That Thing We Call a Heart

by Sheba Karim

  Aunt Marianne’s lovers had clearly served her well.

  “Who is this?”

  “Howlin’ Wolf. Famous blues musician.”

  As Howlin’ Wolf sang shake it baby, shake it for me, Jamie did a hip shake all the way to the kitchen. I followed him up the stairs, not daring to mimic an act so good, and observed as Jamie tested the dough, then sprinkled flour across the butcher-block table and set the ball of dough on top, dancing the entire time.

  Forget stick-shift-driving Jamie; lithe, graceful-dancing Jamie was the sexiest of them all. Emboldened by wine, I started dancing across the table from him.

  When the song ended, Jamie exclaimed “Woo!” with a wide grin. The next song was a classical piano piece, wistful, slow.

  Jamie bowed. “Would milady like to roll the dough?”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “Come. I’ll show you.”

  I finished my remaining wine in one go and went to him. As he rolled up the sleeves of his plaid shirt, I admired his forearms, their sinewy muscle, how his hair started out darker at his wrists and slowly faded to gold.

  “Now, the first thing Aunt Marianne makes me do is clear my mind and think positive thoughts, because dough that’s shaped by happy hands will taste better. Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  Jamie closed his eyes, so I closed mine. Positive thoughts.

  I love you I love you I love you

  I felt so loose and good I actually sighed audibly. Wine was like a sultry muscle relaxant.

  Sultry. Another good word.

  “Someone’s smiling,” Jamie said.

  I opened my eyes, and he gave me a quick kiss.

  “So you start by moving from the center out, like this,” he instructed, flattening and widening the dough with the rolling pin. “You have to make sure you’re applying even pressure, and keep the dough in the shape of a circle. Each stroke should be the same distance apart from the last, about this much. Aunt Marianne likes to rotate the dough to control the distance, but I prefer to move the pin—like this. Here, you try.”

  My first few rolls succeeded in completely destroying the lovely circle Jamie had created. “Oops.”

  “Let me help.” He moved behind me, placed his hands over mine on the handles of the rolling pin. As he skillfully reshaped the dough into a circle, each stroke a quarter turn or so off from the last, his body pressed closer and closer into me, until I felt him grow hard against the small of my back.

  “Shit,” he said. “I’m getting an erection just standing next to you.”

  He let go of the rolling pin and spun me around. Grabbing my waist, he hoisted me onto the counter as though I weighed nothing, and we started wildly making out. When his hand crawled up my shirt, I arched my back, urging him onward, and as his thumb slid beneath my bra, along the underside of my breasts, I made a noise I didn’t even know I was capable of, an animal-like utterance. Jamie leaned back and I could see the excitement in his eyes. He reached behind me, undid my bra with one hand and bent down, sliding his tongue where his thumb had just been.

  I gasped, clutching at his lovely hair, and then I noticed the song playing.

  Everyone stop trying to put a label on me

  Everyone stop trying to put a label on me

  Jamie lifted his head. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  I shook my head, unsure of myself. “This is the band Farah likes.”

  “Yeah, Rebel Antigone. I downloaded their album. I’m not a girl I’m not a guy I’m not an x I’m not a y,” Jamie sang along, stroking my cheek. “You sure you’re okay, Morning Dew?”

  Why should I be bothered by the fact he’d downloaded a song?

  “Yeah.” To prove it, I kissed him, trying to return to where we were. But I couldn’t re-create the past, because nothing can be the same as it was even a moment ago. The now was always changing, and now it was dark out, and I’d told my mother I’d be home by eight.

  On cue, my phone rang.

  “It’s my mother,” I said. “I better go.”

  As I slid off the table, I saw the dough now bore an indentation from my butt. Whoops.

  He tugged at a curl. “I wish we could have at least one time where we wouldn’t be interrupted by people waiting for pies, or a phone.”

  “We can,” I said, smacking bits of dough off my ass. “What about tomorrow night? My parents are going to a party, I could probably stay out till eleven.”

