by Farhana Zia
“I’m taking a little break now. I’ll start up again pretty soon. Are you?”
“Yes. Al humdu lillah.”
“How do you do it?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you always seem so calm. Don’t you ever get hungry?”
“Sure, I get hungry,” she said. “But I try not to think about it. Plus, it’s easier when you’re busy. It helps to keep your mind off it.” Some of her hair peeked out from under her hijab, which matched her hazel eyes perfectly.
“Your hair’s a pretty color,” I said, sitting down next to her. “Almost golden. I hadn’t noticed before.” I looked at the book she was reading. There was a picture of a young girl on the cover: blonde hair, side ponytails, bangs, defiant face. “What are you reading?”
“It’s something Sarah recommended. The Great Gilly Hopkins.”
“You like it?”
“It’s actually a pretty good book. I really like the main character, Gilly.”
“What’s so great about her?”
“I’m just beginning to find out,” Marwa said. “She seems to have a lot of spunk. You know, sort of brash and fearless.”
That sounded like Winnie and Nafees. “Tell me more about her.” I really wanted to know. I could use some spunk.
“She has a tough life and she has to struggle to deal with everything. She’s pretty hard to get along with.”
“She doesn’t sound all that likeable to me.”
“Well, she isn’t at first. But her family situation explains a lot of her behavior. Her mother doesn’t want her and so Gilly is sent to different foster homes. She acts up all the time and has a terrible attitude. Consequently, nobody else wants her either. But then she’s sent to live with this lady called Trotter who has a big heart but is generally a slob.”
“I’d hate it if my mom didn’t want me,” I said.
“Talk about problems, huh?”
“Is there a happy ending?” I asked.
“I haven’t got to the end yet, but I’m predicting there is,” Marwa said. “I have a feeling Gilly is going to learn to make the best of the situation and channel her anger in the right direction. At least that’s what I hope happens.”
“She sounds interesting.” I sighed. “She doesn’t sound like someone stuck in a hole.”
“Stuck in a hole?”
“You know … when someone feels sorry for herself and wallows and cries ‘Poor me, poor me’ all the time?”
“Hmm. I don’t think so. This girl strikes me as a fighter, not a wallower.”
I stared at her. She always sounded so grown-up. “Are you sure you’re a kid? How old are you anyway?”
Marwa smiled. “When I was little, I was very sick and lost a year of school. That makes me one year older than you.”
She was the same age as Amal and Nafees. But she was so much more serious than Amal and a lot more mature than Nafees. I looked into her face again, at her eyes and at the birthmark near her lips.
“You’re doing it again,” Marwa said. “Are you seeing something that shouldn’t be there?”
I shook my head. “Nah. It’s all good.”
Marwa snapped her book shut. “Let’s walk around for a while,” she said. “I need to stretch my legs.”
“You shouldn’t strain yourself too much since you’re fasting,” I cautioned.
“Don’t worry. It’ll be fine,” she said.
We walked past the playground equipment and headed for the basketball courts.
“Where’s Winnie?” Marwa asked.
“She’s out sick today.”
“You’re best friends, aren’t you?”
I was surprised she knew that. Had she being paying attention to me when I was doing my best to avoid her? “Yeah. I’ve known her forever.”
“You must talk about everything,” she said. “That happens when you’re best friends, right?”
I thought about that. Winnie and I talked about a lot of things but not about everything. For instance, I hadn’t told her I wished Marwa hadn’t come to Glen Meadow. Winnie wouldn’t have understood, plus she would’ve asked a ton of questions.
“Yeah, mostly,” I replied. “Do you have someone to talk to?”
“My dad and I have all kinds of interesting talks.”
“I meant a kid,” I said.
“I have friends. But a best friend? Not yet. Maybe soon.”
We stopped at the Bradford pear. In early spring, it resembled a giant snow cone. Now it was surrounded by dead leaves. I kicked them up and watched them rain back down. We watched Austin throwing rocks at the fence on the other side of the schoolyard.
“That’s one angry kid,” Marwa said.
“And a pretty weird one. Do you think he has problems at home? Like Gilly?”
“Who knows?” she said. “I saw him talking with you earlier. Was he saying mean stuff?”
I shrugged.
“He’s said mean things to me too.” Her voice was quiet but firm.
“He has?”
“It started after the apple incident,” she said. “Until then, I was just a strange bug for him to stare at.”
“What’s he been saying?”
“He says that outsiders should stay out of his country’s politics.”
She said it as though it was a funny joke but it was not. It’s because of your hijab, I wanted to say. But instead I asked her how she had handled it.
“I had to think about it a little,” Marwa said.
“And?”
“And … I asked him to vote for me in the election.”
“Oh, wow. What did he say?”
“Nothing. He was too shocked that I’d spoken to him. I told him I’d noticed that the other kids always listened to him. I said I probably wouldn’t win without his vote.”
“But his vote isn’t going to help you win the election.”
“I know that, but he doesn’t.”
“That’s pretty sneaky,” I said.
“What’s wrong with making someone feel good?” Marwa replied. “It’s only a teeny white lie and it’s not hurting anyone.”
“Did you also get that from your dad?” I asked. “Anyway, what did Austin do?”
“He gave this yeah-right! snort and left.”
“I can’t believe you’re running for class rep, though!” I blurted out. There, I’d said it.
“You can’t?”
“I mean, you just got here. You probably don’t even know all the kids yet. How can you be sure they’ll vote for you?”
Marwa shrugged. “I don’t know if they’ll vote for me.”
“Well?”
“But I hope they will.”
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll lose?” I asked.
“My dad says one never thinks of loss until it happens and then one deals with it. And anyway, if I lose …” She shrugged and went on. “I’ll never know unless I try, right?”
I found myself wanting to protect her from the hurt she was bound to feel when she lost the election. “Maybe you should’ve waited until next year to run for office.”
Marwa shook her head. “My dad says there’s no time like the present. He says the present’s the only moment we can control.”
The bell sounded and we walked back to the building. Marwa’s words replayed in my head the whole way in. She hadn’t sounded at all wishy-washy. She had sounded like a person whose mind was made up. Period.
“Well, good luck,” I said, giving her a thumbs-up. It seemed the right thing to do.
“Thanks,” she said. “Good luck to you too.”
Choti Dahdi
He called you a what?” Mom shouted, dropping her fork. The dinner table went silent.
“An alien,” I repeated. “That’s what he said.”
“Alien sounds like Aliya,” Zayd said. “She’d be a Martian if she were from Mars.”
“Be quiet, Zayd,” Amma snapped.
“See?” Mom said, turning to Baba.
“I can’t believe how casual you are about this.” Mom threw both her arms in the air. “Your daughter is bullied at school and you can sit there as placid and still as a pond?”
“People are afraid of what they don’t understand, Aliya,” Baba said. “They say and do stupid and—”
“And the innocent get hurt!” Mom interrupted, pointing at me. “It’s the people who simply go about their daily lives who get to feel the brunt of their anger.”
“Baba, could you talk to Mrs. Holmes about him?” I asked. “It’s not just me anymore. Austin has said mean things to Marwa too.” I told my parents what she had told me in the school yard.
“See? Now we are outsiders?” Mom said. “And this is coming from the mouth of babes? I want the flag out of the attic and on our front door today!”
“Why?” Zayd asked.
“So people will see it and know we are patriotic,” Mom replied.
“If it makes you feel better.” Baba smiled. “Are you climbing up there or do you want me to go?”
“What sort of question is that?” Mom said. “Do I look like an attic climber?”
“I pledge ‘allegems’ to the flag every day,” my brother announced.
“You mean ‘pledge of allegiance,’ dork!” I corrected.
“Enough, both of you,” said Baba. “Aliya, I’ll make an appointment with Mrs. Holmes soon. I’m sure we can work this out somehow.”
We ate in relative silence for a little while. Baba and Mom always used a fork, but Amma and Badi Amma ate with their fingers according to their tradition. They said all foods had their special eating utensil—there was the fork and knife for steak, chopsticks for shrimp lo mein, and fingers for rice and dhal.
