Love Inc.

by Yvonne Collins

  The first thing that hits me is the smell. It’s like a hundred pairs of dirty socks rotting in a laundry hamper during the hottest week of the summer.

  I expected Joe’s Sports Center to be like the gyms on TV – bright, clean, and spacious, with high-end machines lined up in front of gleaming mirrors or windows. Joe’s is exactly the opposite. The windows are covered with a dark blue film, leaving overhead fluorescent lights to cast a sickly green glow over a collection of ancient weight machines and mats. Chipped mirrors mounted along one wall reflect a row of cracked leather punching bags hanging from the ceiling.

  Two guys are sparring in a boxing ring that sits in the center of the room, while a dozen others work at the bags or weight machines. There are no signs of female life, but the guys seem too focused on their workouts to pay any attention to me, as I stand watch for Angel Garcia, the object of our newest client’s affection.

  Patrice contacted us at the urging of Stacey, Love, Inc.’s biggest fan. Stacey took our advice and kept her two-month anniversary celebration (relatively) simple, with a bike ride and a sunrise breakfast, and Graham said the magic words: ‘I love you.’ Stacey was so thrilled that she gave us the ballooning tickets as a bonus.

  After noticing Angel in her neighborhood, Patrice is thinking about inviting him to a formal dinner-dance at her private girls’ school. The only problem is that they haven’t exchanged more than a few glances on the street. Patrice has never made the first move with a guy before and wants to know if it’s worth the risk. She hired us to find out if Angel is single, and whether they have anything in common.

  A guy matching Angel’s photo comes out of the locker room. I take a deep breath to settle my nerves. This is a bit different from my usual Love, Inc. cases. Kali wanted to do it, but Syd and I worried that Angel would hit on her, which would ruin everything for Patrice. I’m only slightly bummed that I’m considered the safe bet. I remind myself that it’s just business. We exploit Kali’s natural gift for some cases and put a lid on it for others. I have my own skills. Kali bubbles over with options, so if she were in charge of mediation, no one would stay together long. She’s a ‘grass is always greener’ type; I’m a ‘look how green this grass is’ type; and Syd’s a ‘torch the lawn’ type. The balance works for us.

  Through my various mediations, I’ve become nearly as good as Kali at drawing information out of people. I no longer stay up all night before one of these assignments, trying to hash out every angle with Oliver and Gordon, but I still wake up nervous.

  Taking a deep breath, I join Angel at the free weights, introduce myself, and make my pitch: ‘I’m doing a story for community television on combat sports, and I wondered if we could talk about boxing.’

  Angel shrugs and sits down on a bench. ‘Sure. As long as I can do my workout at the same time.’

  I turn on Syd’s video camera and zoom in on his impressive biceps. ‘That’s a great tattoo. What does it symbolize?’

  He slides under a set of barbells and positions his hands. ‘It’s Chinese for “invincible.” It inspires me to work harder.’

  I bluff my way through a few superficial questions about his training regimen and fight strategies before shifting to his personal life. As I follow him around the circuit, he tells me that he recently moved here from Chicago, loves screamo music, reads graphic novels, watches war movies, is failing English, acing math, eats mostly chicken, and is allergic to shellfish. His best friend is a competitive swimmer back in Chicago, he has one younger brother and a pet iguana named Neville. He refuses to wear designer labels or watch reality TV. He can’t decide who’s hotter, Megan Fox or Scarlett Johannson – but he spends an entire set of bicep curls considering the question. He’s traveled to Mexico and Canada and is working part-time at this very gym to save for a trip to Asia after high school. When his fighting career ends, he’d like to be a sports commentator.

  I’m not sure where Patrice’s interests lie, but by the time Angel is finished pumping iron, I’ve pumped him for enough information to give her a sense of what makes this guy tick.

  Only one key piece of the puzzle is missing.

  ‘So, does your girlfriend look more like Megan or Scarlett?’ I ask, tagging along to a punching bag.

  ‘My ex had a bit of Scarlett in her, I guess,’ he says, holding out his hands so a gym staffer can put on boxing gloves. ‘But I don’t go for a particular type.’

  Once the staffer leaves, he adds, ‘I like a pretty face and a hot body as much as the next guy, but I also like what’s in here.’ He taps a big glove against my head. ‘And here.’ He taps the other glove against my chest and I know he’s referring to my soul, not my bra size. ‘My ex was a contender.’

