by Farhana Zia
“Show me, show me!” Choti Dahdi put her nose an inch away from the spoon.
“What do you think?” Amma asked.
“Go, go! This is no bug. It’s a fat raisin!” She lifted the bug/raisin off the spoon and popped it in her mouth. “Silly, silly children!”
“Ewww!” Zayd and I cried at the same time.
OCD smacked her lips in delight. “All is vhell,” she declared. “All is vhell.”
Zayd’s such an idiot!
December 10
11:00 p.m.
Dear Allah,
Mom says it’s late but I’m not sleepy. So much happened on this special day. Some of it was really great but some wasn’t. I’ll tell You the bad part first. It’s Sehr. Just a few days ago it was her sister, and now it’s her! I can’t believe it. Why, though? It’s just a piece of cloth … and they were minding their own business anyway, right? She acts brave but I think she’s scared. And then I think about Marwa (Amal too) and I get really confused. Why did You make some of us braver than others? Marwa told me once I should just try to be me, but when I am scared, I want to be like her.
It was a great Eid and I got great presents.
Yours truly,
A.
PS Eid Mubarak! Or Eid Mubrook, as Marwa would say.
Campaign Highs
The Glen Meadow student council campaign was firmly underway. With only a few more days left to get out the vote, everyone scurried about, trying to get things done.
Josh didn’t seem worried. He sauntered down the hallway, cool as a cucumber, shaking hands and giving thumbs-up as though the election was already neatly wrapped up and tucked away in his hip pocket.
Winnie and I put up my posters. Madison, Leah, and Carly followed behind making sure the spacing was even. We had worked very hard on the slogans.
VOTE FOR ALIYA! SHE WILL GO TO BAT FOR YOU.
(for the jocks)
VOTE FOR ALIYA! SHE CARES. SHE WILL WATCH YOUR BACK.
(for the unpopular kids and the nerds)
VOTE FOR ALIYA! SHE IS TRUE TO HER WORD.
(for the rest of the kids)
Juliana strutted like a peacock. Her life-sized posters showed her in a perfect X-shaped cheerleader leap, hair flying and pompoms shaking.
REACH FOR NEW HEIGHTS! VOTE FOR JULIANA!
Marwa kept to herself. Sometimes I saw her in quiet conversations with kids, but she wasn’t making a lot of noise like the rest of us. Her posters weren’t that great either. I guess she didn’t have a campaign manager like Winnie giving her good advice. But mostly I suspected her hijab was getting in the way.
When Juliana started handing out friendship bracelets and baseball cards, I got really worried. An alarming number of kids were sporting the bracelets now and the boys were already trading cards.
“Is she allowed to do that?” I asked Winnie.
“I don’t think there are any rules against it,” Winnie said. “But this makes me nervous. You should bring something in as quickly as possible.”
“Mom could bake a batch of cupcakes,” I said.
“Tell her to make samosas. I love her samosas!”
“I don’t know … Kids might not like them …”
“You worry too much.”
“It won’t work anyway,” I said. “We’re not even allowed to bring food to share anymore.”
“Oh yeah!” Winnie growled. “I forgot. That rule sucks big time!”
“We need to do something, though,” I said. “Juliana’s killing us with all her handouts.”
“Let’s check our to-do list.” Winnie ran through each item. “‘Put up posters.’ We’ve done that. ‘Talk up the campaign during lunch.’ Check. Here’s one we haven’t tried yet. ‘Get proactive!’ Talk to Josh. He definitely holds the ticket to the boys’ block.”
My hands suddenly got clammy.
“Hold on!”
I couldn’t talk to Josh. How could I? I got tongue-tied when he even looked at me.
“You talk to him, Winnie. Please, please, please?”
The next morning Juliana stopped me in the hall. “You’re the one who did it!” she hissed.
I had no idea what she was talking about.
“Don’t act all innocent!” she screamed. “You pulled my best poster down! It was there by the front door yesterday and then today, poof, it’s gone!”
“I didn’t do it!” I protested. I wouldn’t. I’d be grounded for life if I ever did anything that backhanded and sneaky.
By ten o’clock, there was more bad news. Two of my posters were missing too.
“I bet Juliana’s getting back at you,” Winnie suggested.
“What should I do?”
“You should go to Mrs. Doyle, pronto!” Leah said.
“I can’t,” I said. “I don’t know for sure if it was Juliana. It could have been Austin. He’s the one who really hates me.”
We checked out Marwa’s posters, but they were all still there.
“I don’t know what she was thinking when she made these posters,” I said to Leah. “There’s not one thing in them about her.”
Kids are the future.
Kids don’t need talking to. They need listening to.
Kids find everything in nothing.
Grown-ups find nothing in everything.
“Hi!” Marwa said. “What do you think of my posters?”
I hadn’t even noticed her standing nearby.
“Um … you can’t even see your name,” I pointed out. “And they’re all pretty small.”
“I think they’re kind of neat,” Leah said.
Madison nodded.
I turned to them in surprise. “Really?”
“Yup. It’s like they’re talking to me personally,” Madison said.
“They make kids feel important, you know?” Leah added.
“Thanks!” Marwa said. “Speaking of posters, I heard some disappeared today.”
“I bet it’s Austin,” I said. “He never liked me all that much, but now he really hates me.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t hate Juliana,” Winnie said. “And her posters disappeared too. But Marwa’s are still up. Hmm … totally confusing!”
“I have a theory about the posters,” Marwa said. “I’m thinking that it might be the tape.”
“You mean the posters are falling off the wall?” I asked. “Yours seem to be fine.”
“Precisely.” Marwa smiled. “They’re much smaller than the others.”
“They need to be much bigger,” I said. “And more colorful too.”
“Her posters are teeny, but the message isn’t,” Winnie said.
“It’s not the tape,” I insisted. “It’s either Juliana or Austin or both of them.”
“I really, really like Marwa’s message,” Madison said.
“Yeah, me too,” added Leah.
Juliana’s friendship bracelets were a huge hit. I had to get proactive really fast!
Reluctantly, I went to look for Josh. I found him on the basketball court, in the middle of a game. He made three baskets in a row—bam … bam … bam—with no effort at all. I stood on the sideline, trying to decide what I was going to say and how I was going to say it. Before I knew it, the recess bell rang. Josh threw the ball to Matt and walked off the court.
I took an extra big breath. “Er … hi.”
Josh looked at me blankly. “Hi.”
“Great game,” I said.
“Thanks.”
“I’m going to vote for you.”
“Cool.”
When I didn’t say anything more, he started to walk away.
“I’m running for class rep in Mrs. Doyle’s room.” My words came out in a breathless rush as I hurried to catch up with him.
“Cool,” he said again, without breaking a step.
I watched him go. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I said to myself.
But then he stopped and turned around, squinting at me.
Maybe he wanted to ask me to help him with hi
s campaign or something like that. I sucked in my breath and waited for him to speak.
“What’s your name again?” he called.
“A … Aliya.”
“Right!” He strode away without a look back at me.
He hadn’t even known my name.
More posters were missing the following week.
Mr. Belotti walked by, carrying a tall stack of brown paper towel packages.
“Good morning, Mr. Belotti,” I said. “I was wondering … have you seen … do you know anything about my posters? We had stuck them up in the halls and they, um … seem to be missing.”
“Oh, they were yours, were they?” He glowered at me. “You kids should know better than to use such cheap tape.”
“Huh?”
“You need stronger tape for the posters, kiddo. They fell down and made a mess of the hallway. I had to throw some of them out.”
“Did you have to get rid of them?” I protested. “We worked very hard to make them.”
“Not my job to pick up after you, kiddo,” Mr. Belotti growled.
Marwa was right! It was the tape. Amma’s old roll of tape from the basement wasn’t strong enough to hold my posters up. But defective tape didn’t explain Juliana’s missing poster.
“Maybe her designer tape was old too!” Winnie said when I told her what Mr. Belotti had said.
