Love Inc.

by Yvonne Collins

She looks slightly taken aback. ‘Well, you can’t blame a mother for worrying, especially when you’ve given up all your old friends. Syd and Kali aren’t exactly what I expected.’ She sweeps blush across her cheeks. ‘Kali seems very … assertive. And Syd’s so … I don’t know, goth?’

  ‘You met them for five minutes when you picked me up from Kali’s one night,’ I say. ‘Syd isn’t goth and Kali isn’t pushy, which is what you really meant. Since when did you get all judgey?’ I pause for effect. ‘Oh, right. When Nani and Nana moved in.’

  The sugar deficit causes Mom to head into the bedroom without answering. I trail after her and belly flop onto her bed as she disappears into the closet. All remnants of my dad have been cleared off his bedside table. There’s a photo of Nana and Nani where Dad and Mom’s wedding photo used to be. I shove it under the bed.

  ‘Look, Mom, if they’re different from my old friends, it’s because I’m different. We all come from broken homes.’

  Mom comes out of the closet wearing dress pants and a pink silk tunic. ‘That guilt card you keep playing might work on your father, but it’s getting old with me. I’m willing to give you a bit more rope, Zahra. If you hang yourself with it, you can use that twin bed in your sister’s room on a permanent basis.’

  OK, so I pushed it too far. I may be raising myself, but by law she’s still the boss, and twenty-four/seven surveillance would kill my involvement in Love, Inc.

  ‘Relax, Mom. I’m doing exactly what you wanted. I go to group, I made new friends, and I’ve kept my grades up. Frankly, I don’t see a problem. If you check out Dad’s books on raising a teenager, you’ll see that it’s totally normal for me to want to be more independent.’

  At the mention of Dad’s manuals, Mom sighs. She passes me a gold chain to latch around her neck, and perches beside me. ‘Don’t make me regret trusting you.’

  ‘Mom, it’s fine. Syd and Kali are good people.’

  She reaches out and twists a strand of my hair through her fingers, examining the color. Pushing it behind my shoulders, she shakes her head. But then she walks over to the mirror and runs a brush over her own hair. For now, the subject is closed.

  Since we’ve reached a cease-fire, I can afford to sprinkle more sugar around. ‘You look nice,’ I say. Too nice to be heading out for dinner with her girlfriends. Alarm bells ring. ‘Oh my God, are you going on a date? You’re married!’

  ‘I’m legally separated,’ she says, selecting a wrap from the dozen heaped over a chair. ‘And I’m not going on a date. I’m having dinner with Xavier, my business school instructor, to get some advice on my products.’

  The woman who bought so much of Mom’s stock at the Eid carnival recently offered to carry the Yasin Valley line in her spa if Mom can produce and professionally package enough of her products.

  The doorbell rings, and Mom checks her watch. Now I regret encouraging her to start a business.

  ‘I have news for you, Mom: unless the rest of the class is going, it’s a date.’

  ‘I realise I’ve been off the market for a while, but I still think I’d recognise a date if I saw one,’ she says.

  ‘You only ever dated Dad.’

  She smiles. ‘That’s what he thinks. Anyway, Xavier’s doing me a favor.’

  Xavier’s a vulture. Our home may be wrecked, but he doesn’t need to swoop in and pick over the remains.

  ‘Favors that involve dinner and wine probably have strings attached,’ I say. ‘Anyway you don’t need this guy’s help. Dad was excited to hear about your business, and you know he’d come up with the best logo ever.’

  She stands and puts a few things into a clutch. ‘I’m sure your father would love to believe I can’t do this without him, but I intend to prove I can.’

  What is wrong with my parents? I go out of my way to pass along nice comments they made about each other, and all they hear is insults. For two people who have five college degrees between them, they’re hopelessly stupid.

  The doorbell rings again, and Saliyah thunders through the house to answer. ‘That will be Xavier,’ Mom says, heading into the hall. ‘I’d better not leave him alone with your sister. You never know what she might say.’

  There are footsteps on the stairs and my sister appears, grinning from ear to ear.

  I glare at her. ‘How can you look so happy that Mom’s dating again?’

  Saliyah laughs. ‘I’m happy you’re dating again. Riaz is here!’

