“This is what they’re doing to us!” the man cried, his eyes wet and fever-red. “Knives on all sides. Move an inch and they’ll skin you alive, sew you up and skin you again, and tie your family to a car bumper and drag them by their ankles into the Rub Al-Khali. I’ve seen it, and you want us to be patient? You want us to say Insh’allah and wait for God to fix things?”
I had stood up and walked over, eyes fixed on my father’s face. His eyes had met mine with perfect calm, and his voice when he spoke to his attacker was as affectionate as if he were speaking to me alone.
“Patience isn’t weakness,” he’d said. “There are things to be feared more than death. You’re angry and impatient because you think things will change while you’re alive. They won’t. But they might change after you die. They might change because you died.”
Ahmed was swallowing, scratching his head nervously. “Do you remember what he said? How calm he was?”
I nodded. We were walking side by side along the pavement as if we were old friends, as if the simple sharing of a childhood memory, even a violent one, was enough to make us relax around each other.
“He’s my hero, Leena. I just had to say it. He opened my eyes. I’ve seen so much since then, things you’d never understand. Bootlickers like my father who take their baksheesh and let it stuff their mouths. Piece of shit—no, I won’t apologize for calling them that—piece of shit men who just say Insh’allah because it’s more convenient than doing anything. But Hadi Mutazil will never sign the taahud. He’ll never give up.”
I drew in a sharp breath. The autumn air sliced into my lungs and made me cough. I’d guessed that my father, like all political activists, would someday be given the taahud, a chance to confess to political crimes, recognize the king’s generosity and forgiveness, and promise obedience in exchange for release.
It just hadn’t occurred to me that he wouldn’t sign.
That he wouldn’t want to return to the family he’d supposedly been fighting for all along.
“And neither will we,” Ahmed said. “There are so many of us now. We text one another about meeting places because e-mail is monitored. We’d die for him. I wish you could see it.”
Still, I didn’t speak. It wasn’t pride but rage that was coursing through me, anger that seemed sudden but also inevitable, as if it had been building for years. My father wasn’t coming home. Not because he couldn’t, but because it would injure his pride to surrender to the government. I felt like such a fool for my patience. For trusting him. For trusting Mishail.
The reality was that sometimes even your mother and father couldn’t take care of you because they were too busy proving some point or fighting each other. And stupidity was letting yourself be the doormat your loved ones walked on. In the worst moments of your life, you were always alone.
“As soon as I saw you, I knew I had to say something,” Ahmed said. He seemed calmer now, as if he’d just confessed a crime of his own. “Your father changed my life. Other men will settle down, get regular jobs, and get as fat as their government salaries. They’ll marry and they’ll drive more slowly and they’ll forget the desert they came from.”
I stopped walking, my brain firing a torrent of warning signals so that I knew what he was going to confess even before the words came out of his mouth.
“I can’t tell Mishail any of this. She’s really sweet, but innocent. Not like us. You understand, don’t you?”
I nodded, my heart skipping a beat at the way he called Mishail innocent.
I wasn’t surprised at all when Ahmed said, “I kept asking Mishail when I could meet you, but she never arranged it.”
I was only a little surprised at myself when I gave Ahmed my phone number and asked if I could join him sometime. If I could see what was so amazing about my father’s world that he’d rather stay in prison than give it up and come home.
10
QAYAMAT
We couldn’t talk in the car with the driver listening, but we’d never needed words. I could feel Mishail’s anger, a cold fury that froze the air between us.
When we’d been silent for fifteen minutes, even the driver seemed to notice. He cast worried looks in the rearview mirror.
“So what were you and”—Mishail cleared her throat—“Amina talking about? You guys disappeared for so long we thought you got lost.”
I shook my head, smiling. Mishail’s curiosity always got the better of her. She couldn’t wait until we were home to ask, but she hadn’t bothered to mention her own interest in Ahmed or the details of her friendship with Daria, so what right had she to demand this?
“Football,” I said, matching Mishail’s coldness measure for measure.
Mishail glared.
“That campus gives you a false sense of security,” Mishail said. “You think anything is allowed because you’re inside those walls, but if something is happening, like a girl and a boy getting together, the neighbors find out and talk about it.”
It was my turn to glare. I said, “Why do we pay the mahabith when we can just spy on one another for free?”
The car swerved slightly at the mention of the mahabith, the secret police, indicating that the driver had heard us. Mishail withdrew into silence, and I looked out the window at the empty lots that separated the high-rises of the northwest quadrant of the city. Whiteland, they called it, the rubble and dust that was too expensive to actually build on but sold for millions as it passed hands from prince to corrupt dealer to bureaucrat without ever being cultivated into anything real. Boys played football in some, drove around in circles in others like lazy moths.
I itched to have a real fight with Mishail, instead of this silly sideswiping. The car pulled into Mishail’s driveway, and we got out, climbing the stairs in heavy, angry steps that echoed throughout the long corridors.
Mishail slammed open the door of her room, and I slammed it shut. Mishail’s mother moaned something in protest, but we ignored her, eager to let out the frustrations of the evening. I wondered when it had started, this thrumming underneath my skin that itched like a beast to be set free. I’d felt it more in the last two months, once the temperature had started to drop low enough for it to rain. There were days when the hail crashed against the covered-up windows, and I would lean out for a quick moment to catch the drops on my tongue and breathe in the dust, the scent leaving me frantic and confused, blood sloshing about my body and dragging against my edges at breakneck speed.
My pulse raced.
“You had no right to do that,” Mishail said. “I invited you. You were there as my guest.”
“What exactly did I do that I wasn’t supposed to?”
“You embarrassed me. You made me look like a fool in front of everyone, behaving so indecently.”
I took a step forward, backing Mishail into a corner. “You were doing a good enough job of embarrassing yourself. Tell me, what did I do that was so wrong? Go for a walk with a boy? I wasn’t the one rolling around practically naked for his benefit.”
Mishail blushed, her skin turning as coral as her dress. Her eyes filled.
I drew back to breathe. Mishail slipped past me and went into the bathroom, closing the door. I placed my arms against the window and looked out at the empty street through the slitted shutters. It felt as if the fight had been postponed, and I didn’t know why I felt disappointed by that. I didn’t want to make Mishail cry, not really, but I didn’t have words to explain what I did want. I was still reeling from the sense of loss and betrayal that I’d felt in that moment when Mishail’s eyes fluttered closed while she was in Daria’s arms, when Daria presented her to Ahmed like an offering.
When Mishail came out of the bathroom, she was wearing her pajamas. She looked even younger without makeup, a child swimming in stupidly big pants that had hearts and flowers all over them. It made me want to laugh.
She said, with grim determination, “I haven’t even told Daria this, but I think Ahmed is in love with me. He says he can’t be in a relation
ship yet because he has to do something first, but I can tell when we talk that he’s struggling against temptation.”
I rolled my eyes as I went into the bathroom to get my makeup off. I felt sick.
“How do you think Daria will react when she finds out?” I couldn’t resist saying. “Think she’ll keep inviting you over when she realizes you stole the guy she wants? And are you sure he isn’t lining up wives one and two at the same time?”
“He’s not like other boys,” Mishail said. “He’s not tough or mean, and he’s not looking for random flirting like the idiots at Faisaliyah. Something happened to Ahmed when he was young. Something he won’t talk about to anybody. I’m the only one to whom he admitted that, and even to me he wouldn’t say what it was, just that he wasn’t like other guys. He’s dedicated his life to something far greater than the gold and girls that the others are after. He needs a gentle touch, and you—you can be kind of sharp. I’m just being honest, because I’m your friend and I don’t mind it, but it’s true.”
I looked at Mishail’s reflection in the mirror. Something there twisted my gut, a resentment in Mishail’s tone that was coming out in the guise of friendly honesty but had been years in the making. It made me want to break my promise to Ahmed, to say with the same icy sweetness, Oh yes, he told me all about it. But I promised I wouldn’t tell you.
Instead, I washed my face with cold water and closed the bathroom door. Hurt was pulsing through my body, a throbbing that made dark spots cloud my vision. I didn’t want to be sharp, but when I was angry, words sometimes came out of my mouth like shattered glass. I knew I should be softer, I should endure as other women did, with quietness and grace. Didn’t Mishail know that it was what I loved most about her?
I left the bathroom no calmer than when I went in. “I just want what’s best for you,” Mishail said. “I don’t want you getting your heart broken. It’s best to catch these things early. You’re just not his type.”
“How do you know that?” I asked through my teeth.
Mishail sighed. “Don’t you think I can tell these things? There’s a difference between a crush and real love. I know you’re attracted to him. I could see that right away. How could you help it? You’re so sheltered, of course you’d fall for the first guy you see. But that’s not love.”
“I’m sheltered?”
“When it comes to these things, yes, you’re really innocent,” Mishail said, as if she were at the edge of her patience. “When a guy really thinks a girl is sexy, he flirts from a distance. He doesn’t just ask to talk to her seriously. The fact that Ahmed did that probably means he thinks of you as a sister.”
I froze. The word sister came at me like a punch.
“That’s not—” I began, intending to say it wasn’t true. Instead, I finished with, “I don’t even like him that way. We’re just friends.”
“Boys and girls can’t be friends,” Mishail said, her eyes full of sympathy. “It always turns into something else. Thoughts get polluted. Look, I just don’t want you getting hurt.”
“You’re trying to protect me?” I asked, crossing my arms and huffing out a laugh. “Does it bother you that much that for once in our lives, someone actually paid more attention to me than to you?”
Mishail sighed. She took out her phone, shimmering in a sparkly pink case. She showed me the history of her messages to and from Ahmed.
Loved your dress tonight. So feminine!
Are you teasing me?
I don’t tease. And you’re such a great dancer!
Next time you should join us, if you dare. Or are you a traditional guy, who only dances with other guys even at his wedding?
Ha! Don’t get me started.
My ears rang, a teakettle sound that silenced everything else. I knew I’d gone statue-still, that Mishail was watching my reaction.
I burst into tears.
I was distantly aware of Mishail leaping off the bed to calm me down, and then we were in each other’s arms saying we were sorry for the things we’d said. Mishail kept saying she didn’t think I could cry, never mind have a crush, and all the while I was trembling with more anger and heartache than I thought I could bear. In just one night, I had fallen for Ahmed, and I knew now that he didn’t see me that way. I’d learned that he and Mishail were at least flirting, even if they hadn’t actually done anything. And if Daria found out, or worse yet, the minister, the pain I felt now would be nothing compared with what we would all have to endure.
Later, we were lying in bed, and I said, “This is dangerous, Mishy. It’s not like the other stuff.”
Mishail’s fingers stroked my hair absently.
“I’m serious. This isn’t a prank you can just recover from. It changes you. And if your father found out, there’s no telling what he’d do.”
“I’ve never understood,” Mishail said, “where you got this separation between serious crimes and silly pranks. Before he married Number Two, my father once took me to his work, and I thought I could be some kind of spy, prove that the only thing she wanted was money, or find out some state secrets and blackmail him into breaking it off.”
I turned to face Mishail, wondering where this was going, and more important, why Mishail had never told me this before. The arrival of the second wife had been a painful year for Mishail, but lately she’d only ever talked about the benefits: less scrutiny, a paid driver who didn’t ask questions, peace and quiet a few nights a week.
“I saw a man who was clearly a muttawa, and he looked serious and nervous, as if he had some huge revelation to share with my father. He was clutching a report in his fingers as if it were made of gold leaf. My father read it, and then took the man into the special inner room for a private talk. Naturally, I read it. You know what it said?”
