by S. K. Ali
I listened as the fitness attendant lectured me on the pool’s needs.
The pool, apparently, needed me to show my legs and arms. Caps were okay, so my turban was not a big deal, from what I surmised.
Bobbing man clutched the towel around his waist and kept bobbing his head as the attendant informed me that what I was wearing wasn’t proper swimwear. If I wanted, I could buy proper swimwear at their gym shop, but they had limited choices, and I might have to go for a two-piece.
I nodded, my brain trying to work out what the exact swim-clothing rules were according to the attendant’s long spiel.
“So someone’s allowed to wear shorts like his?” I asked, pointing at the tips of the floral shorts showing under bobbing man’s towel. Wet and hitched below his belly, they reached beyond his knees.
“That’s his swimwear, yes. But you see how she’s dressed?” the fitness attendant said, indicating the woman in the pool. “That’s how our female swimmers dress at this facility.”
“Say a woman came in shorts like his, loose, flowy, flowery, fun shorts. Then would you guys be okay with that?” I crossed my arms, my voice hardening. “Seems unfair if you wouldn’t be okay with that. If you’d say, Hey, you woman, show your thighs!”
The fitness attendant stared at me. “Who’s the resident that you signed in with?”
“My aunt,” I said. “But why won’t you answer my question? Is it okay if I show up in huge shorts like his but just a bit longer?”
Bobbing man let his towel drop as he crossed his arms.
Wait. What was I doing?
This was old Zayneb. The one who got in trouble. Who got her friends in trouble. Who may get Auntie Nandy in trouble by making a ruckus at her residence complex.
I wasn’t supposed to do this anymore.
I uncrossed my arms. “Okay, okay. I get it. That’s the way things are here,” I said with a fake smile before forcing out, “Thanks for letting me know the rules!”
I walked away and didn’t look back.
The only way was forward—into the version of Zayneb who let things just be.
• • •
Because I was asleep when she got back to the apartment from the gym, Auntie Nandy went to work not knowing a thing about what had happened at the pool.
Which was perfect. Now she didn’t need to worry one bit.
I woke up to the alarm I’d set so that I’d have enough time to get ready to meet the Emmas.
I sort of knew it would take a long time to prep for hanging out with them. It wasn’t so much that I was trying to be a different me as it was that I was trying to make sense to them.
I refuse to call it wanting to fit in with their crowd.
Besides, I liked them. They were multinational, diverse, open-minded (except for Madison), and accepted me without pause. Actually, more than that, they saw me. Which was different from school, where Kavi and I usually passed under the radar of the other, mostly white kids.
I wanted to continue to be seen by the Emmas and their friends.
Which means I need two whole hours to get ready.
It started with a long shower, a better shower than the one I’d had after getting back from the pool cocooned in changing room towels so I wouldn’t drip everywhere. This was the kind of shower that ensured each strand of my hair was washed.
Then I emerged from the bathroom connected to my room to towel and air-dry my hair so that it would fall into its natural curls. People not in the know have no idea why it’s so important to have properly dried, properly done hair when your scarf is going on top of it, but we hijabis know it’s vital.
1. Your hair needs to be dried properly so that it won’t get that soggy, half-dried smell that will seep out of your hijab, hitting everyone in your vicinity.
2. Your hair thoroughly dried gives it the proper volume to let your scarf sit pretty on your head.
3. Your hair needs to be happy, not drippy sad, under your hijab, or it will give you trouble later when the scarf is off at home. Happy hair means good hair.
And, I had to admit, I have good hair. I tossed it a few times and then looked in the mirror as I blew it off my face.
It’s almost model hair. The one vanity of my life.
That only my friends, all girls, get to see. The only guys allowed to see it being members of my family.
Someday, though, I’ll toss this hair in front of the one I end up with. My significant other.
I looked in the mirror at the long, dark, loose curls cascading around my face, long wispy bangs reaching into my eyes, and saw Adam’s face flash in my mind.
A twinge came, unbidden.
I went back to lie down on the bed, to let my hair dry completely. To think about him.
He hasn’t read your message, Zayneb. He knows you’re a faker, Zayneb. He wants the real deal, just like you want the real deal in a guy, Zayneb.
Just like you want him, Zayneb.
I closed my eyes and imagined opening the door to Adam. Like after we were a thing, and everything was legit, with family, with everything.
I imagined opening the door to him without my hijab on, hair tousled, kind of getting in my eyes, but not so much that he couldn’t see how done up those eyes were—with eye shadow, mascara, and all.
He would have been gazing at the floor when the door first opened, wearing that blue shirt I saw him in at the airport, but then his eyes would flip up and light up, and that small, consistent smile he mostly wore (before it trailed off yesterday) would spread and spread and spread, and then he would just swoop in and—
Beep beep beep. The alarm went off again.
Agh. That meant I only had thirty minutes before the Uber arrived.
As I threw on clothes, I tried to unpack my fantasizing about Adam.
I want to kiss him.
That mouth with that smile.
Agh, why was I in such lust? Astaghfirullah, Sadia would caution.
I barely knew the guy.
Well, other than Auntie Nandy telling me his background, her knowing his mom and dad. And him being seemingly a great big brother. And caring about animals. And having tons of friends who he was super quiet around but who obviously liked him a lot. And him becoming Muslim on his own so early.
Okay, that last one was a heavy one. To be that mature when you’re so young.
But I didn’t know him, the guy. What he was like personality-wise.
It was just his looks that were getting to me.
That made me want him to swoop in, from the door I’d opened in my fantasy, and wrap his arms around me as I pushed my hair away from the tight space between us so my lips could find his with urgency, his face, as it became one with mine, getting surrounded and caressed by my curly locks—
I guess it was a good thing that he wasn’t reading my message.
• • •
I already had a bit of makeup on, like lip stuff, but at the Fenty pop-up Emma Domingo said we should get our faces redone as the mini-makeover lines were short.
We emerged fresh faced, me with a smidgen of color and highlight on my cheeks, and my eyes—“so big and wide and fantastic to work with” according to the makeup artist—lit up a bit, with neutral lips. My look matched the taupey-pink hijab I was wearing.
Emma Phillips checked a message on her phone. She was in white again, but this time it was white jeans and a white T-shirt. “The guys are already at the food court,” she said, undoing her hair that had been tied back with an elastic while she got her makeup done. She held her phone camera up and fixed herself, pumping some volume into the back of her hair with her fingers.
My Adam hair fantasy came back to me.
I wonder if I blushed even further under the fake blush I had on.
“And, yay, Connor got him to come,” Emma Phillips added, reading another message that had popped up, in between peering at her engorged-looking lips. She’d paid for the full-lips deal, and you could see the effect from several feet away. “Adam will be there!”
Adam was here? I flushed further. I thought it was just us girls.
“Well, you look perfect, then,” Emma Zhang said pointedly, and I whipped my head at her, wondering how she knew about my fantasy.
But she was smiling slyly at Emma Phillips.
Emma Domingo, the one I felt the most connected to, because she was super sweet, and who had her arm laced with mine as we walked, whispered to me, “Emma P. has had a crush on Adam forever.”
“No, not forever, just since sixth grade,” Emma Phillips announced.
“After his mom died and he became kind of emo,” Madison said.
“That’s cruel.” Emma Zhang shot Madison a look. “It’s because he was the only one who helped Emma P. when she got picked on for her scoliosis brace.”
“Emma P. had to wear a thick brace for her back all through middle school, and it was uncomfortable under her clothes, so she wore it on the outside,” Emma Domingo told me. “And when kids began bullying her, Adam drew these amazing Avatar: The Last Airbender scenes on it. We were all into ATLA back then, so her brace became instantly cool. And then she was too.”
“But he was still emo,” Madison continued, grinning.
I wondered why the Emmas let Madison hang around with them. Were friends in short supply in Doha? Anyway, I didn’t need her friendship. “Way to be insensitive. Just like with your gross, racist-as-hell Coachella clothes. Maybe grow a heart?”
The Emmas looked at me in unison. Was that a tiny bit of awe I saw in their eyes? Or shock at the disturbance I’d created?
What? She’s awful, I mouthed to Emma Zhang, who nodded.
Madison ignored me, per usual, and went on. “Who says that’s bad anyway? Being emo? He had a reason to be.”
“The point is that’s not why she likes him,” Emma Zhang pressed. “She likes him because he’s kind.”
“Yeah, not like your bae Jacob, who kept calling me names throughout middle school,” