Saints and Misfits

by S. K. Ali

  “Can I know what you’re talking about?” I say, throwing my Chicago clothes into the laundry hamper while scouting for new hiding places for my agendas and notebooks.

  “I’m talking about this,” she says. “There, look at your video messages.”

  I draw the phone away from my ear and open the new-message indicator.

  It’s me and Jeremy by the trees, this afternoon. I’m looking up at him with this really fawning expression while he feeds the chickadee. Then he gives me the seeds, and we look at each other. I didn’t know that I smiled afterward, but apparently I did and it looks sort of cheesy.

  “Where did you get this?” I say, replacing the phone to my ear.

  “Janna, I don’t know what you’re up to, and I don’t like that you’re just hiding this whole thing from me,” Fizz says. “Am I a friend or not?”

  “Who sent you this?” I say, slowing my voice as I realize there’s only one person who could have done this. Motive and opportunity.

  “Farooq, who had the decency to tell me,” she says. “You know they’re like best friends, right?”

  “I don’t care!” I scream. “He’s an asshole! A disgusting creep!”

  “What is wrong with you?” she screams back. “You’re talking about an innocent guy . . . he’s got nothing to do with what you’re doing behind everyone’s backs. You’re actually stepping away from Islam, and you get mad at the guy who’s helping you back to it? Janna, you’ve changed so much!”

  “He’s a pig and I hate him!” I say, crying now.

  “He’s a hafiz of the Qur’an. Watch your mouth,” she says. “I don’t want to talk to you. I can’t believe you’re saying all this just to protect your relationship or whatever with this non-Muslim guy? Someone you know nothing about?”

  “You don’t know anything about your cousin,” I say, aware that she can’t probably understand anything I’m saying because I’m blubbering so hard. “He’s a . . . a . . .”

  She hangs up on me.

  A new-message notification pops up on my screen instantly. It’s Muhammad, who probably heard me screaming from his bedroom next door.

  Everything okay?

  “A ‘No’ uttered from the deepest conviction is better than a ‘Yes’ merely uttered to please, or worse, to avoid trouble.” That’s what Gandhi said. Mr. Ram told me.

  I’m coming.

  He opens the door and shuts it behind him quietly before moving a portion of the privacy screens back.

  “What’s going on?” he says.

  Can I just go to bed? I text. He sits on Mom’s bed to read his phone.

  You and Fizz fight?

  M, I’m tired. I’m sure mom told you about the drama.

  That’s it?

  Yeah, that’s it.

  You sure?

  Yeah, and that guys suck.

  Except Gandhi and Mr. Ram?

  Zzzzzz

  He leaves the room but is back as I’m settling into a long night of sleeplessness. He’s holding his phone out for me to see.

  “Farooq sent me this,” Muhammad says. “Why?”

  It’s the video of me and Jeremy by the lake.

  The creep is ruining me.

  Anger like I’ve never experienced before, tsunami-size, crashes within.

  MONSTERS

  My history exam is at nine o’clock. I think I’m ready. War is bad and there were many. Misunderstandings account for most of them. Clear communication between affected parties would have saved countless lives. Describe each war thus, citing dates and locations, and earn an A, as Oliver pointed out.

  Avoid thinking about Farooq and the Nazis and the world is all good.

  I skip eating breakfast, as Mom fell asleep on the couch. Kitchen sounds would have woken her, and I don’t want to face the calm after the storm. With Mom, that means a guilt-laden experience with many allusions to her struggles as a single mom. I turn the key in the lock without fanfare, intent on making it out of the building without being sighted.

  The elevator doors open in the lobby to reveal Sandra and Ms. Kolbinsky, who’s holding a plate of samosas.

  “Hey.” I hold the doors apart for them. “Where are you two off to?”

  “I will visit Mr. Ram. I made these for him. Here, there’s some for you, too.” Ms. Kolbinsky peels back a bit of saran wrap and eases a few samosas out. “Try it. They are very spicy.”

  I accept one and bite into it. The pastry covering offers muted flavor before the spiced potatoes explode in taste, tangy and hot. “Mmmm, oh my God, they’re so good! You made these?”

