hear a door slam. I hold my breath.
“We’re in the back,” Violet yells. She leaps out of the hammock and whispers, “I feel a sudden compulsion to do homework.” Giving me a hair toss and a wink, she hurries into the house.
My pulse quickens, my hands get clammy, my body hums in anticipation. Phil turns the corner of the house. And he’s his beautiful, dimpled self again. The dark circles are fading away, and his smile, the real one, reaches his eyes once more. And that makes me happy.
“Hi. How’s it going?” Phil asks, his hands pushed down into his jean pockets. He glances around, puzzled, looking for Violet, then smiles at me. I beam back, curling my fingers around the edge of the bench, trying to prevent myself from leaping into his arms.
“Hey.” I’m still smiling, showing off every one of my child-of-dentists well-aligned teeth. I flush a deep red, self-conscious of my joyful lightheadedness. I scoot over to make some room for him on the bench.
“Sorry about your parents.” Phil clasps my hand. I act casual, but cartoon birds tweet around our heads, encircling us with garlands of paper hearts.
“I guess I expected it, but it’s still unreal, you know? My aunt tells me they’ll get over it eventually. But I don’t know—I’ve never seen their faces like that.”
Phil leans over to kiss me. His lips are as pillowy as I’d remembered. He kisses the top of my head. “Your hair smells so … so … clean.”
I laugh. “I have been known to shower occasionally.”
“I mean … you smell good.”
As I straighten my head and shake the hair from my face, I see a curtain in the house swish into place. I point to the window.
“I was wondering where Violet was,” Phil says. “Shall we continue the show?”
I shake my head. “Indian modesty complex.” I ease out of Phil’s lap. “But I have a feeling she’s going to be really engrossed in her physics homework for a while.”
Phil changes the subject. “So listen, prom is next week. And I want to ask you, but there’s that stupid promise I made Lisa.”
“As Amber and Kelsey informed me, remember?”
He nods, and the corners of his mouth turn down. “Look, I want us to go and have a great time. But I’m not sure if it’s worth the drama. I shouldn’t have made that promise, but Lisa was so angry. And I had no idea if you even liked me.”
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”
“No. It’s not okay. I want to take you. It’s the end of senior year. It’s tradition. It’s cheesy, but there’s no one I’d rather be cheesy with.”
The secret cheese-loving part of my heart melts. “Seriously, Phil, it’s fine. I’m not exactly traditional.”
“I know. That’s one of the things I love about you,” Phil continues, apparently oblivious to how a single word makes me come undone. “So will you go to a nontraditional prom with me?”
“What do you mean?”
“You have to answer first. Is it a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?”
“Yes. Of course. Now what is it?”
“I’m making it up as I go along. It’ll be good, though. Saturday night. Can I pick you up at your house?”
“Definitely not. I’ll be over here helping Violet get ready for the dance.”
Phil squeezes my hand. “I love planning surprises for you.”
All he has to do is ask, and I will go to the ends of the earth with him. Defy my parents’ expectations, even my better judgment for the perfection of Phil’s arms around me. If only we lived in a vacuum.
He leans over, taking my face in both his hands. When we kiss, my body swells with anticipation. Then I’m the observer again—watching a girl being kissed by a boy, spring sun glistening around them, lighting their bodies in halos.
Then I’m myself once more, and the warmth of Phil’s skin seeps into mine. My thoughts and emotions tangle—longing and confusion and uncertainty, but beneath the chaos in my mind, the tender reeds of hope take root and grow inside me. I no longer have to document it all from the perimeter. I am the girl, and this is my story.
A.m. Chicago Interview with Jessica Fields,
classmate of Ethan Branson
He was quiet. Not a lot of friends. I think he sat with some of the skinhead kids at lunch. No one took them seriously—in terms of them being racist or whatever. I mean, there weren’t even any black kids at our school. Or Jews. I guess we all thought they were losers who drew swastikas and smoked in the parking lot and wore black hoodies.
I had one class with Ethan, American lit, junior year. He sat in the back doodling in his notebook most of the time. Never wanted to talk in class, not even in group work. It was kind of weird, though. It was like he knew the answers, but didn’t want to be bothered answering them or, like, even speak.
But this one time we were studying Walt Whitman and his feelings of being helpless or the futility of life or something. And the teacher called on him to read this poem. He started out reading real slow, but by the end he seemed kind of into it. He even answered questions about it. Mr. Bradley was floored. We all were. I don’t think anyone had ever heard Ethan speak so much.
After class I remember him kind of hunched over with the book in his lap. I saw him tear out the page and stuff it into his pocket.
Chapter 24
“You look gorgeous. Poor Mike’s going to have no idea what to do with all that skin. I can picture him fumbling around, trying to figure out where to put his hands.” Somehow despite all the sheepish grins and blushing and quiet crushing, Mike seized his moment and asked Violet to prom. Probably no one was more surprised than him when she said yes.
I grin, almost blushing on Violet’s behalf, as I pan the length of her body, allowing my camera to assess her black satin dress, which is short, backless, and tight—and worn with absolute aplomb. “You’ll have to be careful when you’re dancing, or your ass will pop right out of the two inches of material that are holding it in,” I tease.
“That pic would totally make the yearbook.” Violet smirks.
“I would love to catch that moment on film.” I sigh.
Violet smiles at me. “You look amazing. I mean, that dress. I’m psyched you’re embracing your hotness this way.” She pushes me in front of the full-length mirror. Then she whispers, “Trust me, your night is going to be epic.”
I lower my camera. I smile at my reflection. I look good in the short, peacock-print chiffon dress I chose. The beaded straps form a V-neckline that leads to a ruched bodice and pleated skirt. Violet gave me a blow-out earlier, so my hair is the silkiest it’s ever been and falls in loose layers that frame my face.
”Oh, and before I forget, here.” She hands me a small backpack.
“What is it?”
“Phil asked me to put it together for you. Don’t sneak a peek.”
“This better not be full of condoms.”
“Maya Aziz, what a dirty little mind you have.”
I film as we head into the backyard to take photos. Posing under the trees, on the bench, in the hammock, I balance my camera on various garden objects to get full-length shots of us together. Then we take every imaginable variation of selfie until we hear a car pull up in the driveway. Mike meets us behind the house. He’s sweating a little, and I can’t tell if it’s from being so near to Violet or the actual heat. I shoot footage of Violet pinning a boutonniere on his lapel and Mike handing her flowers. It’s terribly corny, but it’s sweet in a Pretty in Pink way, too. Like, perfectly sentimental. A lump grows in my throat. The last dance. I missed them all.
It’s not quite the magic hour, but the spring light is still flawlessly cinematic. Its warmth perfectly frames Phil as he walks up the path to Violet’s house to meet me at the door.
“They’re beautiful,” I say as he offers me a small, tight nosegay of calla lilies so purple they’re almost black.
“You’re beautiful.”
He’s dressed in a slim-fitting black suit that accentuates his broad shoulders, a black shirt, and no tie. Hair perfectly tousled, as e
ver. Skin tan. Green eyes sparkling. He’s The Guy in every ad in every magazine.
“You look good,” I say, reaching up to kiss him. Apparently, all my adjectives are lost in this haze of wonder I’m floating around in.
Phil points to my pack. “Did Violet give you that bag?”
“Yes, and she was quite secretive.”
“You peeked?”
“I was tempted.”
“I can understand temptation.” Phil’s lips graze my jawline. I shudder. I blush. Those words, still gone.
Phil takes my bags and sticks out his elbow so I can slip my arm through as he escorts me to his car.
We settle into our seats. I notice he’s cleaned the interior for the occasion. “One more thing. Close your eyes, please?”
I comply, and Phil slips a soft cloth over my tightened lids and ties it behind my head, taking care not to tangle my hair. This is not what I was expecting.
“Hey, what—” I tug at the blindfold.
“No. Don’t. I want it to be a surprise till we get there.”
“Fine.” I squirm in my seat. “As long as we’re not going to a bondage club. This is not my dominatrix outfit.”
Phil laughs. “I hope I get to see it one day.” Then he leans in and kisses my awaiting lips.
Phil cranks the music, a best of the ’80s movie soundtrack playlist personalized for me that begins with Flesh for Lulu, turns to Simple Minds, and brings it home with The Psychedelic Furs. So it’s pretty much the most perfect retro-prom-but-not-really-prom playlist ever. I reach over, and he pulls my hand into his.
I try to keep track of turns, but Phil meanders around a bit, clearly trying to throw me off the scent of the trail. Honestly, though, there are not a lot of options around here, and I’m guessing he’s not making a mad break for Vegas for a quickie wedding. Still, I love his thoughtfulness.
“Don’t take the blindfold off yet.”
“I’m getting antsy.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed from all the foot tapping. Hold on.” Phil parks, then gets out of the car and comes around to the passenger side. He opens the door and scoops me into his arms.
