Saints and Misfits

by S. K. Ali

  I mean, I realize Saint Sarah’s parents are tough to crack. Imagine a Muslim version of the American Gothic couple, with a beard on the husband and a black hijab on the wife. I don’t know how they begat Saint Sarah and her bubbliciousness. It doesn’t make sense. Like in my family, our respective resemblance to each parent is obvious. I’m like Dad in a lot of ways. He dresses in black too, knows how to stay on course, never surrender, remain calm, and carry on. Like me.

  Muhammad and Mom are easily lured, misled, and taken for a ride.

  My brother holds out the same plastic-bag offering from his car yesterday and places it on the bed.

  “Your phone.” He takes a seat at the desk, his frame casting a moving shadow over its laminate surface as he swivels the chair to face me. “It’s yours. And not a trade for the room. I bought it, but Mom’s paying the monthly plan. It’s too much of a hassle to return it now.”

  I look at the bag but resist the urge to check it out.

  “So what happened with your visit to Sai—Sarah’s parents? Why the middle-of-the-night prayers?” I ask.

  “Her parents are not too happy that I switched majors. They heard from their friends I was going to study law. That’s what they wanted.”

  “What are you going to study now?”

  “You mean what have I been doing for the past year? Philosophy. I want to do my doctorate. Which is why Dad pulled the college funds.”

  “What?”

  Muhammad’s face is tight, like he doesn’t want to get into it.

  “He only agreed to pay if I did something that would benefit LID, Inc., somehow. Philosophy, no matter how I stretch it, doesn’t fit the bill.” He laughs. “Nor pay the bills, according to Sarah’s parents.”

  He gets up and turns the chair back in position to face the desk. His eyes fall on the graphic novel, and he picks it up to flick through.

  A smile flits his face. “My favorite scene.”

  He holds up a picture of kids sitting in trees, singing to welcome the Prophet to Medina.

  I remember yesterday. “Why’d you tell Sarah about my book?”

  “They needed somebody good at seerah for the quiz team.” He walks to the door.

  The slump of his shoulders stops me from yelling at him.

  • • •

  Mom is out for a hair and facial appointment, so I’m able to check out her room. There are three folded screens leaning against the wall, really pretty ones. Muhammad bursts in as I’m fingering the wood veneer on them, his phone in the air. “They’re okay with it! Her parents are okay with me and Sarah continuing!”

  “Yay.” That’s all I can muster. I let him have a high five.

  • • •

  Firing at Fort Sumter was a key catalyst action of the Civil War.

  I take my exam notes into the living room. After ten minutes, I give up reading the same lines over and over. I have to get my camera.

  Muhammad looks ridiculous, and I want proof.

  Besides gliding along as though he’s being transported on clouds, he also moves erratically, unsure of what to do next. He goes from kitchen to bathroom to dining room to living room and all sorts of combinations of those four rooms over and over. I consider sticking my feet out to trip him on one of the episodes of happy restlessness, but I’m afraid the noise of him falling would disturb Mr. Ram downstairs.

  After careful positioning, I get one blurred picture of the whole thing.

  Muhammad grabs my camera and keeps it away from me, via his typical flatulence threats, while he scrolls through my pictures.

  Of course he finds and lingers on the stash of Jeremy’s forehead pictures. “Very interesting. What do I see here?”

  I run to my room, wondering how, merely a moment ago, I was this close to considering the possibility of maybe, perhaps, loaning him my room for a brief period of time. Now? No way.

  There’s no lock on my door, so I sit on the floor, leaning against it, burning up, inside out, sinking my fingernails into my arms as I imagine Muhammad’s face. We don’t even fight like that anymore. Oh, what I would give to cat-whip his face into shape right about now.

  That’s when he knocks. And laughs.

  Meow-hiss.

  “You turd,” I say.

  “Oh, I’m the turd?” he retorts.

  I stand and open the door in his face. The most excellent idea pops into my head.

  “I can’t believe what you’re doing,” I say. “I am so going to tell Sai—Sarah about this.”