  “Yes! I’m a cook, always cooking. You’ll like more?” She’s unwrapping more of the saran, but I put out a hand to stop her.

  “I have an exam, gotta go. But . . . so do you?” I turn to Sandra, who’s already tucked into a corner of the elevator.

  “I’m just taking my grandma up.”

  “See you then. Tell Mr. Ram I said hi.”

  I let go of the doors. Before they close, I glimpse Sandra’s face changing as she turns to her grandma. It becomes unguarded, tender, like she’s eleven years old again.

  Like when she returned two weeks late into the beginning of the school year in sixth grade. She took a seat and turned a sweet grin to me. “You’re new? I’m Sandra. Just got off the plane from Florida, visiting my dad. I live with my mom.”

  A little spark lit in me when I heard that. “Me too. I live with my mom too. My dad’s working in Chicago.”

  She was my first friend in Eastspring, before Tats and I latched on to each other at the exclusion of everyone else. And before the art teacher made the class do an extensive study of Frida Kahlo at the end of eighth grade, and Pradeep muttered that Frida’s mustache was nothing like someone else’s in our class. A group of guys coughed “Sandra” discreetly every time Frida’s self-portraits were projected onto the screen. Sandra’s sweetness began drying up and disappeared completely once mustache stickers made their way onto her locker door every week.

  I take a seat beside the fake banana tree in the lobby to wait for her.

  My phone beeps. Mom.

  Why didn’t you eat breakfast? I bought waffles for you, the big ones from Parades. They were in the freezer.

  I swallow. Those are my favorite—thick and crispy on the outside. And the inside? A heaven of fluff. Slathered with buttery syrup, it’s the best breakfast.

  I’m not hungry.

  You have an exam. Come back up, you still have time.

  I got a samosa from Ms. Kolbinsky.

  What? Ok, do what you want. Salaams.

  I scroll through my messages.

  And fyi, only hot guys look good in necklaces. I can’t believe I wrote that to Nuah. I delete it and the previous texts that took me to that crazy point.

  Salaams Nuah. It’s Janna. I press send and wait for a bit. I just want to apologize for the texts I sent yesterday.

  I wait. Is he driving or something?

  Remember I told you I WASN’T nice? See it’s true.

  Maybe he’s already in class.

  Anyway, just wanted to say SORRY. I fill the text field after that with sad sorry emojis and press send.

  Maybe he’s taking an exam.

  • • •

  “I told Mr. Ram you said hi, and he gave me these for you.” Sandra hands me a paper shopping bag.

  I look inside. Three books. I let the bag swing at my side as we walk out of the building. “Thanks. Was he happy to see your grandma?”

  “Does dressing up in a tuxedo mean you’re happy? Gran was blushing and pretending it was because the samosas were so spicy.” She smiles into the sun. I’m on her right side and can’t see the birthmark, as it doesn’t extend that far across. She has a flawless profile.

  Anyway, why is the birthmark a flaw?

  It’s strange that something she was born with, that’s of no choice of hers, is now the sole thing that defines her in the eyes of others. She lets it define her for herself, too.

  �
�Sandra, why do you take it?”

  She turns to me. “What?”

  “Why do you take how they treat you?”

  “I don’t get what you’re saying.” She quickens her pace.

  “I mean why did you become quiet just because of the people who pick on you?”

  “I didn’t. I’m a quiet person.”

  “Not from what I remember.”

  “Janna, you don’t really know me.”

  “I did know you.”

  “When we were little. People change when they’re older.” She bends her head, and hair falls into her face.

  “That much? When I knew you, you were sunny. Remember? We had nicknames for each other, and Tats said you should be Sunny because you were always seeing the bright side of things.”

  She slows her pace and shrugs. “So maybe things happened to show me there’s more to the world than being happy all the time.”

  “Well, remember I was called Merdy? Which was a code for Nerdy. Consonant before the letter N was M? We thought we were so smart.” I lift up the books from Mr. Ram. “Guess what? I’m still Merdy.”

  She laughs. “Yeah, but that’s different. Are you telling me you’re the exact same person you were two or three years ago?”

