Afterwards, some people stay behind to read the Koran. Others put on their shoes and leave. The sun shines brightly while it’s low in the sky. It will be sunset soon. Time to eat. Grandpa finds us and says, “One of the men talked about how he owns a restaurant close to here. Most of us will be going.”
Mom and Dad agree to go. The parking lot is getting crowded. We hung out too long talking to old friends, and then the people who were reading the Koran flood the lot. I look at the sun. It’s taking forever to set. Because I’m hungry, the momentary traffic makes time slow down. Grandpa drives the short distance of three blocks to a restaurant claiming in neon that it’s the Best Turkish Grill in South Florida.
Inside, there’s an alcove of adjoining tables that have been reserved for us. Everyone who came earlier, and who isn’t from the mosque, sits on the outskirts near the windows. We sit down. Grandpa explains that everyone will pay a flat fee since we’re all going to eat the same thing. There’s no time for waiters and waitresses to ask us what we want. Some of them, in their white aprons and black shoes, circle around us and fill our water glasses. I’m not the only one thirstily eyeing the water. The smell of food has my stomach tied in knots.
“When can we eat?” I whisper to Mom.
“Soon,” she says. She’s still wearing a headscarf and so am I, since we’re still with the mosque crowd.
“Mom, how come we don’t do this more often?”
She looks surprised. It’s shocking, since I’ve never asked to go to the mosque before. I used to think it was a chore, but it’s cool praying together and doing something with my family afterwards. And the food smells delicious. It’s awesome that we’re ending an evening of prayer by going to a restaurant serving authentic Middle Eastern food. Mom’s food tastes too American. She cuts corners, using tomato sauce, mashed potato mix, and all the other time-saving ingredients that housewives all over the country use. The waiters are bringing our food to us. Bowls of heaping kofta, steaming rice, and vegetables are brought to the center of our tables. The imam is here and he stands up to say something. He wears an elegant suit that goes well with his cap and his weathered, brown face. He speaks a mix of English and Arabic.
“Massa el kheer. I would like to congratulate all of you on your patience and strength as you fast during this glorious month … ” He tells us anecdotes about past Ramadans and Eids and his time in the United States; then he ends with a short prayer (I can tell it’s a prayer since he’s praising God, Allahu Akbar). Then we can officially eat.
Hands, forks, and spoons empty the dishes. I scoop food on my plate, passing the serving dishes to Mom and Dad. None of us are rude or beastly. It isn’t like we’re elbowing each other or eating like boors, but the food disappears rapidly. The other people—the non-Muslims—stare. I don’t blame them. I’m staring, too, as I eat. People spoon the remaining food onto their plates. Waitresses bustle to give us more water. I drink my glass in three slurps since I’m so thirsty. There isn’t much talking. Just eating and more eating.
More food is brought out for seconds, but this time we aren’t in a rush to take it. I slink down in my seat when I’m full. My scarf inches down my back and becomes looser around my neck. I rest my feet against a table leg. This evening is much better than I thought it would be. It’s nice to pray and eat together. It’s better than surfing the net and IM’ing all night. It’s also making me aware of everything I’m learning about my religion and myself during this fast.
Fasting makes you think about what it takes to do it. Not many people can do it. You have to learn to become a very patient person, which is hard to do. Sometimes I’m impatient when a person doesn’t text message me back. I stare at my phone, wondering when this person is going to text me when I texted her five minutes ago. It seems frivolous, but that’s just how it is. My friend Raul had his cell phone confiscated ten minutes before lunchtime because he was text messaging under his desk and the teacher caught him. Why couldn’t he have waited ten measly minutes to do that? Because of our impatience, our age, this fast world we live in.
Even my parents and Grandpa talk about how fast the world is. Dad says he used a pay phone when he was young and sometimes he had to wait in a line to use it. I’ve never touched a pay phone in my life. Grandpa told me stories about when he lived in Syria and had to wait weeks for airmail to be sent to him. This was decades before email. Dad had a typewriter in high school and it took forever to type and correct papers with Wite-Out, but Microsoft Office made everything easier. There are so many examples of things made easier and faster, compared to my parents’ and grandparents’ time.
So these days, we want things now. Fasting tells us we have to wait. Here I am, living in a world that’s quick as lightning, and I have to wait to eat. Fasting also teaches me to be humble. It makes me wonder about all the starving people in the world. I starve during the day, with my stomach rumbling, and some people go through that for days, weeks, and months. The same goes for water, because there are thirsty people in this world, too. Fasting makes me think about myself and others. It’s a sacrifice. Don’t eat for your religion. I show God that I can temporarily live without the very things—food and water—that make me live in the first place.
“More water, miss?” a waiter asks.
“Yes, please,” I say.
I notice a huge stain on the front of my long-sleeved shirt, and smaller stains on my skirt. Grandpa sits across from me and notices them, too. Normally he’d criticize me for my sloppiness. Instead, he smiles at me and says that the food was irresistible. It was.