  “I’m meeting a friend in New York this weekend. What about Monday?”

  “Monday night? Sure,” I said, already trying to think of what my excuse would be.

  He kissed me. “I had a great time. You sure you’re not still upset about what I said to Dino?”

  “No.” I couldn’t stay mad at him anyway. One hip shake and the rest was history.

  Twenty

  I TEXTED FARAH.

  U free to come over this wknd? Need advice.

  4 what?

  Ill tell you when I cu!

  Don’t think i can, my khalas in town

  please please

  She didn’t respond, so Sunday morning I tried again.

  Please? It’s really impt . . .

  Ok, persistent. lemme c what I can do

  I was used to Farah’s dramatic outfits, but when she came to our house Sunday afternoon, even I did a double take. She was wearing a green-and-black-checkered scarf, the bottom part wrapped right around her head, the rest of it a braided roll that went from the top of her head down—a hijab Mohawk. Her long black skirt looked like it was made from pieces of shredded cloth, and she was wearing leather cuffs over her sleeves, one with a silver skull and one with a peace sign.

  “Salaam, Auntie!” Farah exclaimed, hugging my mother as though she was a long-lost relative.

  “So good to see you, beti! It’s been too long! Look at your hijab!” My mother touched Farah’s cheek. “I’m so proud of you, getting into Harvard, wearing hijab in a time when so many people hate Muslims.”

  Farah patted her Mohawk. “Tell that to my mother. She says I’m making a mockery of hijab, and threatened to disown me if I left the house like this.”

  “Oh, it’s always hard for the old generation to accept the young fashions,” my mother said. “I remember when I first crimped my hair, my mother didn’t want me to leave the house either. She said I looked like I was wearing a wig made of a swallow’s nest.”

  “You crimped your hair?” I said.

  “Yes, when I worked at Merry-Go-Round. Do you girls want some chai? Snacks?” my mother offered.

  Before Farah could answer in the affirmative, I said, “Farah and I have important stuff to do.”

  “All right,” my mother said, clearly disappointed.

  “Your mom is so cool,” Farah said. “Where’s her weirdo half? I want to say salaams.”

  As we walked into the den, Farah glanced at the bookshelf that housed my mother’s horrible tchotchkes, the four dumb white cherubs watching from high. I’d never told Farah about my recent theory that they represented the children my mother almost had. Farah would never joke about something like that, cheesy as it was, but it still didn’t feel right to reveal the contents of my mother’s hidden trauma chest.

  My father was watching BBC News, a bowl of masala popcorn resting on his tummy, a trail of kernels from chin to couch.

  “Salaam, Uncle Q!” Farah cried, plunking herself down on the armchair.

  “What happened to your head?” my father said. “You look like you’re from outer space.”

  “I was on a mission to Pluto,” Farah replied. “We went to tell him in person that he’s no longer a planet. We thought it was the considerate thing to do. He took it pretty hard, poor dwarf bastard.”

  My father blinked a few times, speechless. Witnessing my father and Farah interact was extremely entertaining, because she was unfazed by his eccentricity and he was bewildered by hers.

  “She’s kidding,” I said.

  “Obviously,” my f
ather said. “A mission to Pluto would take twenty years round-trip.”

  “So, I hear you’ve been teaching Shabnam the language of love?” Farah said, leaning forward and helping herself to popcorn. While I had to think before saying a sentence in Urdu, her Urdu was fluent, with barely an accent, her genders always correct; and while with my mother she used mainly English, with my father she switched back and forth seamlessly, like he did.

  “Which language are you referring to?” my father asked, and I could tell Farah was trying hard not to laugh.

  “The language of love, also known in some circles as Urdu poetry,” she explained. “Will you teach me a little? Like the moth and the flame—what’s that all about?”

  “Ah.” My father set the popcorn aside, sat up, wiped the top of his head with a napkin. Even the slightest spice caused my father’s scalp to break out in sweat.

