Saints and Misfits

by S. K. Ali

  Ugh. How are those two even friends?

  “Ah, there’s your boy.” Soon-Lee watches my face.

  “He’s not mine.”

  “Lauren’s cousin. How quaint.” She picks up her iPad. “You’d be moving on up. Do you want to? is the question.”

  “He’s not tight with her. Anyway, there’s nothing happening between us.”

  “Her homeys are onto you.” She’s scrolling on Facebook. “I’m friends with Marjorie, and she put up like eight pictures of you. Well, not of you, you’re just majorly photo bombing them.”

  She hands me the iPad. Marjorie and Lauren, in the hallway at school, with me in the background, face scrunched tight, eyes closed but mouth open wide mid-word or screech, judging from my expression. From behind Marjorie, the back of Tats’s head is visible. What was I saying to her? It looks painful. And ugly.

  I hover on my face. It’s tagged “J.Y.” and a click reveals a ghost account.

  I scroll through the other J.Y. pictures on Marjorie’s account. The more gruesome the photo, the more likes it’s garnered. There’s one in gym, a nice-hair day matched with a mutilated face, framed by a Marjorie selfie. The pictures were posted this weekend.

  “So, why would Missus Marj be posting photo bombs of you?”

  “How would I know?” I look at Marjorie’s friends list. Sure enough, Jeremy’s on it.

  “Come on. There must be a reason.”

  “Maybe they’re telling me to back away from Jeremy.” There’s no way I’m going to that party on Friday.

  “That’s a weird way to do it. Without you aware of it.” Soon-Lee resumes writing notes. “That bunch are as crazy as the goonies behind us. Pringles is what I call them.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. It just came to me. But when I thought it over, because my mind is extremely logical, I figured out it must be because they’re pr-etty—or at least the guy population thinks so—but they’re also flaky, like chips.”

  “I don’t think Lauren’s flaky. She’s got one of the best grades in history.”

  “I don’t mean flaky as in not smart. Marjorie’s in my English class. She’s cleaning up there. I mean soulless.”

  “Soulless.”

  “Yeah, no awareness, no substance.”

  I think over what she’s saying. Maybe there’s some truth to it. I did move onto Lauren’s radar on account of not taking part in picking on Sandra. That’s soulless. Or, as Mr. Ram would say, devoid of fruit. Or would it be devoid of a kernel?

  Sandra moved onto everyone’s radar because of a mark on her face. Well, because a few guys decided to home in on it. Because the art teacher chose Frida Kahlo as a topic of study?

  If Sandra had worn a niqab, no one would’ve even known. If I wore a niqab, the Pringles wouldn’t get any pictures of me.

  “Maybe I should just cover my face.”

  “Like a ninja?”

  “No, like a niqabi.” I google it and show her the image results.

  “Um, no.”

  “Can you imagine them trying to get a pic of me then?” I laugh. “I’d be in control of my image.”

  “But you’d also be gagging yourself. That’s a steep price to pay for avoiding getting bad pictures of you.”

  “Hello? How would I be gagging myself? My mouth would still work, you know. Plus most girls who cover their faces do it because they want to be the ones to decide who gets to see them.”

  Soon-Lee pauses from writing to consider that. “Well, when you think of it that way, it sounds kind of powerful. Like no one can sum up your identity without permission. Your real identity, I mean.”

  I look up Niqabi Ninjas, clicking on the latest vlog, titled “Doormats and Other Losers.” “Check these girls out. They’re badass.”

  The video is of one of the niqabi girls this time, and she’s sitting there talking to the camera. I’m about to close it to show Soon-Lee a real episode when I hear the niqabi say, “. . . back from a weekend in Chicago.”

  I pause and rewind to the beginning, turning the iPad to myself. The intro blares out again, a mix of drumming and a man’s deep voice saying something in Arabic.

  “Here, take these—you watch. I’ve got an exam tomorrow.” Soon-Lee flings earbuds to me.