  I think about that one. “No. But am I that different? As in the opposite of what I was like before? No.”

  Is this what Mr. Ram was talking about? Your “kernel” not changing?

  She stops. “So what’re you saying? Just change?”

  “Be yourself?”

  “And the myself in sixth grade is the real myself?”

  “Wow, that’s deep. Okay, new nickname for you: Deep.”

  “And new one for you: Oprah.”

  “Sizzle!” I weave my arm through hers, and she stiffens for a moment before relaxing. “You’re a sizzler.”

  “A deep sizzler? Sounds like a steak.”

  “If you’re the Deep Sizzler, and I’m the Oprah Special, maybe a kind of salad, what does that make Tats on the menu?”

  “Something mushy, gushy.”

  “A dessert.”

  “Tiramisu. Mushy, gushy, and dramatically good.”

  “That’s good. It matches her hair. Let’s call her that when she comes back tomorrow. She’s at her grandparent’s cottage. She’ll be like ‘Tiramisu?’ ”

  “I don’t have an exam tomorrow so maybe Wednesday.”

  “She’s done after tomorrow.”

  “Oh.”

  “Come over on the weekend. We’ll do something.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Come on, I can’t go a whole summer without being sizzled!”

  She laughs again but stops when she sights Fenway High.

  • • •

  Right before I go into school, I check my messages. None from Nuah.

  Fizz posted a picture of the quiz team in Chicago on Instagram. It’s onstage but I’m not in it, so it must have been when I was in the supply closet.

  The monster is in it.

  Thanks for repping Illinois, Fizz wrote. Lots of likes. There’s a comment from N_ABDULLAH: It was cool but practice was better!

  I click on N_ABDULLAH. It’s Nuah. His most recent picture is of his brother sleeping with the sword. He posted it two minutes ago.

  Maybe he’s ignoring my messages.

  • • •

  I breeze through the exam. It’s a recounting of three self-selected conflicts from the timeline of wars we as a class had agreed upon. I knew Mr. Pape would be hippie about finals. I cram the accounts full of pathos, casualty counts, and dry commentary on the illogical thought processes of warmongers. I hand it in early and wait in the hall for Sandra to finish.

  The fourth person to exit the classroom while I’m waiting against a bank of lockers is Lauren. I’m about to avert my eyes when I remember my talk with Sandra this morning. Hypocritical.

  “Hey, Lauren?” I straighten up. “Um, I didn’t like the picture you put up of me on Facebook?”

  She stops walking. Turning around, she places one foot at a right angle to the other, as in ballet position, and clasps her hands. The strap of her messenger bag slides off her shoulder and collects where her hands are pooled. Is that an encouragement pose, like, Go on; keep talking; I’m listening?

  “Like, I’m not supposed to show my hair to guys who aren’t in my family?” I gesture to the hallway as though it stands for the male gender.

  “But you don’t wear it in gym. Jeremy’s not in your family.” Her voice is smooth. Controlled sarcasm, a well-practiced art form.

  “That was by mistake?”

  “I saw the hair stuff Tityana brought, so I just assumed you were taking off your scarf from now on or something.” She hasn’t moved, and the people coming out of history simply stream around her.

  “Do you mind if you don’t post any more pictures of me? On Facebook?”

  Sandra comes out of class and stands by me, looking at Lauren with curiosity. Lauren doesn’t take her in but lifts her bag up onto her shoulder and unclasps her hands.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t.” She pirouettes and leaves.

  I don’t like the way she said that. Smooth and controlled.

  • • •

  With Sandra at my side, I head to the cafeteria to pick up Soon-Lee for our study session. She’s sitting on Thomas’s lap.

  “I’m ready. Bye, Thomas.” Soon-Lee pushes her glasses up, and they kiss on the lips, lingering until Thomas’s friend from the next table yells, “Get a room!”

  We walk to the library, and I cringe, thinking of getting into a state like that with Jeremy. Never.

  “Soon-Lee, this is Sandra. She’s also studying for her math exam.”

  Soon-Lee smiles at her. Sandra looks ahead.