  ‘So why’d you break up?’

  ‘Because Chicago’s a long drive.’ He takes his first jab at the bag. ‘I didn’t want to spend my last year of high school staying true to a girl I’ll hardly ever see.’

  ‘Then I guess you weren’t that into her in the first place.’

  He drills the bag with a series of quick punches. ‘I was crazy about her, but life’s too short to spend it waiting. There are other contenders around.’

  ‘That’s not very romantic.’ Not after what he said about loving what’s inside. It doesn’t say much for love’s staying power.

  ‘It’s honest,’ he puffs. ‘And who knows; maybe we’ll get back together later.’

  With the camera as a shield, I feel bold enough to ask the question that’s always on my mind. ‘Did you cheat on her?’

  He stops punching and catches the bag. Looking straight into the camera he says, ‘Nope. That’s not respect. I told her the truth and now we’re friends.’

  ‘So exes can be friends? A lot of people have trouble with that concept.’

  ‘I think it’s possible as long as you fight fair.’

  I guess that’s true. After all, I helped Sinead and Leo fight fair, and now they’re friends.

  Using the back of a glove to brush away a strand of hair from his sweaty forehead, he says, ‘You’re asking a lot of personal questions. Is this story about boxing or dating?’

  Oops. ‘Boxing. But I want viewers to know the man behind all that muscle.’

  He smiles. ‘And what if I wanted to know the girl behind that camera?’

  Double oops.

  ‘I’m not wearing it, and you can’t make me.’ I know I sound like a brat, but I’ve been totally blindsided by Nani and Mom. There wasn’t time to develop an elegant resistance strategy.

  They have some nerve. It’s Thanksgiving weekend and I volunteered to come to Mom’s. For the first time ever, my family is spending Thanksgiving apart. Saliyah is at Dad’s, and they’re going to Uncle Paul’s for the big dinner. Uncle Paul isn’t really our uncle, just Dad’s best friend since forever, and unlike Dad, he knows what to do with a turkey.

  I could have gone too, but it didn’t feel right to leave Mom alone at Thanksgiving – at least, alone without a kid. I could tell from her expression when I arrived that I’d made the right call. She’d even made a batch of my favorite lemon-andbasil shampoo.

  Turns out she was just warming me up for the news that we’ve been invited to a mehndi – basically a pre-wedding event, featuring a lot of curry and henna. To me, it sounds just as boring as a bridal shower. At first I outright refused to go, but Mom got that look again – the ‘I only have one kid home at Thanksgiving’ look – and I folded. Would it kill me to spend a couple of hours of my life making Mom happy? No, it would not.

  Then Nani stepped in and insisted I wear a salwar kameez. The bride is the granddaughter of one of Nani’s oldest friends, Naheed, who’s come from Karachi for the monthlong lead-up to the wedding. Nani wants me to make a good impression. Well, I’ve got news for her: she can dress me up, but I’m never going to pass for an MOT.

  ‘This is a big day for your grandmother,’ Mom whispers. ‘You wear that tunic you got at the carnival all the time anyway. What’s the big deal?’

 
The big deal is that I wear it on my terms. If I wear a tunic out for dinner with Dad, it’s cool. If I wear it into a crowd of MOTs, I’m a fraud. That should be obvious to Mom, but apparently it isn’t, because she’s practically forcing my arms into the sleeves.

  Nani bustles into the bedroom carrying the matching pants. She must have picked them up at the carnival when I wasn’t looking.

  ‘No way,’ I say. ‘Nani, for girls my age, mehndis are casual.’

  She tilts her head. ‘Oh? How many mehndis have you attended?’

  That would be zero, a record I’d hoped to maintain.

  I put the pants on. Otherwise, there would be two pairs of hands helping me into them.

  Mom pulls the car up beside the bride’s house and lets Nani out before parking down the street. ‘Zahra,’ she says, looking at me in the rearview mirror.

  ‘What?’ I can feel my lower lip jutting just like Nani’s does when she’s sulking.

  ‘Don’t embarrass me, please. It’s only two hours.’

  I undo my seat belt and get out of the car. ‘You said an hour and a half.’

  The least she could do is acknowledge that I’m walking into alien territory. Nani’s friends are going to ooze disapproval at my hair, pale skin, and freckles, and she’ll make sure they know I’m a disappointment to her in every way. Either that, or they’ll try to assimilate me. I’m heading into battle.

  On the stairs, where Nani is waiting for us, I pause to collect myself. I can do this. I walk into tougher situations with Love, Inc. all the time, and while I stumble now and then, I come out feeling stronger for the experience. Today’s MOT chick party will not defeat me. I will show them Zahra Ahmed-MacDuff isn’t ashamed to be hyphenated.

  An old woman only an inch taller than Nani squeals and throws her arms around my grandmother as we come through the door. ‘Abira!’

  This must be Naheed. Although her granddaughter was born and raised in Texas, like me, she’s marrying an MOT and having a traditional wedding with about three hundred guests. Fifty or more women and girls will come and go this afternoon as the bride and her wedding party get tattooed with henna.

  Nani’s friend embraces my mom. ‘Sana, you’re more beautiful than ever. And this must be Zahra.’ She releases my mother and reaches out with a tattooed hand to run her fingers lightly over my braid. ‘Khoobsurat.’ Turning to Nani, she rattles off a stream of Urdu.

  Nani’s smile fades. ‘Naheed loves your hair,’ Mom translates. No wonder Nani is upset. With my roots starting to show, there’s no hiding that I’m a redhead in denial.

  Grabbing my chin, Naheed shakes me so hard that the little gold beads on my heirloom earrings vibrate. ‘Nice to meet you,’ she says.

  ‘Khush aamdeed,’ I reply, offering one of the few Urdu expressions I know as I squirm out of the finger vise. ‘Welcome’ might not be quite the right greeting in someone else’s home, but it’s the best I’ve got.

  Naheed leads us through the house to the family room. The decor is quite modern, with traditional tapestries hung on white walls, making them appear more like art than stuffy antiques. Among the tapestries is a huge canvas, adorned with watercolor squiggles.

  ‘Quite pretty, isn’t it?’ Mom says, catching me admiring the painting. ‘It means “Allah.” A lot of Muslims have similar paintings in their homes.’

  The smell of curry blends with perfume as we step into a family room buzzing with the chatter of nearly thirty women, who are sitting on furniture, rugs, and throw cushions. As I suspected, several girls my age are wearing jeans. I catch Nani’s eye and gesture to the jeans, but she pretends not to understand.

  The family room opens up onto the kitchen, where a granite island is stacked with enough food to feed an army.

  Naheed takes us over to meet the bride, a beautiful girl in her mid-twenties. After greeting us in a Texan drawl, the bride says, ‘Y’all have fun, now.’

  Mom gets sidetracked by an acquaintance, leaving me to be paraded around to the old ladies by Nani. They’re not shy about pinching and prodding me, and scanning me head to foot.

  ‘Abira, how pretty she is,’ one old lady says. ‘She has your eyes.’ Giving me a wink, she adds, ‘We must introduce her to my grandson one day. He’s going to be a dentist.’

  Finally I escape to the kitchen, where Mom is loading a plate. ‘They knew everything about me,’ I complain. ‘From my grades to my birth date. Two ladies asked about Riaz.’

  ‘It’s a tight community,’ Mom says. ‘Nani and her friends like to share.’

  ‘Well, I don’t need strangers knowing my business.’

  Mom passes me an empty plate. ‘How is Riaz?’

  ‘History, that’s how he is.’ I select a couple of beef kebabs with a yogurt dip and some salad.

  Mom drops a samosa on top of my pile. ‘They’re lentil,’ she says. ‘Not spicy.’

  We head back into the family room to find a seat beside Nani and a woman of about Mom’s age. ‘Your grandmother tells me you’re a wonderful cook,’ the woman says.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Nani says. ‘Her little cakes won first place in a baking competition a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Just at my sister’s school bake sale,’ I add.

  ‘But there were fifty entries,’ Nani says.

  Nani is bragging about me. Me! I’ve never witnessed that before. I guess it takes the right company to bring it out.

  Smirking at my expression, Mom whispers, ‘It was only forty entries.’

  ‘Of course, I am quite a cook, myself,’ Nani says, taking credit for my talent. ‘Many have said I make the best burfi in all of Karachi.’

  ‘My daughter, Liza, loves burfi,’ the woman says, summoning a girl about my age.

  Liza is wearing a cool purple tunic over faded skinny jeans. ‘I’ve seen you at Austin,’ she says. ‘So tell me, what are Stains and Rambo really like?’

  Mom’s smirk has vanished. ‘Stains and Rambo?’

  ‘Those are nicknames they got in Boggle club,’ I say.

  Liza laughs. ‘Do you want to get your hands painted?’

  I follow Liza to the small circle of teens sitting on a rug with the henna artists. Some are having designs painted onto their hands or feet, or even their shoulders. Liza’s friend, Tara, another MOT who goes to Austin, is getting the finishing touches on a delicate vine that winds up her arm and bursts into a display of leaves and flowers.

  I decide on a simple pattern of swirling lines and dots that circles my upper arm in an inch-wide band. It looks great, but smells of fermenting grass and mud.

  A loud noise makes me jump. Behind us, a woman is sitting with a dhol – a double-sided barrel drum – strung around her neck. She’s beating on one end with a spoon, and a girl joins her, beating the other end with both hands. The rhythm slowly picks up until Tara and Liza get up to dance. Soon the bridal party joins them, spinning until their colorful silks blur.

  Tara beckons for me, but I stay where I am, watching as Naheed tries to pull Nani to her feet. Nani resists, until a few other women start chanting, ‘Abira, Abira.’ Finally, Nani stands, and someone puts another dhol around her neck. It looks big enough to topple her, but she stands up straight.

  Nani starts beating the end of a drum with her hands, settling into a rhythm that becomes faster and more complicated. I watch in fascination as my grandmother’s ancient fingers fly nimbly around the rim of the drum, coaxing combinations of sounds from the hide.

  ‘I told you she played the drums back home,’ Mom says, standing over me. ‘You didn’t know the old bird had it in her, did you?’

  Laughing, she pulls me to my feet and starts to dance. I haven’t seen Mom look so happy in a long time.

  An hour later, Nani signals that she’s ready to go. I’m still hanging with Liza and Tara and their friends, who are teaching me traditional wedding songs and dances. No one seems shocked that I didn’t know them already.

  While Nani says her goodbyes, Mom and I head out to collect the car.

 
; ‘I have a lot to be thankful for,’ she says, slinging an arm around me. ‘Including my gracious daughter, who made me very proud today.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. I don’t need the credit, though. My trip to an alien land turned out to be fun.

  Her grip on my shoulder tightens. ‘Now, let’s talk about Stains and Rambo.’

  ‘Oh my God, I love this place,’ Kali says, flitting from rack to rack in Blue Velvet, a funky vintage clothing store where the sales staff knows Syd by name.

  I suggested we check it out together, mostly to cheer Syd up. She’s still mad at me for using my so-called ‘wiles’ on Angel, even though Patrice understood. The interview proved they had nothing in common, and she’s asked Kali to find her a more appropriate date.

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve never been here, Z,’ Syd says. Then she takes stock of my outfit and adds, ‘Or maybe I can.’

  ‘Gee, thanks,’ I say, although it’s not like I don’t know I play it safe in the fashion department. If you’ve seen it in the Gap, chances are you’ve seen it on me.

  ‘I just mean you could afford to spice it up a little,’ Syd says. ‘Where’s that fashionista who showed up at the Maternity Ward party?’

  ‘It would be nice to see her more often,’ Kali says, holding up a teal satin top that ties over one shoulder. ‘This would look great on you.’

  ‘Try it on,’ Syd says. ‘Maybe with a little bling.’ She passes me a black choker adorned with a gold-and-green butterfly.

  By the time we make it to the fitting room, they’ve loaded me down with stuff and picked up a few choice items for themselves.

  Since one of the fitting rooms is occupied, we all cram into the other. It’s small, but we manage to squirm into clothes, jewelry, shoes, and wigs, giggling the whole time.

  Eventually we hear the curtain slide open in the next room, and a girl calls, ‘Bunny?’ The bell over the door jingles and she calls again, ‘Bunny? Where are you?’

  A gruff voice answers. ‘Don’t call me that.’

  Inside our changing room, we all stop talking, and Kali mouths, ‘Fletcher.’