by S. K. Ali
“Hi, Zayneb.” She had her backpack on. Adam had told me that she’d be getting picked up after school for this. That she was crazy about animals.
“Hi.” I grinned at her.
“Did you know we’re going to see Ariel first? She’s my favorite saluki here.”
“Let me guess—does she look like this beauty?” I turned my phone to her and showed her the gentle-looking dog I wasn’t completely scared of.
“Oh, that’s a pretty one!” Hanna said. She wiggled out of her backpack and unzipped it to take out an iPad. After scrolling through photos for a while, she showed me a white-and-gray dog with its mouth wide open.
Sharp teeth greeted me.
“Wow.” I managed to say this with a smile, because Hanna was looking up at my face.
“She’s been at the shelter for two years because nobody wants her. Do you want to know why?” Hanna put her iPad away. “Exactly why nobody wants her?”
“Why?”
“Because she bites people when she gets stressed. Like hard. Do you want to know why she does that?”
“Sure.” I twisted the handle of my bag. “Why does she bite people?”
“Because she was treated horribly by the people who’d kept her before. She had trauma. It means a really bad experience.”
From near the door to the shelter, Adam turned around to look at me, eyes full of mirth. “I think Zayneb knows what the word ‘trauma’ means.”
I nodded, feeling the trauma in my right ankle.
“You’re going to love the shelter. They want prospective adopters to see the personalities of the dogs, so they let them run around the warehouse and the pen outside, in the sand, and we can just mingle with them,” Adam assured me, holding the door open to my personal nightmare. “Salukis love running long and hard, so it’s amazing to see.”
“But not Ariel,” Hanna said to me. “Ariel stays in a separate area. She can’t handle everyone. Even the other dogs.”
“Is she in a cage?” I asked hopefully, pausing in the space between the double doors.
“No, don’t worry. She’s not caged. It’s just like a low divider, so we can still be with her but with a barrier,” Hanna said. “But it’s not in the warehouse. That’s the sad part but also a good part for Ariel. She needs it calm.”
“I think I’ll spend time with Ariel then,” I said. “With you, Hanna, of course. Because she knows you, she’ll be okay with me there.”
Adam turned to me again and smiled.
Twinge.
I decided to do this thing.
Be chill with fear—which, if accomplished, meant I could be chill all the time.
• • •
Ariel began barking and howling when she saw us and then ran around her pen like a crazed . . . dog.
I stopped walking. Hanna and Adam kept going, following the shelter worker down the wide room toward Ariel.
Adam noticed I’d held back and waited for me.
“You guys go ahead. She knows you two. I’ll wait a bit,” I whispered, trying to summon the right word to make it sound like I cared about Ariel’s feelings. “Let her acclimatize, you know?”
Adam nodded and caught up to Hanna, who was already sitting cross-legged in front of the barrier, talking to Ariel.
I leaned on the wall and waited.
I was waiting for something to arrive within me: a sense of sympathy for Ariel.
I’d read the mission statement of the shelter: We are a nonprofit that works to find loving homes for the dogs native to this area (salukis) that we rescue from abuse and neglect.
Adam and Hanna had filled me in on the stories. Of dogs being mistreated by different sorts of people—some locals, some Westerners, expatriates working in the Arabian Gulf who took them in and then didn’t care for them as their canine type needed to be taken care of, some who then even just released the dogs into the streets when they moved back home.
And then there were the cultural taboos about dogs being bad.
That made me sad. But not sad enough to bravely go forth.
I called to mind the Islamic story that I’d been taught in Sunday school, that Hanna had recounted to me as we waited for Adam to fill out papers at the shelter reception desk, because her dad had just taught her the tale.
Prophet Muhammad once told his companions of someone who was forgiven completely by God for every ill deed she’d ever done—because she’d been thirsty and so had climbed down an abandoned well to drink water, and, when she emerged from the depths of the well, she found a dog at the surface, panting from the same thirst she’d felt. She climbed back down and filled her shoe with water and brought it up for the thirsty dog, and thus, for this act of kindness, she was utterly forgiven.