  “Okay, so I just came back from a weekend in Chicago. And I’m pissed. The weather? No, that was great. Thanks for asking. Yeah, and in terms of that, all those people asking for a FAQ video, that’s still in the works. My partner’s supposed to be on it, but instead she’s studying for the MCAT. Where are her priorities, huh? Anyway, this is going to be a short one. Just wanted to rant about doormats. I’m looking at you if you’re a loser who thinks it’s okay for someone, another being, to click the mute button on you. I was going to look up the definition of doormat so I can make this all deeply philosophically linked, but who cares at the end of the day? It pisses me off if you’re crying about your life, acting like someone took the reins out of your hands, when you’re here in the land of scream-whatever-you-want. Loser. That’s what you are. If you’ve got the means to fix your life and no man-made laws stopping you, then it’s your God-given right, scratch that, God-given duty to face your assaulter, stalker, whatever and squash him. Don’t snivel in the basement of your dad’s million-dollar home that you can’t do anything. Sorry, that took a bit of a personal turn, but pretend I took artistic liberty there. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental blah blah blah. Okay, rant over, will expand on this in another video when Ruki takes her head out of books long enough to ninja-it with me again. Salaams, see ya and stomp on.”

  A shot of her Doc Martens ends the scene.

  I close the browser and place the iPad next to Soon-Lee’s textbook.

  I pack my books. It’s my turn to leave with a lame excuse. “I forgot I had to do something for my mom.”

  • • •

  I call her. She picks up but doesn’t say anything. I wait too because Mom’s just come into the bedroom from the shower, and the first word poised to come out of my mouth would have had her up in arms.

  “I’m guessing you saw the latest vlog and you’re not too impressed. Whereas I’m impressed you’re actually subscribing to me. See, I see you in my channel’s new subscribers list from yesterday: janjan123,” Sausun says.

  “You’re a bee with an itch,” I say the minute Mom goes into the closet to change. “You lied. You pretended the vlogs were by someone else. You wanted me to spill my secrets.”

  “Why? Did I use your secrets? Did I tell anyone the perv tried to—”

  “You never told me it was you!”

  “You didn’t ask. I wear niqab, don’t I?”

  “Yeah, but so do thousands of other girls. You’re a major bitch.”

  “Janna! What are you saying?” Mom peers through the privacy screens. Like, so respectful of my privacy. “We don’t use language like that around here!”

  I hang up and run to the bathroom, steamy and cloistering. I call the bitch back.

  “Major bitch speaking. How may I help you?”

  “I hate you and never want to see you again.”

  “Okay. No problem.”

  “You played with me. You broke my trust.”

  “Not guilty on both counts.”

  “Why’d you have to talk about me? What am I to your stupid vlogs?”

  “It was a rant. I let myself spew. Give me a break, no one will know it’s about janjan123.”

  “You owe me for using me as fodder for your rant.”

  “Okay, now you’re speaking my language. What do you want? Money? Don’t say drugs because I don’t have any.”

  “Get him.”

  In the silence, I unwind my scarf and smooth my hair.

  “Though it’s intriguing, it’s also disproportional. You’re asking of me more than I did to you.”

  “Life’s not fair. Get him to back off.”

  “Me? Who am I to him? He’ll blow me
off.”

  “Make him a star on your stupid show.” I stop talking because I’m getting this idea.

  “Oh yes, he’d come running to do that.”

  “What if he didn’t know he was on the show? That he was being film stalked?”

  “And then what?”

  “And then we get him.”

  “We? Oh, I like this idea now.” She laughs.

  I didn’t realize I’d added the “we” in there. “I mean you, you get him.”

  “I’m in if you’re in. That means you get to take Ruki’s place. Ruki’s my other half, but she’s busy studying to get into med school so she’d be willing to give you her coveted spot. You can even borrow her abaya and niqab.”

  “I don’t want to be on video.”

  “No one will know it’s you. That’s the beauty of it. Besides, aren’t you already on video? You’re practically viral in the Muslim community, thanks to your ‘friend.’ He passed the Bollywood feature of you with a boy under a tree to everyone on the quiz team.”

  Sarah saw it?