AlmiraRules: we’re running the final laps of ramadan
ShakiBaby: for real
AlmiraRules: soon we’ll be able to eat anytime we want
ShakiBaby: starbucks whenever i want
AlmiraRules: but i don’t feel like pigging out the way i used to
ShakiBaby: you look great and that dress you wore the other day hung on you perfectly except that, i mean nothing
AlmiraRules: what?
ShakiBaby: nothing
AlmiraRules: you were going to say something bad
ShakiBaby: ok, just that the fabric was bunching around your stomach and was making it look like you have a gut
AlmiraRules: shakira i thought we’ve spoken about this already!
ShakiBaby: it’s not your fault, the belt was loose and there was too much fabric because of the weight loss
AlmiraRules: so i looked like a pregnant woman
ShakiBaby: forget i said anything
AlmiraRules: i’ll try!
ShakiBaby: change the subject plz
AlmiraRules: i’m going to get lisa back
ShakiBaby: how?
AlmiraRules: i’ll convince her that peter really wants her, not me
ShakiBaby: but he doesn’t
AlmiraRules: he must like her a little bit, i mean they used to hang out a lot as friends
ShakiBaby: he likes her as a friend, but he loves you
AlmiraRules: i wouldn’t say that he loves me at this point. he texts me every night to see what i’m doing, but we haven’t gone on an official date, and i don’t think we can with the way things stand with lisa. he keeps saying that she’ll come around, but he doesn’t understand things. i need to try to hook peter up with lisa so that she’s no longer mad at me
ShakiBaby: that’s not going to work if the sparks aren’t there. don’t you know anything about relationships?
AlmiraRules: not really
ShakiBaby: i’ve been around the block and i can tell you
AlmiraRules: tell me. how many blocks have you been around at your age?
ShakiBaby: shut up. i’ve been in your situation and a friend and i liked the same boy and he wanted me. my friend had to get over it and we had a rough patch and didn’t talk for a whole year. i broke up with the guy in two mo
nths, but at least i got to see what a cool guy he was
AlmiraRules: in two months?
ShakiBaby: shut up. so yeah i lost a friend for awhile, but you can’t let anyone tell you who to love or not love
AlmiraRules: but was it worth losing your friend?
ShakiBaby: no
AlmiraRules: I WANT LISA BACK
ShakiBaby: fine, you just go do what you have to do
AlmiraRules: i can hear my dad’s car coming up the driveway
ShakiBaby: my grandmother is in the other room and i have to keep looking over my shoulder. she’s so nosy and doesn’t understand im
AlmiraRules: the sun’s almost set. mom’s making fava beans and rice
ShakiBaby: my mom is making kibbeh and falafel
AlmiraRules: cool, my mouth is watering
ShakiBaby: gotta go eat
AlmiraRules: bye
ShakiBaby: bye and good luck with Lisa
I look through my bookbag, going through the contents over and over again, making sure I have the right folders and books for classes the next day. Mom is calling me for dinner, yet I don’t hear her. I sense her voice, but it isn’t registering through my brain. The scent of her cooking wafts underneath my door and to my nose, but I’m still thinking about everything I’ve lost and gained lately.
“Almira! Dinner!”
I have to make things right.
“Almira, where are you?”
There’s no way I can lose Lisa forever.
“Where is that girl?” Dad yells from the dining room.
My stomach growls and I slowly get up. Going to the dining room makes me feel a sense of being outside of myself. I can’t tell my parents about the Peter-Lisa situation. They couldn’t cope with the fact that a boy had kissed me or that I want a boyfriend. They’re going to set me up with someone to marry. But I want to be a regular American teenager.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Mom asks. “We had to start without you.”
I look at the dining table. Mom and Dad are done with half the food. I sit down so that I can catch up with them. I use a ladle to serve myself chickpea soup, and Mom hands me a plate of fava beans and rice. After dinner, Dad unbuttons his pants and even Mom leans back to rub her growing stomach.
“How’s school?” Dad asks.
“Great,” I say in a monotone voice.
“Can you floss around your braces?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Did you figure out those equations for math class? You said they were pretty tough.”
“Yes.”
“How’s Lisa? She hasn’t come here in a while.”
Mom and I exchange looks. “You should invite her to dinner some time,” Mom says.
“I will,” I say. If she ever says yes. My chest starts to burn and I have to fight off tears. The tears fly back into my eyes as if my tear ducts go into reverse. I’ve been moping ever since Lisa stopped talking to me.
Mom and Dad don’t notice my lackluster tone of voice. It doesn’t matter, because it’s best that they don’t know about the goings-on in my life. I finally have some drama and I can’t share it with them. Straight A’s, yes. Winning a science fair ribbon, yes. Going to the mall with friends, yes. Getting my hair done, yes. Having a boyfriend, absolutely not.
In the morning I pack my bookbag, making sure that I have the sketch (the one I took when Peter wasn’t looking) in a folder. I believe the sketch will create a miracle and make things all better again. Shakira once said that having someone sketch her is magical, as if she’s being worshipped, and when Peter showed me my sketch I felt loved. A sketch is powerful. No wonder the world is full of art. Mona Lisa would be a nobody if no one ever painted her.