  And, like I expect, my Ivy League brother stands still, a tiny sliver of fear encroaching on his face. Oh, I’m good at this.

  “I’ve got pictures of my friends without hijab on my camera, and you, you sick pig, you’re going through them?” I say. “Give me my camera!”

  And right at the moment when the realization reaches his brain and numbs his body that he’s probably seen Fizz et al without hijabs, I reach over and grab my camera. A masterpiece of how to cut your older brother down to size. Totally demolish him.

  And make him forget about your forehead fixation.

  But the guy bars my way out of the room.

  “Wait a sec, freakoid,” he says. “What about your crazy pictures of . . . of . . . a guy’s forehead? I’m sure Mom would want to hear about that late-breaking news.”

  I feel that squeeze of fear on my heart that invades on occasion, whenever “Mom” and “guy” are in the same sentence. But then I remember Fizz posing in her spaghetti-strap dress at Aisha’s party last month. She would kill me if my brother saw her like that. She’s the most modest person I know.

  “Foreheads are nothing compared to seeing my friends uncovered,” I say. “It’s like peeking into their bedrooms.”

  He fidgets.

  “Yeah, but I didn’t do it on purpose,” he says.

  “Oh really? Your fingers were working through my pics due to some tic? Hand spasms?” I say, gaining strength again.

  “Okay, then let’s tell Mom about it when she gets home,” he says. “ALL about it.”

  I blink into his stupid eyes. God, how could someone who finished a year studying philosophy be so, so, so petty?

  Petty and, I have to admit, triumphant. There is no way I want Mom to see or know about those pictures of Jeremy.

  “What do you want?” I say, defeated.

  “Now we’re talking,” he says, leading the way to the living room. “I want you to chaperone some of my and Sarah’s meets.” And he actually smiles like, get this, a sheep.

  I want to shear him (does it hurt the sheep to be sheared? And if it doesn’t, I don’t want to shear him), but I stay quiet, listening to his dastardly plan.

  “Right now, Sarah’s dad or mom does all the chaperoning, at their house mostly,” he says. “They suck the fun out of the whole thing, you know?”

  “It’s not supposed to be fun,” I say. “It’s supposed to be serious. Islam is serious. Marriage is serious. Who said anything about fun?”

  “Well, Sarah is fun. I’m fun,” he has the gall to say. “We want to know if we’re fun together.”

  I make a puking motion.

  “I don’t want any part of this. I don’t believe in early marriage anyway.”

  “But you believe in early foreheads?”

  I make my best shut-the-hell-up face.

  And then break down and give in. “Okay, so I like guys with high foreheads. So what?”

  “A certain guy with a big forehead,” he says. “Who is he? Maybe I can scope him out for you at the mosque.”

  I quickly change the subject at hand.

  “What’s in it for me—chaperoning your ‘fun’ interviews.”

  “Besides blackmail?” he says. “Well, there’s also that matter of getting some reward from Allah for being nice to your brother.”

  “I can’t believe you just did that. Use Allah and blackmail in the same sentence. You suck.”

  I go to the kitchen to check on what else he saw from my pics folder. I systematical
ly erase each of Jeremy’s pictures. He belongs to Tats now anyway.

  “Remember we have a date tomorrow,” Muhammad calls. “Dinner at her favorite restaurant.”

  As I head back to my room, I accidentally sweep his men off the Risk game board.

  • • •

  I’m so angry, I study the Civil War for four hours straight. I decide to never give up my room to Mom and Muhammad’s confederacy.

  MISFITS AND MONSTER

  Mom opens the door to my room. She’s wearing a new glittery scarf, and it’s pulled back near her ears, highlighting long pendant earrings.

  She never wears her scarf like that.

  Sandra Kolbinsky’s mom had started dating right after her divorce, and, in eighth grade, Sandra told me that a change in dressing signaled someone new in the picture.

  “I’ll be home late. Auntie Maysa and I are going out for dinner. She’s here already, in the living room.”

  “By yourselves?”

  “Auntie Ameera might join us. Why?”

  “Just wondering. Are those new earrings?”