Amma pushed all the spinach bits from the rim of Zayd’s plate back on his rice with her finger, but he scraped it away again. “How will you be strong like Popeye if you don’t eat your spinach?” Amma asked.
“I don’t want to be strong like him,” Zayd replied. “Aliya, who’s Popeye anyway?”
“Aliya Apa,” Badi Amma said sharply.
“Popeye is an ugly cartoon sailor with big muscles,” I replied. “Don’t you know anything?”
Right in the middle of dinner, the telephone rang.
“Probably one of those fund-raising calls,” Baba said, but Mom was already up.
“It’s Choti Dahdi!” she mouthed from the far end of the room.
“She should have let it ring,” Zayd whispered.
Mom held the phone to her ear for a very long time. She finally told my great-grandaunt goodbye and hung up. “She’s arriving the day after tomorrow!” she announced.
My brother and I looked at each other in dismay. We knew what that meant. Choti Dahdi would stay forever and turn everything upside down. I’d have to move out of my room into Zayd’s. Mom would charge about like a windup toy, changing the sheets, washing towels, cleaning the bathtub and sink—all so Choti Dahdi wouldn’t screech about damp smells and globs of toothpaste.
Choti Dadhi couldn’t help it, Amma said. She was who she was: a little weird, a little annoying, and a lot snoopy, sticking her long nose where it didn’t belong. Did we pray five times a day? Did we eat halal food? When was I going to cover my head with the hijab? Why did my knees show under my dress? Her teeth clicked when she chewed and she never said “excuse me” when she burped.
And she would be arriving just one week before Thanksgiving!
Mom took the news particularly hard. “What will I do about the turkey?” she cried.
Our Butterball was already in the freezer and the boxes of Pepperidge Farm stuffing and cans of Ocean Spray cranberry sauce had been purchased. The turkey was fine for us and for my aunts and uncles and their families who lived nearby. But Choti Dahdi only ate meat that was halal.
“She will eat the pulao and baghare baigan and kut … That will be enough for her,” Badi Amma growled.
“It’s the turkey that worries me,” Mom said. “She’ll hit the roof when she discovers it’s not halal.”
“We’ll never hear the end of it!” Amma moaned.
“We could pretend the Butterball is halal,” I suggested.
“Eh? Kya Bole?” asked Badi Amma, but Mom and Amma looked like I had just proposed robbing a bank.
I backpedaled quickly. “It’s just an idea. Sorry.”
“Tauba, tauba!” Amma said, striking her cheeks alternately with her hand, shaming me. She sounded like Choti Dahdi.
“I guess I’ll go to Horowitz Kosher Meat Market and get a kosher turkey,” Mom grumbled. “But turkeys never go on sale there.” Kosher meat was something like halal meat, so she knew it would be acceptable to Choti Dahdi.
“Kya Bole?” Badi Amma cupped her hand to her ear.
“She’s getting a kosher turkey!” Amma shouted.
“Hanh?”
Choti Dahdi was causing a big tizzy and she wasn’t even here yet!
I packed up my clothes to take to Zayd’s room while Mom gave mine the once-over.
“Why do I always have to move?” I grumbled. “Why can’t she sleep in Zayd’s room or the basement?”
“You know the answer to that, Aliya.” Mom gave me her you’re-pushing-my-limits look. “She’s an old lady. Besides, she’s a relative and a guest and we honor and respect our elders in this house.”
I knew I couldn’t win this fight, so I tried to show my annoyance in a different way. “You’re so worried about the halal turkey. What’s she going to eat before and after Thanksgiving?”
Mom flapped out a freshly laundered bed sheet and I grabbed it by its other end. Together we placed it on my bed and tucked in the corners.
“Indo/Pak Mart sells other meats and it’s only ten minutes away,” Mom said.
“You could get a halal turkey at Zabeeha Meats,” I suggested.
“I am not driving fifty miles,” Mom said in a voice that told me the discussion had ended.
Thursday, November 21
8:00 p.m.
Dear Allah,
I have officially lost my privacy. I moved into Zayd’s room. I’m sleeping on his top bunk bed.