  “So did you study?” Soon-Lee fixes her hair, pumping it up in the back with her fingers. She’s got awesome hair: voluminous where it needs to be and sleek where it needs to sit subdued.

  “On Friday. And only the parts we never learned with Mason.”

  “That’s what I did too.” She gives me a fist bump.

  We sit near the windows overlooking the parking lot. Beside me, Sandra takes out her math textbook, lays it on the table, and then packs it away in her bag again. She gets up.

  “I have to go. I forgot I’m supposed to pick up my grandma.”

  She goes through the book stacks, in the opposite direction from where we came. Setting my laptop on the table, I look at Soon-Lee quizzically.

  Robby and Pradeep are taking seats three tables away, behind Soon-Lee.

  “Is she okay?” Soon-Lee’s taking out her notes. “She seems kind of down.”

  “Imagine years of Robby and Pradeep on your back. And others picking up on it.”

  “Why?”

  “Her birthmark. They call her Mustache.”

  “That’s cruel.”

  “Yeah. She’s nice, too.” I open my e-mail. “Let’s do something. To those guys.”

  “What? Beat them with a book of manners?”

  “My dad’s message for today: Imagine your competitors are hay. They’ll stay if you let them. Mow over them, roll them up, take charge of them by the superiority of the engine that drives your business. Drive that tractor.”

  “We aren’t a business. By the way, what does your dad do?”

  “He’s in the business of annihilating all Indian sweet makers in the world. He’s already cornered the North American market.”

  “Sweet.”

  “His stuff is amazing. Melt in your mouth.”

  “So what does that have to do with your friend and the losers on her case?”

  “Let’s mow over them.” I watch Robby pretend to aim a pencil at me. Such an immature fool.

  “I don’t have the time with this exam and all.” Soon-Lee looks up at me. She turns to look behind her just as the pencil ricochets off the back of her chair. “I was wondering why your eyes were narrowing like that.”

  She picks up the pencil and cracks
it in half. “Okay, I wish I had that tractor now.”

  “Remember how we started freshman year with four girls in enriched math? Now it’s only the two of us. Because of them and their comments. And the heckling when you get something right that none of the boys did.”

  Soon-Lee leans over the table. “What if we mess with them? Let them think the exam is different?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if we tell them that Mason found out they’ve got the exam and he changed it.” Soon-Lee raises her eyebrows and smiles. “That’ll throw them off.”

  “But they’ll wonder why we’re trying to help them.” I’m sitting back, keeping my eyes on Robby. Pradeep’s busy watching something on his laptop, earphones on, but he’s the mastermind who makes Robby dance to his tune.

  “Chill, I know how to do this. I’ve got three brothers.” She gets up and sweeps the broken halves of the pencil off the table, into her left palm. “You stay. You’ve got a give-away face.”

  She walks over, deposits the pencil bits on their table, and puts her hands on her hips. Pradeep ignores her, plugged into headphones, but Robby’s eyes are on her as Soon-Lee nods at their strewn papers. She relaxes her arms as she listens to him and then begins to laugh. She walks away, continuing her laughter.

  “So that’s why Mason said he’s gotta change the exam . . . ,” she says loudly as she gets closer to me.

  Robby’s out of his seat and by our table. “What’re you talking about?”

  Soon-Lee ignores him. “Remember, Janna? How we heard him saying to McConnell that he’s got to make a new exam now that some kids accessed the site? He’s talking about these goons.”

  “How would he know?” Robby looks at Soon-Lee, then at me, as she opens her textbook, situated carefully over our copy of the exam. I nod toward the checkout area and shrug my shoulders.

  He glances at Ms. Lionel at the library desk, and she looks up at that moment, her face in its typical pose: angled, with one eyebrow raised in perpetual curiosity.

  He goes back to their table and yanks the headphones off Pradeep’s head.

  Soon-Lee draws a tractor on the top margin of her notes. I lean over and scribble Dad’s e-mail address under her tractor. She grabs her phone and adds it into her e-mail app. I hide my smile, turning to the window. Jeremy’s walking to school from the parking lot. Farooq’s by his side.