  Nani is literally quivering with excitement as she helps me put on my coat and pushes me out the front door behind Riaz. Thank God he turned down her repeated invitations to stay for dinner, because I don’t think I could have survived it.

  ‘So where are we going?’ I ask. Judging by the way Riaz is dressed: a black wool jacket over a chunky gray sweater and dark blue jeans, we could be doing anything from dinner to the movies, or maybe even a play. That would be cool.

  Riaz isn’t giving me any clues. ‘It’s a surprise.’

  I stare at Riaz’s profile as he steers his old pickup onto Lamar Boulevard. I don’t get this guy at all. First, he comes on like a jerk. Then he reveals a sweet side and kisses me like he means it. After that he practically goes AWOL, and just as I’m about to give up, he materializes on the doorstep without warning. Since Eric also liked to show up without warning, this does not bode well.

  ‘You’re looking at me like I’m a stranger,’ Riaz says. ‘I’m the one who should be looking at you that way.’

  I put my hand to my hair but resist the urge to ask if he likes it. If I want to be more independent, I need to stop worrying about what other people think.

  ‘It’s the ambushing thing,’ I tell him. ‘It’s weird.’

  ‘I thought girls liked spontaneity.’

  ‘Some might, but I like to know what to expect from a guy. I’ve had too many surprises.’

  Riaz smiles. ‘But you’re here, aren’t you?’

  When I don’t answer, he takes my hand. The warmth of his palm against mine reminds me of how he massaged lotion into my hand at the carnival.

  I realise I’m holding my breath, and release it slowly. I can’t let this go to my head. People on the rebound need to proceed with extreme caution. Like Kali says, things should be perfect in the beginning. You have to keep your standards high and take nothing at face value. You have to demand more, not less. That’s what we’ve started to tell our Love, Inc. clients.

  ‘I’m here,’ I say, ‘because it gets me out of dinner with my grandparents.’ It would have been a very tense dinner. Nana hasn’t spoken a word to me since he saw my hair, and Nani hasn’t stopped talking. She seems to think I’m just one short skirt shy of a sex scandal.

  I try to pull my hand away from Riaz, but he grips harder.

  ‘It’s too bad we couldn’t stay,’ he says. ‘I hear your Nani’s a mean cook.’

  ‘Mean is the word, all right. She knows I hate curry, but she keeps serving it up. I guess she figures one day I’ll wake up a fan.’

  ‘You will,’ he says. ‘And once you develop a taste for it, everything else seems flat in comparison.’

  ‘Well, at least flat’s reliable. You never know what to expect with curry.’

  ‘It’s good to spice things up,’ he says. ‘Stick with me and I’ll show you.’

  Releasing my hand, Riaz gears down and steers the truck onto a side street in a semi-industrial neighborhood. ‘Almost there,’ he says. ‘I can’t wait for you to meet my friends.’

  ‘It’s freezing in here,’ I say, pulling my jacket tight around me as Riaz leads me into a warehouse that seems too well lit for a party.

  As we move through the room, I see flats of boxes piled high to the ceiling. Dozens of people are wrapping more boxes in plastic and sorting them into piles. There are five stainless-steel tables, each surrounded by people wearing clear plastic gloves. As I watch, someone plucks a handful of something pink out of a large vat, places it into a plastic bag, and weighs it. Someone else seals the bag and stores it
in a box. When we get closer, I see the boxes are labeled goat, lamb, or beef. All are stamped halal.

  I stare at Riaz in confusion.

  ‘It’s a meat drive,’ he says.

  That explains nothing except for the fact that this is not a party. I’m beginning to suspect it’s not a date either.

  Several people wave to Riaz, including a few pretty girls in head scarves and salwar kameez. He greets everyone warmly.

  He introduces me first to Nikki, a blond woman in her late twenties, and her son, Sam, who is Riaz’s ‘little brother.’ Sam immediately drags Riaz away to show off the pile of boxes he’s been working on.

  Nikki tells me that Sam was so shy he’d barely speak when he joined Big Brothers. ‘Riaz has been a godsend,’ she says. ‘He’s just so good with people that he’s pulled Sam right out of his shell.’

  Watching Riaz and Sam goof around, I can’t help but wonder if I’m Riaz’s next project. I push the thought away. I don’t know what this event is about, but it isn’t about me. And since I’m relying on Riaz for a ride home, I might as well make the best of a bad situation. ‘So, what exactly is a meat drive?’ I ask.