I told myself that the Saluki Mission Shelter was the woman in the well: noble and selfless.
And that I should have a tiny iota of this compassion too. Enough to proceed to see this sad, neglected dog.
Nothing. It did nothing to erase my fear.
I hung back.
Until I saw the change in Ariel. She was sitting down in front of the barrier across from Hanna and Adam, who was also cross-legged. Whatever they were saying to her was making her calm.
I inched forward slowly, stealthily.
Then Ariel whipped her head up, noticing me and, maybe, my intense stare. She began yelping and running around in a frenzy again.
It took my all not to scream and run the other way.
I mouthed, I’ll wait out there, to Adam and walked quickly to the front office area that we’d entered through.
• • •
Afterward, after I’d played twenty rounds of Angry Birds Rio on my phone while I waited for their visit to end, Adam’s father picked us up.
Adam kept apologizing on our way back home for me “not being able to enjoy the dogs.”
“Totally okay,” I said, finally happy and at peace. I loved the feeling of fearlessness again. “I can tell Ariel has had a difficult life.”
“She was tortured,” Hanna said. “They tied her.”
I swallowed.
“Some people think dogs are bad. Like they actually think they’re evil. So they hurt them.” Hanna crossed her arms.
“Unfortunately, there are so many misconceptions about certain things in Islam,” Adam’s dad said. “And too often it’s us Muslims who have them. Like the thinking that dogs are unwanted. Yet in the Qur’an itself, the surah of the cave describes how loyal that dog was to the young people it was with. How important their dog was.”
I nodded and told myself, You hear that, Zayneb?
The image of Ariel kneeling calmly in front of Hanna and Adam came to me. Maybe she’d been okay with them because she knew they cared about her.
But when Ariel had seen me, she’d become agitated. Somebody had hurt her, and it wasn’t me, but, still, she didn’t know what I was about. And I’d become agitated when I saw her—even though she wasn’t the one who’d hurt me so long ago.
I teared up. “Does the shelter take donations?”
Adam nodded. “You can do it online or at the shelter itself.”
“Okay.” I made a note to myself on my phone.
A picture showed up in my messages. It was an AirDrop from Hanna’s iPad.
Ariel. Sitting on the floor of the shelter, head settled on her front paws, mouth firmly closed, no teeth in sight.
I smiled at Hanna. She leaned over and whispered, “You’re scared, right? Of dogs?”
“No, just when they get hyper,” I whispered back. “And do things like biting people, you know?”
She nodded.
For the remainder of the ride I taught her how to play Angry Birds Rio on my phone.
When I got out in front of Auntie Nandy’s building, Adam got out too. He looked like he was going to say something, and I waited, spending a bit of time opening my bag to get keys out, so that he could say what he wanted to say.
Like maybe he’ll ask me to do something else with him
tomorrow?
But he just stood there.
When I glanced up to say salaam, he had a weird expression on his face.
Like it was closed. Even his mouth wasn’t turned up in that slight smile he wears.
Instead it was just a straight line that moved a tiny bit to say salaam.
And then he got back in the car.
Maybe he’ll text me later.
Yes.
This Is What You Missed, Bulletin III by Kavi Srinivasan, filed as FYI for Zayneb Malik:
Sitting?
Now I am. Was lying down before.
Lie down.
What’s up?
Wait, is this about Ayaan? ISTHISABOUTAYAAN
I got off the bed. I’m standing now.
Ayaan got removed as vice president from student council. From student council, completely. Fencer provided information that “resulted in Ayaan’s removal from student leadership, as her actions contravene school guidelines on responsible social media use.”
No.
She’s supposed to provide a written explanation of her “online activities running a campaign against a teacher and encouraging hatred toward him.”
No.
Kavi.