  Nuah saw it.

  Is that why he isn’t responding to my texts?

  “I can’t be in it. Just do a show on him. And nothing to do with me.”

  “I’ll think about it. I’m not into filmmaking for hire.”

  “Think of it as what you owe me for using me.”

  “Are you saying there’s no truth to what I said? If so, you’re blind.”

  “Bye.”

  • • •

  After Mom leaves for work, I sit my laptop on her bed and look up the doormat vlog again. Gone.

  I call Sausun. “You took it off YouTube.”

  “The guilt, the terrible, gullible guilt ate up my insides.”

  “I still hate you for what you did.”

  “Good. See all that anger that’s fueling the hate? Take it and aim it at the right target.”

  “You.”

  “Whatevah. Why are you calling me?”

  “Did you think up something?”

  “Yes, it’s a blockbuster, coming to a theater near you, called Deal with Your Own Crap.”

  Muhammad opens the door, talking into the house phone stuck between his ear and shoulder. “She’s right here.”

  He holds out the phone. “Sarah wants to talk to you.”

  I indicate my own conversation.

  “Jan’s on the phone right now but will call you back. Pronto.” He nods at me and leaves.

  I wonder what Sarah wants. Dirt on the video Farooq’s passing around? “I gotta go.”

  “Don’t call me again unless it’s to say you’re participating in fixing your own problems. Why should I help someone who refuses to help themselves?” Her voice has lost the flippant quality. Now it’s plain mean.

  I end the call and look up Sarah’s number. I reach voice mail. “Assalamu alaikum, Sarah, it’s Janna. You wanted to talk to me? Give me a call.”

  Muhammad opens the door again. “Are you calling her on the other line? Here.”

  He unsticks the phone from his ear and stretches it out to me. He waits, leaning on the doorframe with both hands in his pockets.

  I muffle the phone. “Are you part of the conversation?”

  He nods.

  “Assalamu alaikum, Janna! Respond to me as I tell you because if I know your brother, he’s hovering around there somewhere. Say ‘walaikum musalam.’ ”

  “Walaikum musalam?”

  “Okay, so your brother is really worried about you and this video that Farooq’s been sending people. He asked me to talk to you and figure out what’s going on. But I know that’s not really going to happen. Now say ‘nothing much.’ ”

  “Nothing much?”

  “So my idea is that you say yes or no to me. And ‘sorta’ if you want me to know it’s none of my business.”

  “Sorta.”

  “You catch on quick. Are you in any trouble?”

  “No. I mean sorta.”

  “Do you need help of any kind? That could mean support through talking or hanging out. Whatever.”

  “No.”

  “Is someone bothering you?”

  “Yes. I mean sorta.”

  “Is it the guy in the video?”

  “No.”

  “Is it the guy who took the video?”

  “Sorta.”

  “Do you want to eat cupcakes with me at Soliloquy’s?”

  “No.”

  “Ouch. Okay.”

  “I mean, I have exams to study for.”

  “I know. It’s just hard over the phone.”

  “I’m not a cupcake person.”

  “That’s because you haven’t been to Soliloquy’s. How about we meet and I talk. About Malcolm. Now please don’t say ‘Malcolm?’ really loud. It’ll be good for both of us to meet up.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need to get something off my chest. You sit there and listen and eat cupcakes. Mindlessness, that’s what you need now.”

  I think about it. Maybe it would be a healthy diversion: inhaling sugar while listening to someone’s sordid past.

  “Okay.”

  “Give the phone to Muhammad, and I’ll get him to drive you on his way to the gym.”

  • • •

  Soliloquy’s is the polar opposite of the modern restaurant where Sarah first met Muhammad and me. There’s enough chintz in here to kill modernity. And it’s not just one type of floweriness. The armchairs around the low tables are upholstered in different prints, as are the heavy draperies at the windows and each wall segment surrounding the diners. The ceiling is painted in more ornamental flourishes.

  “Look at the cups and plates,” Sarah whispers as we wait in line to place our orders. A waiter walks by with a tray filled with diverse flowery china.

  “My grandma would love it in here,” I whisper back. “She’d feel at home.”

  “Most of the crowd here is young. It’s about the irony.” Sarah indicates a young woman in black with blue hair, snuggling into a yellow chair while gazing at her phone. In front of her sits a steaming cup of tea and a huge pink-frosted cupcake. I want to take a picture.

  We score a table by the window. The chintzy chair is nice and roomy, and I don’t resist pulling my legs up into it. There are even wings at the sides that welcome my head to rest into them.

  “Yes, he does look like Liam Hemsworth.” Sarah arranges the cutlery and salt and pepper shakers. “We dated for almost two years. Beginning of first year to end of second year of college.”

  “He’s really cute.”

  “Yeah, and he really knows it.”

  “Is that why you broke up?”

  “No, I broke up because I found another love.”

  “Some other guy?”

  “No. I began helping out with this group that does PR for unfashionable causes. Like organizations that help young unwed mothers find career paths, community rehab programs for ex-prisoners, stuff like that. That’s when I was studying marketing.”

  “Liam, he didn’t like that?”

  “No, no. Malcolm didn’t mind. He’s kind, a giver too. It’s only that I began drifting away. I found out I love making things happen. In a big way. And he wasn’t into it as much as I was. So we fell apart.”

  The waiter appears with a teapot, two cups, and four cupcakes. Two mocha almond fudge for Sarah and a cherry cream and key lime for me. Exam fuel.

  Sarah pours me a cup of tea. “It’s chai tea.”

  I laugh. “My dad always laughs when people say that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the word ‘chai’ means tea. Just tea. So it’s like people are saying tea tea.”

  “But what’s this kind of tea called? The one with spices?”

  “Masala chai. Or masala tea. Masala means spices.”

  “That’s good to know. So when I make spicy tea for your dad, I’ll say masala chai, like a good daughter-in-law.” She finishes stirring her tea and places the teaspoon into the saucer.


  “About that, are you really going to marry Muhammad?”

  “I want to. But I hope he’s okay with waiting until I finish my PhD.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m so driven when I’m doing something that I’ll ignore him until I’m done with my doctorate. That’s what I meant about Malcolm and me drifting apart.”

  “But how were your parents okay with you dating? Didn’t they think it was haram?”

  “They weren’t into religion back then. I got them into it. Third year of college, before we moved here, I started volunteering to do PR for a Muslim group doing street advocacy.” She takes a huge bite. I’m impressed.

  “So you got into Islam.”

  “In a super big way. I love it. It lets me be driven.”

  I taste the key lime. The frosting is heavenly. “Mmm. This is not a kiddy cupcake.”

  “Told you so.”

  “Can I ask you something? Without you getting offended?”

  “Sure.” She’s finished a cup of tea already and is pouring her second.

  “Is it your drivenness that makes you want to be in charge of everything?”

  She pauses mid-sip. She looks a lot like her father when she does that. “Hmm, maybe. Why, do I look like a control freak?”

  “No, just like you like everything perfect.”

  “That’s the definition of a control freak.”

  “Okay then.”

  She laughs and sets her cup down. “Is that why you avoid me?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Janna Yusuf, you’re funny and so right. Maybe I sometimes mistake control freaking for being driven.”

  “Anyway, now I know you’re not so perfect. You dated Liam Hemsworth. Haram, haram, haram.”

  “No one is perfect except God. When I say driven, I mean striving. You can always strive to make life better. For you, for others. For the planet. Whatever.”

  “You’re saying that with a gigantic frosting mustache.”

  “Don’t turn now but look at who else has one.”

  The woman in black with blue hair is talking into the phone, a pink frosting line under her nose.

  We laugh.

  I take a picture of Sarah with my phone. Maybe, just maybe, it’ll replace the old picture in my head.

  • • •

  On the drive back, Muhammad’s quiet. It’s eerie, so I fill the void with cupcake facts. “Sorry I didn’t get you one. But I didn’t want to undo your gym visit, plus you know what they say about dudes with beards eating cupcakes.”