  “No, they’re old. Do you like them?” She stands in front of my dresser mirror and tilts her head to look at them. “Because I never wear them. They’re too much, aren’t they?”

  “No, they’re really pretty. It’s just that, yeah, you never wear stuff like that.” I close my books. It’s almost time to head to the mosque for the quiz game.

  She slides the earrings off and puts them on the dresser. “You have them.”

  “No, Mom, I don’t want them.” I pick them up to give them back. They’re heavy, and I can tell they’re expensive from the way the stones feel.

  “I haven’t worn them at all. They sit there in my dresser because I’m not even sure I like them.” She’s leaving the room, but I follow her into the hall. “Janna, you think they’re pretty so I’d rather you have them. Besides, Dad bought them for me.”

  Auntie Maysa pokes her head out of the kitchen, glass of water in hand. “What is this thing your mom doesn’t want? That’s too pretty?”

  “Earrings.” I hold them up for Auntie Maysa. “Pretty, right?”

  “Oh yes. And Husna, you’re wearing those. Especially tonight.” Auntie Maysa puts the glass down on the counter and marches over. She takes the earrings from me and stills Mom’s head to slip them back into her ears. “When are you going to realize that looking good isn’t wrong now that you’re divorced? Life doesn’t end. It can start again. Especially tonight.”

  Auntie Maysa winks at me.

  • • •

  On the drive over to the mosque, Muhammad brings up Jeremy’s forehead again.

  “It has to be one of the Arab or Bosnian guys,” he says. “Or Turkish. Turkish guys can have some foreheads.”

  I stay quiet, and dignified, like the North during the Civil War, and concentrate on the way the windshield wiper keeps missing this one part of the bird scat that Muhammad commissions it to take out. He sprays more and more cleaner and switches the wiper speed higher and higher, but the scat stays on. I totally admire its fortitude.

  “Hameed!” he shouts. “I just know it’s Hameed. Right?

  My lips are sealed. Bird scat. Bird scat. Bird scat.

  “What’s the big deal? You know all about Sarah,” he says. “You even got me interested in her.”

  “What?” I ask. “I got you interested in her?”

  Forget bird scat, I had other scat to look into. The bull kind.

  “Yeah,” he says. “You kept talking about all the things she was doing at the mosque. And then I’d see her there, doing exactly what you said she was doing. With this big smile on her face the whole time. Nice, I sez to myself.”

  “Yeah, right,” I say. “I kept complaining about all the things she was doing. Like this Fun-Fun-Fun Islamic Quiz Game thing.”

  “At least she’s doing something,” he says. “What’re you doing?”

  Bird scat. Bird scat. Bird scat.

  “Oh yeah, I forgot—you’re busy taking pics of guys’ foreheads,” he says, smiling.

  I grit my teeth. I will resist.

  • • •

  As I pass the prayer hall, far behind Muhammad, who bounds ahead to join Saint Sarah, I see the visiting youth groups inside, in two huddles, prepping. Our group is downstairs in the cafeteria, where the game will take place.

  Even though Fizz and her sisters are up at the front (upon orders of their mom), I stay at the back of the cafeteria, far from the makeshift stage, where team-member-selection deliberations are going on. Fewer chances of being called on as a contestant for the game.

  I’m sitting on my own, scrolling through my new phone, adding numbers, when someone moves into my peripheral vision.

  Farooq. Monster.

  He’s decided to hang out at the back too. I lower my phone. I feel it in my body, a seizing happening inside. I need to be aware.

  I need to actively ignore him.

  I deploy my intrigued-at-the-spot-behind-the-emcee’s-head trick, but it’s to no avail. He sits directly across the aisle, on the guys’ side. This is one time I’m happy we have gender-separated seating at the mosque, but it still doesn’t stop the feeling of ickiness that spreads over me when he’s so close. He keeps up a steady flow of sidelong glances.

  I’m trying hard to pretend he isn’t here, but he’s pretending I’m the only one here.