  ‘Do you know about the feast of sacrifice?’ she asks.

  I nod. Eid al-Adha is the feast that marks the end of the pilgrimage to Mecca, when Muslims sacrifice a domestic animal and divide the meat into thirds for themselves, their friends, and the poor. ‘Don’t people usually donate money now?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Riaz says, joining us again. ‘We used those donations to buy meat that we’ll distribute to about fifteen hundred people in Austin. It’s community outreach.’

  On behalf of his mosque, I assume. If I were on the receiving end, I’d rather reach out for cash than meat, but there’s no bargaining with ritual.

  Riaz takes me over to a table to meet his friends, all of whom are girls.

  One named Fatimah snaps latex gloves onto my hands and slides a box of cubed lamb in front of me. ‘You don’t have to weigh every bag,’ she says, adjusting her dupatta with the back of her hand to avoid getting blood on it. ‘You can ballpark it once you’ve got a general sense.’

  She smiles encouragingly as I slip my gloved hand into the box of lamb. The cubes are cold and squishy, but I try not to cringe as I scoop up a handful and toss it into a bag. If she can do it, I can do it. After all, I cook with meat, just never in such vast quantities.

  Pasting on a smile, I weigh my first bag.

  ‘Good,’ Fatimah says. She points down the row to a group of girls. ‘They’re new this year, too. Riaz recruited them at the carnival.’

  The new girls are giggling, and I follow their gaze to a forklift that’s headed our way. Riaz is standing on an empty pallet on the front, wearing a white apron tied around his neck like a cape, pretending to fly. He smiles and waves as he buzzes past, and every girl at the table raises a bloody hand to wave back.

  I shudder as I realise that instead of being swept away on a date, I’ve been recruited as the Meat Drive Superhero’s new slave.

  On Riaz’s second pass, however, he blows a kiss that is either intended for Fatimah or me. I look at her in confusion, and she smiles. ‘He’s met my boyfriend,’ she says.

  All right, so this is a date. Riaz can’t help it if he’s a popular guy. He’s smart, he’s charming, he’s confident, and he’s cute. It’s no surprise that he has a lot of fans, and I’m flattered that he’s making time to fit me into his busy life.

  As I turn to watch him go, Riaz and his plywood chariot suddenly morph into Eric and Miss Daisy. The chill that runs down my spine is even colder than the meat locker. I give my head a shake to dispel the image.

  If one of our Love, Inc. clients were in this situation, I know exactly what I’d say: ‘Not good enough. If he likes you, he’ll make spending time with you a priority. Demand more, not less.’

  It’s good advice, and it’s time I took it myself. Zahra MacDuff is done with harems.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say, turning to leave.

  In the parking lot, I strip off the latex gloves and toss them into a garbage bin. That’s when I realise I’ve left my purse inside.

  I kick the metal bin, and curse. The noise startles a rat, which scurries away around the side of the building.

  ‘Forget something?’ Riaz is coming toward me carrying my purse. The apron ‘cape’ is still tied around his neck.

  I snatch my purse from his hands and stomp toward the street.

  ‘What happened?’ he says. ‘Did I do something wrong?’

  ‘No.’ What am I supposed to say? He was just being himself, after all. He leads a busy social life, and he probably thought I’d enjoy this evening together. There are plenty of girls who would think that’s enough. I ought to know. I used to be one of them.

  ‘Zahra, wait. Let me drive you home.’

  ‘No thanks. I’ll catch the next forklift – I mean, bus.’

  ‘Does this mean you’re breaking up with me?’ he calls.

  Breaking up with him! I peer at him over my shoulder, but he’s standing in the shadows and I can’t see his expression.

  ‘It means I’m not joining your cult,’ I yell back.

  ‘Since when is a fund-raiser a cult?’ he asks. ‘You really can’t spare a few hours to help people?’

  ‘Sure I can. But I prefer to be asked, not ambushed.’ At the corner, I turn back and bellow, ‘And for your information, I just became a vegetarian.’

  ‘If it makes you feel any better, it’s over with the guy from my guitar class, too,’ Kali says.

  ‘I didn’t know there was a guy from your guitar class,’ I say.