Fencer “provided ample evidence about her incessant monitoring of him.”
I hate him so much.
I got this information from Trevor. He screenshot it for me, the e-mail that student council members got. Ayaan is super mad at us.
I’m done.
We’re all done.
I did this. If Fencer hadn’t caught me, Ayaan wouldn’t be in trouble.
It’s not that simple.
My big temper. I have to talk to Ayaan.
I don’t think she’s ready. This is traumatic for her. You know how long she’s been gunning for student council. She’s not going to want to talk now.
Okay. We’ll have to respect that. But we have to help her. Well, I have to.
We will. Just wait a bit. What’s happening in Doha?
I sent her a photo of Ariel.
Pretty. But a dog? You?
Right?
You’ve changed.
Right. Or am on the way to it. Zayneb, more mellow.
I don’t know if I like this.
My parents will. Ayaan will.
Fencer will too.
Topic changed.
• • •
Ayaan’s Instagram, usually active, had come to a standstill. It looked like she’d stopped posting last Thursday, the day I got suspended.
I sent her a DM, I’m so sorry, and then immediately regretted it.
So I followed it up with a sad crying emoji.
And then, disgusted at my behavior, I tossed my phone under the bed.
But what about when Adam texted?
I dove under the bed, retrieved the phone, and turned my volume on to make sure it would ping audibly when a message came in.
When his message came in.
I returned the phone to its temporary home under the bed again and lay on the floor, on the cold marble floor, staring at the ceiling.
It was a pretty fancy ceiling, moldings crisscrossing in twirls and flourishes.
It reminded me of Ayaan’s dress, the one she wore last Eid.
My hand, with a will of its own, reached for my phone and opened Instagram and sent Ayaan a heart. Four hearts. Ending with a broken heart.
Agghh.
I threw the phone so far under the bed, it came out and hit the baseboard on the other side.
Ayaan was super important to me. She was older, but, because she’d spent a year abroad in Somalia with her grandparents at the end of middle school, she ended up in the same year in high school as me.
When we’d met as freshmen, she’d acted like a big sister immediately. Even though she’d been trying to figure school out too.
I showed up in the foyer on the first day of ninth grade, clutching my schedule, eyes scanning for Kavi instinctively, even though I knew she was in India on a family trip, her flight delayed.
“Are you Mansoor’s sister? Mansoor Malik?”
I turned to a girl shorter than me with curly hair clipped back, an inquisitive look in her wide eyes. She wore a roomy sweatshirt over light blue, super-faded jeans.
“Yeah?”
“Mansoor’s a friend of Abdirahim, my brother. That makes us friends.” She smiled. “I’m Ayaan. Let’s check if we have any classes together?”
And, just like that, she’d stuck by my side. Even though, as the years went on, she got involved in tons of stuff at school, running-the-school stuff, and I got involved mostly in the yearbook committee and newspaper club, because I liked making CAPITAL LETTER captions and titles for things and Kavi was also there making graphics and designing pages. Ayaan went on to become a rightful school star.
My phone pinged.
Adam?
I crawled under the bed, only to realize how stupid that was when Auntie Nandy opened the door to see my legs, wearing pajama shorts, sticking out in view, the other half of me hidden, but still too far from my phone.
“I promise I knocked,” she said. “What is happening?”
“My phone.”
She went over to the other side of the bed and passed it to me underneath it.
It wasn’t a message from Adam.
It was one of the Emmas—Emma Domingo—asking if I wanted to meet the three Emmas at the mall, the BEST MALL IN DOHA, she wrote, tomorrow. Apparently, there was a Fenty makeup shop pop-up happening, and only Fenty had stuff suitable for Emma Domingo’s brown skin, her being part Filipino and part black.
It might be good for your skin too? she offered kindly. I imagined her texting this with some sort of peel on her face, cucumber slices on her eyes.
Which I’ve always wanted to try, actually.
“Is it okay if I go to Villaggio Mall tomorrow with some of the girls I met at the party at Adam’s house?” I asked, emerging from underneath the bed.
“Actually, that would be perfect. I’ve got some appointments I want to get done before your mom comes on Sunday. I’ll try to fit them in tomorrow.”
I sent a yes to Emma Domingo. And then checked if there was anything from Adam.
Just leave me alone. I’m not mad at you. I just want to be left alone, k?
Ayaan. She’d finally answered me.
I went back under the bed.
“Dinner is on its way.” Auntie Nandy sat on the bed. “Then what do you want to do tonight? We can drive down to the water if you want?”
“I’m kind of tired from visiting the shelter,” I lied.
“Oh yeah, how was that?” She peered at me. “Is there a reason you’ve got your head down there?”
“It’s cool down here,” I lied again, staring at Just leave me alone. “The shelter was sad. But good.”
“Aren’t you scared of dogs?”
“I’m working on getting over it.” Boy, I was on a lying spree.
I clicked out of my DMs and saw one of the Emmas’ posts. Emma Phillips, in a white T-shirt and shorts, doing yoga on a white rock, exactly like the rocks scattered in Adam’s backyard. She must live in his neighborhood.
She looked like a cool pretzel, one arm twisted over a leg twisted on another leg.
I pressed like.
Yoga was peaceful.
I rolled out from under the bed. “There’s a gym here, right?”
“An entire fitness center, including your favorite, a swimming pool. A pretty big one too,” Auntie Nandy said.
“Are there yoga classes?”
“Each morning at six a.m. I go sometimes. Wanna come?” Her face lit up. “That could be a great idea. Call it an early night tonight, then hang out at yoga before I go to work tomorrow?”
I nodded, scrolling through posts and stories, liking everything without examining anything.
I was depressed.
MARVEL: ADAM
I can’t believe I wrote that.
Why was he even? A marvel?
I mean, I realize that before I even knew him as Adam, I’d called him a marvel, at the airport in London, just because he was cute.
But at this point in time, I think I mean it in a different way.
Because he’s calm. Peaceful.
Mellow. Like everything I’m trying to be here.
That’s why he’s a marvel. Not just because he’s good-looking.
Anyway, why wasn’t he texting me again?
It felt as if a few words from him arrived on my phone, like Hey, do you want to go to blah blah tomorrow?, this down-in-the-depths feeling I had at the moment would just disappear.
But then I remembered his mouth after his dad dropped me off today. The way it was that straight line, like he was done.
Right.
Adam had probably realized I was faking it at the saluki shelter. He’d found out about my phoniness and was over wanting to get to know me.
Well, if he even wanted to get to know me in the first place.
I stared at the ceiling. And sat up suddenly.
I couldn’t believe it. I was letting myself be what I’d never ever wanted to be: at the mercy of a guy’s whims.
No way.
• • •
Dinner was Turkish food. We ate quietly on the couch, watching some house-hunting reality show on TV, Auntie Nandy engrossed, me scrolling through my phone.
Adam posted an Instagram story.
His waterfront with boats, sea, and sky.
I didn’t have to be at his whims, but I could decide whether I wanted to say something to him.
Thanks for today.
I added a puppy emoji.
• • •
As of 1:42 a.m. he hadn’t replied.
And, huddled in Binky, I noticed my message continued to be unread.
At Fajr, five a.m., still unread, but he posted another story. Another seascape, a dark one this time.
The twinge was disappearing, being replaced by further dread.
ADAM
TUESDAY, MARCH 12
MARVEL: PLANS
I PRAYED FAJR OUTSIDE THIS morning, prayer mat unrolled by the water, my back to it.
It was dark, with that inkiness in the sky that hints at more colors to come. I contemplated waiting for sunrise—which would be right over the gulf behind me, promising better pictures than the ones I’d just taken—but then I glimpsed Dad through the blinds he opened in his second-story bedroom.