I walk to school and the first person I see is Peter. He’s with his art friends, all with portfolios in their arms, and I try to walk by without saying anything, but he stops me by placing a hand on my arm and steering me to a secluded tree. The tree is old and gnarled, and sunlight shoots rays between the leaves. This would feel so romantic if Lisa’s pain wasn’t on replay in my head. What am I thinking? This is romantic. My heart flutters as we look into each other’s eyes.
Peter holds my hand, and I don’t pull away. He must sense my hesitation, because he’s not being pushy.
“How are you?” he asks.
“I’m okay,” I lie.
“Did you straighten things out with Lisa, about, you know?”
“No, not yet.”
“If you need help or time to figure things out, I’m here for you.”
“Sure.”
He’s being sweet and patient—how many guys really have those qualities ?—and I’m trying to ward him off. I wonder when he’ll change the subject, and he finally does.
“My friend’s in college and he’s having his work shown in a gallery. It’s really exciting. I’m going tonight. The press will be there. Maybe a photo of me will sneak into the paper.”
“That sounds really exciting … ” It sounds like he wants me to attend with him, but I don’t take the bait. This is so uncomfortable. He should be with Lisa to make our friendship all right again, and here he is squeezing my hand and talking about his life. One of his friends calls his name, and we separate.
“So, I’ll see you around,” he says.
“Sure.” I say a quick goodbye and look for my own friends. My heart is breaking into fragments since I can’t have him. I swallow the lump in my throat and straighten out my spine as I walk away. Taking a 360 turn on my heel, I’m relieved that Lisa isn’t in sight. I hope she didn’t catch a glimpse of my little tryst with Peter. The trees must have hidden us pretty well anyway, but I can’t afford for her to think that I’ve betrayed her on the same morning I unleash my plan to gain back her friendship.
Shakira and I hang out on the same bench that Lisa and I usually sat on. I’m not trying to replace Lisa with Shakira, but Shakira now seems to be clinging to me, as I to her. She swishes her long, sleek hair from side to side, hitting my shoulder with her tresses. I no longer feel that she’s showing off and trying to make me jealous. She’s pretty, not evil, and she’s curbing her tongue after we had our little talk. The other day I took off my glasses to rest my eyes and accidentally smashed my elbow into a lens, breaking it off, and I could tell that Shakira was biting her tongue. Her lips twitched. She was probably going to blurt a comment about my clumsiness, that I shouldn’t have put my expensive glasses right underneath my elbow, but she was quiet. She said she felt bad about my glasses, that was all. I put the broken glasses away and took out a spare pair from my bookbag. No hurt feelings.
There’s a bit of awkwardness with my friends now that Lisa and I aren’t on speaking terms. Maria talks to me for a few minutes, and then she goes to wherever Lisa is to hang out with her. Our mutual friends are like that, dividing time between the two of us. And then there’s some awkwardness about Shakira. At first people gave me dirty looks—why are you hanging out with that girl?—but the longer Shakira hangs out with me, the more my friends talk to her and see that she isn’t as monstrous as everyone used to think. Maria and my other friends are polite to Shakira now that they see her associating with me. She’s in good standing by being friendly with me. Just because she’s pretty doesn’t make her better than anyone else, and she certainly seems nicer after being humbled by her recent bad experiences with me and my friends.
I even see Shakira and Maria talking to one another in hushed tones before the bell rings. Shakira looks upset and Maria hugs her. Maria! Chonga Maria, who talks tough and acts at times like she has a black heart, is being super nice! It seems like everyone is apologizing and making up to each other. I decide that I have to be proactive to make things all right with Lisa. The moments of conciliation with Grandpa and Shakira have put me in a forgiving mood. I hope that Lisa can forgive me for l
oving Peter. It’s really exhausting to try to win her back. I made another long, convoluted e-card that I sent earlier this morning. It seems like I spend hours a day writing drafts of notes, handwriting letters, making PowerPoints, and using Adobe to make e-cards. If this continues, I’ll become a computer programmer and professional writer in no time. My eyes feel strained sitting at the computer for hours and my hands feel funny—maybe I’m getting carpal tunnel syndrome—but this situation calls for sacrifices.
I see Lisa before English class and I stop her in her tracks. I walk in front of her and won’t let her get by the front door. There are ten minutes left before class starts and I want her to hear me out. Her whole face is contorted with anger. She used to look happy to see me, but now she views me as a traitor. She’s wearing blush, but her cheeks become pinker as she tries to stare me down. It’s like looking at a stranger. The thought that I’ll never be her friend again flashes through my mind. Maybe I should let things be and let her go, but I can’t. She isn’t like other friends I’ve lost touch with since kindergarten. There were many classmates who came and went for different reasons: I was mad at them, they were mad at me, we were nothing more than study buddies, we were partnered up in a project, or they moved away. Lisa doesn’t fit into any of these categories, because she’s the only best friend that I’ve ever had. As long as there is a chance to make things right, I’ll do what I have to do.
“Lisa, please listen to me,” I say.
Bestest. Ramadan. Ever. Page 19