OCD (Get it? Old Choti Dahdi) is coming tomorrow. Zayd and I are going to have to be on our best behavior around her. Mom has warned us to be especially respectful. My prediction is Zayd and I will be saying a lot of Assalam alaikums around OCD. It’s a good thing it’s not summer. I couldn’t wear shorts with her in the house.
I was hoping M wouldn’t ask about the fast today, but she did. I told her I was taking a break for two or three days. I’ll fast again on the weekend, just so OCD doesn’t throw a fit.
Please, can You do something about her visits? She just pops in and stays on and on and Mom makes me give up my room. I’m not even allowed to complain about it. But I suppose sleeping in Zayd’s room is a whole lot better than sleeping alone in a cold basement.
Austin called me an Alien. What an idiot! Baba’s going to talk to Mrs. Holmes. I wish I could handle it on my own—I really do. But I don’t exactly know how.
I’m running for homeroom rep. Winnie and I are starting our preparations for the campaign. Mom is going to buy the poster board. Amma has a lot of tape in the basement, along with the piles of used gift wrap she refuses to throw away.
I’ll tell You a secret: the real reason I finally made up my mind to run was M. I was really, really surprised to hear that she was going for it. And she’s being so casual about the whole thing. How does she do it? I wish I could be like that. But I’m also running because I want to beat Juliana.
Winnie says I can win; we just have to campaign really hard. I’m not afraid of hard work.
If I win, maybe Josh will be friendlier to me. I am hoping, anyway. I’ve decided I’m going to talk to him.
I sometimes imagine Josh kissing me on the lips!
I haven’t told a soul. Not even Winnie!
Yours truly,
A
PS If I win, it will
be fun to shout in Austin’s face, “Who’s the loser now?”
Thoroughly Mixed Up
The Bismillah sign on your door still loose! When in Allah’s name are you fixing?” Choti Dadhi demanded as soon as she stepped in the door before she even wished us her usual “Assalam alaikum.”
She was skinny like spaghetti and bent over like a fishhook. Her hijab came to a peak over her forehead, and a long tooth hung over her bottom lip like Strega Nona’s in the picture books. She clutched a walking cane in one hand and her prayer beads in the other. They were the biggest and shiniest crystals I had ever seen.
Badi Amma and OCD hugged each other. Then Zayd and I stepped forward, cupping our right hands to our foreheads to pay our respects and wish her peace.
“Adab, Choti Dahdi.”
“Assalam alaikum, Choti Dahdi.”
OCD returned our greetings solemnly. She pinched my chin with her fingertips, raised them to her own lips, and kissed them with a big smack: um-mah! Then she turned to my mother and said, “Your daughter become fat, fat. What you feeding, hanh?”
“What about you, Choti Dahdi?” Mom asked, trying to change the subject. “Are you hungry?”
“Not exactly. But we would eat ‘eespesheel K’ with banana slice and one percent milk.” She sat down at the table and waited for Mom to serve her. “The ‘sekeerity’ rang—bhaanh-bhaanh—for us in ‘Minnipolice’ airport,” she went on. “We told ‘sekeerity’ guard not to worry: It’s the ujjad metal in our knee!”
Zayd and I exchanged quick glances. Ujjad meant ‘horrible’ or ‘bad’ and we braced ourselves to hear it used a zillion times during Choti Dahdi’s visit.
Like it or not, our Choti Dahdi was here to stay.
On Saturday morning, OCD joined Mom, Amma, and me for suhur. Amma heaped scrambled eggs on my plate and told me not to leave a bite.
OCD’s tongue clicked in her mouth as she ate her cereal. “You have poor attitude about Ramadan one year ago, hmm?” she said. “Do you remember this?”
I shook my head.
“We fix you!” she said gleefully.
“How so?” asked Amma.
“With a nice, nice talk. Aliya say going without food and water for thirty days too hard,” OCD elaborated. “We ask her, ‘What is suhur for but to sustain you?’ We remind and remind that fasting is one of the five important practices of Islam and a solemn duty for Muslim.” She looked over at me. “Do you remember we say this, hanh?”