I shook my head, surprised when Mishail started shaking with laughter.
“It was a report on delinquency among youth. A list of statistics about what fifteen- to eighteen-year-olds were doing and how the trends showed steep social decline or something. Fifteen percent had worn T-shirts with the image of a pop star on them. Eighty-five percent had smoked a cigarette or used a curse word in the last six months.”
Mishail placed one hand over her eyes, unable to continue she was laughing so hard. I reached for Mishail’s other hand and squeezed it.
“That’s when I knew,” Mishail said, “that none of it mattered. That the world was a stupid joke and I was going to hell anyway, so I might as well do whatever I want and have fun. When the Day of Judgment comes, I know what I’ll have to answer for, and it won’t be for the things I’ve done. It’ll be for all the things I want to do.”
Her eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that had a hint of madness.
“I understand what you’re saying,” she continued. “I really do. What I feel for Ahmed is—it’s not a crush. It’s like I’m finally alive after being buried underground for sixteen years. If I don’t hear from him for a few hours, I go crazy. I text him every twenty minutes, and I know that’s not right, but I can’t stop. We tell each other every stupid thing that happens in the day. When we touch, even for a second, it’s like—” She made an explosive whoosh sound. “I can’t explain it. You wouldn’t understand if you haven’t felt it. And despite all that, he makes me a better Muslim, because he believes that the true connection between people isn’t physical, it’s a bond of the soul.”
I turned away from Mishail, letting hot tears slide into the pillow. I wanted to tell her, I do understand, Mishy. How it feels to want something so much you might end up setting yourself and the world on fire to get it.
“I know it’s dangerous,” Mishail said. “Everything we want is forbidden or dangerous. I just don’t care.”
11
WISKHA
I stirred the liquids in the beaker with a glass rod. The oil formed large bubbles over the water that congealed until they formed a sort of chandelier over the water below. Our chemistry teacher went on about miscible and immiscible liquids as i
f it were supposed to be an earth-shattering surprise that oil and water did not mix.
Do you remember where we live? I thought, still stirring idly. My mind flew to the scent of gasoline that permeated the city streets, how on rainy days Mishail and I would chase each other around her courtyard looking for oil stains that shifted in the sunlight. Why couldn’t we stay those children forever, whose greatest worry was whether we’d be allowed to eat two Rico bars that day instead of one? Why did we have to deal with scholarships and marriage and parents who wouldn’t come home from prison? Why did Mishail have to go and fall in love with a rebel?
Mishail was standing next to me in the chemistry lab, but her attention was focused entirely on Daria, her boundless happiness rising off her in sickening bursts. The two of them were being incredibly annoying, speaking in glances and dissolving into giggles. I scowled, knowing they were that friendly only because Mishail hadn’t yet told Daria about her growing relationship with Ahmed. I was sure that whenever that news came out, Daria would cut her down with even less mercy than she’d shown Bilquis.
I used the dropper to add two drops of blue food coloring to the mixture. Chemistry was required to get into petrochemical engineering, and, realistically, what else were you going to do in this country, but the kinds of experiments girls were permitted to do were too small to teach us anything. Still, it was better than medicine, where biology textbooks were considered too obscene for women, so we had to simply imagine what was under the black censorship ink. For all I knew, the male body had more in common with the shrimp that came in from Dammam than the female body.
It was all very well for Mishail to swoon over the epic story of it all: Minister’s daughter and rebel engaging in a star-crossed romance under the very nose of the man responsible for protecting the virtue of women all over the country. But what about afterward? The trouble with Mishail was that she trusted people too much, didn’t think ahead, and didn’t believe anyone would use her secrets against her or her family. How could she rush toward boys and sex when she knew how it could—would—end: in tears, pregnancy, or death?
Driving by Starlight Page 8