“I guess her posters were so big that no tape could hold them up,” I said.
“Yeah,” Winnie chuckled. “As big as her head.”
Wednesday, December 11
9:30 p.m.
Dear Allah,
I suppose it wouldn’t be the end of the world if I lost. I feel pretty good about being in the race in the first place. In a way it’s like Ramadan: a challenge to be met. Badi Amma is very proud of me. She can’t stop talking about the campaign. When OCD heard us discussing it, she asked, “Aii, what is estoodent kunsul?”
I may not win this race, but I’ve come up with a few things to try anyway:
Figure out a way to get attention away from Juliana.
Talk to Josh again; convince him this time; speak up!
Compliment Ellen on her new haircut.
Help Tracy with her social studies homework.
Write my speech.
Talk to Amma about the butterflies in my stomach.
Yours truly,
A
PS I can get stronger tape for my posters, but I wish they had a stronger message (like Marwa’s).
OCD’s Diamonds
OCD sprawled comfortably on the recliner in the TV room, fingering her prayer beads and reciting Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar with her eyes closed. Her beads clicked rhythmically—each one the size of a pea but as clear and luminous as a sparkling water drop. If someone didn’t know any better, they’d think my OCD was a very rich old lady.
“Where did you get your beads?” I asked.
“Makah Sharif,” OCD replied. “Holy Mecca. Al humdu lillah, very, very expensive!”
“On your pilgrimage?” I asked.
“Yes, yes. Ninety-nine beads. A bead for each one of Allah’s great attributes. Come, come. Recite them for us. Now! Juldi, juldi!”
I shook my head, ashamed. I couldn’t.
“Aii!” she said. “Tch … tch.”
“The beads are beautiful, Choti Dahdi,” I said.
OCD nodded and continued reciting Allah’s praise.
“You should say ‘thank you’ when someone pays you a compliment,” I muttered.
“Eh? Kya bole? Vhaat you say?”
“Nothing,” I mumbled.
“Then why were lips moving up and down going pitter, pitter?”
I snapped my book shut and turned on the TV. An advertisement for a new program came on.
“La hol walla!” OCD screeched. “The ujjad woman is showing legs up to there!”
She stormed out, not noticing that her prayer beads had fallen from the pocket of her abbayah. I opened my mouth to speak but quickly changed my mind. Not yet. First I’d make her sweat a little to make her pay for the zillion errands she made me run and for the shrieking and criticizing too.
The beads caught the light and glittered like stars. Winnie’d think they were gorgeous too. I’d show them to her and return them before OCD even noticed them missing. I tucked the prayer beads away in my pocket.
The next day, my friends gawked at the beads I had twisted around my wrist. Pleased at their reaction, I told them that it was a diamond bracelet that had been in my family for a long time.
It wasn’t long before Juliana heard about them. When we were lining up for lunch, she leaned over and said to me, “I heard you have some sort of bracelet.”
“I do.” My face felt hot.
“Let me see.”
I held out my wrist.
“Those are diamonds?” she asked. When I nodded, she raised an eyebrow. “No way!”
“Way!” I said.
“Yeah, right!” she muttered.
Juliana obviously didn’t want me to know it, but I could tell she was impressed. She told some other girls and they told their friends and I soon was the center of attention.
“She’s jealous,” I told Winnie gleefully. “She’s bright green with envy!”
Winnie gave me a high five. “Are you kidding?” she exclaimed. “Who wouldn’t be?”
Fifteen minutes before the end of the last class, I raised my hand to ask permission to go to the bathroom. The jingle of the beads drew everyone’s eyes again, making me feel like a Hollywood celebrity.
I danced down the hall, swerved toward the girls’ room, and grabbed the door handle. As I went through the door, the bracelet snagged on the latch. Ping, ping, ping … a shower of beads bounced onto the bathroom floor and scattered everywhere!