  ‘Didn’t I mention him?’ she asks, reapplying her lip gloss. ‘Well, he didn’t last long.’

  ‘No kidding. Miller only just bit the dust,’ Syd says. ‘Anyway, you can’t compete. Zahra fell headfirst into a cultural divide.’

  ‘So did I,’ Kali says. ‘My guy openly admitted his favorite band is the Pussycat Dolls. That’s not even a band, it’s pop porn.’

  ‘I thought you were holding out for Owen Gaines anyway,’ I say.

  ‘That one could take a while,’ Kali says. ‘And I don’t want to get rusty in the meantime. Relationships are like sports. If you want to compete, you have to keep in shape.’

  Someone knocks at the door, and I don’t even sit up. Kali nudges me with her boot. ‘It’s your client.’

  I close my eyes and groan. I made an appointment to help a girl figure out whether her ice-dancing partner is interested in her. I even promised to join her at the rink to check him out in person. ‘How can I help her when it takes me so long to see the signs myself?’ I say. ‘I’m a fraud.’

  The girl knocks a second time.

  ‘Save your money,’ I call. ‘I have no idea if he’s interested, but I’m pretty sure he’ll break your heart either way.’

  Syd slaps a paint-stained hand over my mouth. ‘Are you crazy? You might not care about this business, but I have to. Dad drained the last of my college fund for Charlotte’s new boobs.’

  Opening the door, she greets our client with a rare smile. ‘Zahra’s just kidding. But I’m afraid she’s not feeling that well, so I’ll be coming to the rink with you instead.’

  She leans back in to give me a malevolent glare before disappearing.

  ‘Oh man, you’re in trouble,’ Kali says.

  Even I have to smile at the thought of Syd dispensing relationship advice at the ice rink. ‘You know, when push comes to shove, she’s a true professional.’

  ‘I know,’ Kali says. ‘She’s always thinking about how we can improve the business. Before you got here today she suggested we create a business e-mail account and buy a cheap, pay-as-you-go cell phone for initial contact with potential clients. That way, we won’t all be going over cell phone minutes every month.’

  ‘Good idea,’ I say, coming over to the table, where Kali is working on her laptop. We probably should have done that from the beginning, but who knew the business would take o
ff like this?

  She looks up at me. ‘I worry about Syd sometimes. She buries herself in Love, Inc. to avoid the real thing. I don’t think she’s checked out another guy since Eric.’

  ‘Well, someone wise once said that the severity of the heartbreak correlates directly to the amount of time spent together. She’s not ready to move on, and there’s no use pushing her. You and I spent less time with Eric, and we still have trust issues.’

  ‘I guess,’ she says. ‘But I wish there was a way we could help her.’ Brightening, she brings her matchmaking questionnaire up on the screen. ‘Maybe I could just—’

  ‘Don’t even think about it. Syd’s a private person.’

  ‘But my matchmaking questionnaire is working like a charm,’ she says. ‘I’ve road-tested it on three of our clients, and two are thrilled with the results.’

  The third is Luke Barnett. Kali’s narrowed the field to two candidates, including Simon’s ex-girlfriend, Trisha.

  ‘Why don’t you fill out my questionnaire?’ Kali asks. ‘I guarantee I’ll find you a guy to take your mind off Riaz.’

  ‘Forget it. Guys are too much work.’

  ‘Don’t get all Syd on me,’ Kali says. ‘You’re being too hard on yourself.’ She opens her laptop. ‘Name: Zahra MacDuff.’

  ‘Ahmed-MacDuff,’ I correct her.

  ‘What, you saw the light at the meat drive?’

  ‘I just figure I can’t expect my mom to keep both names if I don’t.’

  ‘Hobbies,’ Kali says. ‘Baking, reading, Web surfing.’

  ‘I’m not doing your questionnaire.’

  ‘Favorite Web sites?’

  It’s a trap, because Kali knows I can’t resist showing off my latest Web discoveries. Soon we’re surfing and laughing, and by the time Syd gets back, we’ve even set up a Gmail account in the name of Group Daisy, the two things that brought us together. The password is Banksy.

  It’s not enough to cheer Syd up. ‘That was horrible,’ she says.

  ‘Why? What happened?’ Now I feel guilty about abandoning my client. ‘You think her friend isn’t interested?’