  I get up and move to the first row, where there are a lot of empty seats. I’m taking long breaths in and out to calm myself when I notice Saint Sarah up on the stage, giving me a huge smile. And then I realize the emcee is repeating my name. Saint Sarah has picked me for her team.

  Because of the monster, because I had to stand up to move, her gaze pounced on me.

  I lumber up there, my legs feeling jointless, hatred for Farooq nearly crippling me with inertia.

  When I get onstage, I notice the PICK ME FOR A CONTESTANT! signs on the backs of each of the front-row chairs. I have to fake a smile now, because what kind of loser would I be if I didn’t mean to get chosen?

  The team: my brother, Saint Sarah, Aliya, me, Sausun, and—get this—the Shazam! dude from the community center. From the shoulder bumps Muhammad is giving him, it’s evident they know each other. I never noticed him before here at Amu’s mosque.

  We convene in the kitchen to talk “strategy” for the remaining ten minutes before we face the two teams from the other mosques. Saint Sarah takes over immediately, assessing the team, pondering our combined brain capabilities, assigning responsibilities—in general, doing what she does best: bossing around the rest of us.

  I stay quiet even though I want to ask if there is a possibility of unjoining the team. And then I see him, peeking through the crack in the slightly open door.

  It’s him again. I know because I see his white thowb, a traditional long robe. He always wears it at Muslim events. Like he’s some holy person.

  He isn’t moving, but standing at an angle where I can see him. His modus operandi at public events. He wants to break me.

  Everyone else is talking, animated, excited, hopeful that this year, our first year, we’ll win miraculously and then head to the regional Islamic Quiz Bowl competition, even though the other two teams are more experienced. Even Sausun has relaxed her ever-present frown.

  “And what about you, Janna?” asks Saint Sarah. “Are you fine with seerah, or do you have another category in mind?”

  Perverted, stalking guys, I think. I shrug.

  “These are the topics: Qur’an, seerah, prayers, laws, worship, and general,” says Saint Sarah. “We’ve divided most of them already but can reshuffle if you want.”

  I shrug again. He hasn’t moved.

  “She’s really good with seerah,” Muhammad contributes. “Remember I told you she’s writing her own version at home, a graphic novel?”

  He beams at me, like I’d say, Aw shucks, bro. What a piece of sweet you are.

  “That was when I was like nine years old,” I say
.

  Sausun snickers.

  “But you’re not finished. It’s a work in progress,” Muhammad says, not letting go. “Don’t lie, Janna. I saw it on your desk even today.”

  He smiles at Saint Sarah as if he’s expecting her to say, Aw shucks, beau. What a piece of heaven you are.

  She clears her throat, clutches her clipboard, and says, “Actually, Nuah is interested in seerah too if you don’t want it, Janna.”

  Shazam! waves his hands like he’s conducting a plane landing in front of him. So that’s his name, Nuah, the Arabic version of Noah.

  “No, no,” he says. “She can have the topic. If she wants it, that is.”

  He looks at me, one eyebrow raised into a medium-size forehead. He’s still wearing a necklace of beads, but the pendant’s out of his shirt now. It’s a long wooden piece with a cluster of threads dangling from the end. He’s wearing a tasbih, a necklace of prayer beads.

  “It’s a good topic; we need someone who’s into it,” Nuah says, smiling. “And I wanted the laws category too and, hey, guess what? It’s still available. What do you say—you do seerah and I do laws?”

  I nod, to shut down the focus on me. Aliya smiles and holds up a stiff thumb.

  “Great,” Saint Sarah says. “Team, let the games begin!”

  We turn to go. Farooq moves away so there’s no evidence he’s been standing there the whole time. Except for the residue of his presence dripping over me.

  How do you wash off what cannot be seen?

  • • •

  We win. I cry crocodile tears of joy to cover the real sadness of it all, and now there’s a permission form for Mom to sign to let me go to the regional game, next weekend, in Chicago.

  Muhammad goes out again as soon as we get home. Mom is still out, so I Google-Earth Jeremy’s address, as I usually do when I’m alone. This time it’s for nostalgia’s sake, I tell myself.