I gaped stupidly for a second or two, then dropped to my knees. With shaking hands, I chased down eleven errant attributes of Allah. My heart hammered in my chest and a buzz droned in my ear. In a flash, my celebrity glow vanished and I was left with the very scary prospect of my great-grandaunt’s wrath. My hands shook as I collected the rest of the beads and stuffed them into my pocket.
“What’s wrong with you?” Winnie asked me as we settled into our seats on the bus.
“I don’t feel so good,” I admitted.
“Are you going to be sick? It’s a good thing we’re almost home!”
Home was the last place I wanted to be. OCD was there, her broken beads were in my pocket, and I had absolutely no idea what I was going to tell her.
OCD pounced like a hungry tigress as soon as I stepped through the door. “Have you seen them?” she demanded.
My heart hammered in my chest. “Assalam alaikum, Choti Dahdi,” I said, trying to buy some time.
“Yes, yes … Assalam alaikum,” she replied. “Have you seen our prayer beads?”
“Prayer beads?” I tried to sound casual but my insides were shaking like leaves in a hurricane.
“Aii! What prayer beads, she asks!” She turned to Amma in disgust.
“Choti Dahdi can’t find her prayer beads,” Amma said. “I was hoping you knew where they were.”
“I don’t know anything,” I muttered, squirming a little.
“I don’t either,” Zayd added.
Amma looked slightly defeated. “We’ll find them, Aunt dear. They didn’t walk away and certainly no one took them.”
“Ai hai! Ai hai!” OCD lamented. “We will ask Bibi Sayeda for help.”
Bibi Sayeda was a saintly person who helped people find lost things. Once you had found your lost object, you were required to do a form of obeisance by making fourteen salaams to her, followed by giving alms to the poor. The amazing thing was that Bibi Sayeda had died a very long time ago, but according to Choti Dahdi she could still help from the other side.
“Yes, you do that,” Amma encouraged.
I escaped to the sanctuary of Zayd’s room, but after a few minutes Amma walked in. “I came to look here one more time—” She stopp
ed midsentence and raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong, Aliya? You don’t look so well.”
The concern on my grandmother’s face was more than I could take. I burst out crying and my whole body began to tremble.
Amma quickly wrapped me up in her arms. “What’s wrong, Meri Jaan?” she asked, rocking me gently back and forth. “Are you all right?”
“N-no,” I sobbed. “I … I am n-not all right. Nothing is all r-right!”
I told my grandmother the whole story—about Juliana’s posters and the bracelets and the eye rolling and then I told her about Choti Dahdi’s prayer beads and the bathroom door latch.
I waited for my grandmother to say something, but for the longest time she didn’t speak a word.
“Amma?” I cried, looking into her eyes.
“Meri Jaan,” she finally sighed. “You chose the wrong way to impress your friends. Diamonds don’t matter. Truth and honesty do. That is what people remember us for, in the end.”
“I was going to return them. Honest,” I wept. “I didn’t know everything would go this wrong.”
“A wrong can be made right,” Amma said. She held me and let me cry and cry. When I had calmed down, she said, “I think you know what you must do.”
“Do I have to?” I pleaded. “Couldn’t we tell her the prayer beads were under the cushions or something?”
“We could, but should we?”
“I guess not,” I admitted.
“We must own up to our mistakes. I’m afraid that takes courage but it is the right thing to do. Do you have the courage, Meri Jaan?”
No, I wanted to admit to her, I don’t. I was a famous Fraidy Cat. I was scared of Austin, threatened by Marwa, awed by Juliana, and nervous around Josh, and all I wanted to do was run and hide from Choti Dahdi.
“Meri Jaan?” my grandmother prodded, but I shook my head forcefully. She sighed.
“Listen to this true story.” She hugged me closer. “A little girl planted a mango seed in dry earth. The well was a great distance away and the road was rocky and sun was blazing and the bucket was heavy but the little girl was a brave soldier. She walked and walked until she had blisters on her feet, but she kept going because she had to fetch water for her seed. When the mango ripened, the girl took a bite. And straightaway, she forgot about the blisters but she remembered the sweet, sweet taste of the mango for a very long time.”