  “The moth and the flame is a trope of Urdu poetry,” he told Farah. “The moth is the lover, the flame the beloved. The moth is so in love with the flame that he keeps circling it, getting closer and closer, until he decides even being this close is not sufficient, so he flies into the flame and burns himself alive, and, by dying in this way, finally becomes one with his beloved.”

  “So basically it’s emotional torture for the moth until he burns himself up,” Farah said. “Like, life sucks until you die.”

  “Come on,” I said, grabbing Farah’s hand. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  “Khuda hafiz, Uncle Q,” Farah said, scooping a fistful of popcorn. “What does your mother put in this?” she asked. “It’s good.”

  “Some chili powder, a little garam masala, I think. Don’t spill any, I’m on vacuum duty all summer and if my mother sees one kernel she’ll hand me the Hoover.”

  When we entered my room, Farah went straight for Big Muchli. “Did you miss me?” she asked him, planting a loud smooch on his worn snout.

  “How long did it take you to do the Mohawk?”

  “Don’t ask,” she said. “I mostly did it to piss my mother off. Yesterday she told me I was ‘giving Islam bad name’ because I looked like a homeless trash can, but it’s starting to grow on me.”

  “What the hell is a homeless trash can?”

  “Me, apparently.”

  “What if she really does disown you?” I asked.

  “She won’t,” Farah assured me. “I’m her retirement plan.”

  It was a lot of pressure, to know you’d have to help take care of your parents and your three younger siblings, but Farah never acted bitter about it, only determined.

  “Anyway, what was so important that I had to escape my visiting relatives?” she said.

  “I need outfit advice from the homeless trash can.”

  “Outfit advice?”

  “I have a hot date with Jamie.”

  “Ah. Where is he taking you? Fancy dinner?”

  “I don’t know, it’s a surprise,” I said. “And listen—I’m using you as an excuse.”

  “For real, Qureshi? You know I’m a terrible liar.”

  “I told my mother I’m taking you for dinner and a movie as an early birthday present.”

  “My birthday’s in October.”

  “Exactly, and you’ll be at Harvard, and I’ll be at Penn. It scored me an eleven p.m. curfew.”

  “And what if she calls me?” Farah demanded.

  “Tell her I’m with you.”

  “And what if she asks to talk to you?”

  “Tell her I’m on my way home.”

  Farah groaned.

  “It’ll be fine,” I insisted.

  “What if your mother calls my mother?”

  “She wouldn’t call your mother unless I didn’t come home at all. I’ll be home by eleven p.m. sharp. She won’t even have to call you, I promise.”

  “You could have at least asked me,” Farah objected.

  “Sorry. Come on, help me out. It’s the night of union with my beloved.”

  “Fine,” she conceded. “But if this blows up—”

  “Nothing’s going to blow up,” I vowed.

  “Insert bad Muslim joke here,” she said. “What kind of outfit are you thinking?”

  “I want to look sexy. And sultry. But I also don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard, you know? Basically, I want him to look at me and never want to let me go.”

  “You’re asking the hijabi for advice on sexy and sultry?”

  “Who else? Danny? Ian?”

  “Uh, hello—queer eye for the straight girl or homeless trash can?”

  “Homeless trash can!” I replied, and Farah shook her head. “Anyway, Danny and Ian are still on their road trip, plus I sent them photos of three outfit options and they negged all of them. I want you to look at my top two. I’m also going to go to Victoria’s Secret to buy some hot underwear. I think I might go all the way.”

  Farah frowned. “With Jamie?”

  “No, with Principal Stone. Of course with Jamie. Why?”

  Farah’s hand disappeared inside the shreds of her skirts into what must have been a pocket, because it emerged with a black marker.

  “All right, what is it?” I said as she began drawing on her foot. “If you don’t tell me in two seconds, I’m taking the marker away. I mean it.”

  “I know you love him,” she said, “but has he said he loves you?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “But you’re still willing to have sex with him?”

  “You really don’t like him at all, do you?” I exclaimed.

  “I’m looking out for you. You’re totally moth and flaming this shit, and forget about love, this guy hasn’t even told you he wants to keep seeing you after he leaves. And isn’t he leaving this week?”

  “Maybe he’s waiting for Monday,” I pointed out. “Maybe that’s why he planned a big surprise. That’s why I need to look good.”

  “If he really loves you, it shouldn’t matter what you’re wearing,” Farah argued. “And what if he doesn’t tell you? What if this isn’t the same for him as it is for you? Maybe you should stop being so passive and ask him how he actually feels about you before you let him stick his penis in your vagina.”

  “You just don’t approve of me having sex,” I countered.

  “It’s not your hymen I’m concerned about,” she said. “It’s your heart.”

  “You’re saying that like you’re assuming he doesn’t have good intentions. You have no idea how caring and thoughtful he is with me. By the way, he thought you were great, including your musical taste. You really shouldn’t judge him when you hardly know him.”

  “You’re right, I hardly know him,” Farah said. “And you’ve known him for what, a few weeks?”

  “In Bollywood it takes one song to fall in love.” I was joking, of course. Sort of.

  “Come on, Qureshi. You’re smarter than this.”

  “You come on! It’s so easy for you to stand there on the other side and judge but you have no clue what it’s like to date someone, to like someone, to kiss and cuddle with someone! But me, I’m in it. I am in the thick of the garden. I am making myself totally vulnerable—I don’t think you’d ever even let yourself be as vulnerable as I am right now, but that’s what love is all about, Farah. Being the nightingale. Offering your heart to the rose.”

  “Nightingale? Your father has created an Urdu poetry monster.” She was joking. Sort of.

  “I love him, Farah,” I declared, quivering lip and all. “I really do. Please, will you be there for me?”

  Farah held her hands up, an unfinished game of tic-tac-toe on her foot. “All right, Ms. Nightingale. I hope this rose is worthy of your love. Show me what you were thinking of wearing.”

  As I started laying out my outfit options, I got a text from Jamie.

  Wear clothes you don’t mind getting dirty 4 2morrow, like hiking clothes

  I didn’t even own hiking clothes.

  Track pants and sneakers ok?

  Yup

  Where are we go
ing?

  I could tell u but I’d have to kill u . . . ☺

  “Well,” I said, showing Farah the exchange, “I guess that settles the outfit question.”

  “He’s taking you on a hike?”

  “He’s really outdoorsy.” I would have preferred a romantic dinner, but a hike could be romantic, too, kissing in moonlight, staring up at the stars. Hopefully he’d bring some more Malbec.

  “I gotta go,” Farah said. “Good luck tomorrow.”

  She had this uncomfortable, mouth ajar expression, like her throat was gargling whatever words she’d left unsaid. I didn’t press her; I wanted to focus on my big night, surround myself with positivity. I loved Farah but she could be a real drag when it came to romance. I hoped her parents’ toxic relationship hadn’t jaded her for life.

  Farah had hardly been gone five minutes when there was a knock on my door. My mother, of course; my father never came to my room, but my mother came by almost every night, though she found it difficult to tolerate the mess. I’d explained to her that there was order in my disorder, and she knew better than to touch anything, but it took all of her self-control not to pick up a sock from the floor, or fold the shirts thrown over my chair, or return a book to the shelf. During times of extreme disorder, she sometimes had to sit on her hands.

  At least, unlike my father, I was clean messy; no food detritus, all dirty clothes in the hamper, no spiderwebs or ants.

  “Farah left so soon. She didn’t want to stay over?” my mother said. She was dressed in a billowing lavender muumuu and a blue shower cap; she’d put henna in her hair.

  “She has relatives visiting.”

  “Everything okay between you two?”

  “Everything’s great.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “And everything else is okay?”

  “Everything’s great, Mom.”

  She made her way to my bed, sitting next to the jeans and lace-trimmed black T-shirt I’d set out as a potential outfit for tomorrow night.

  I remembered my mother telling me once that any boy who respected a girl would never touch her. How would she ever understand that I wanted to be touched? That I loved Jamie?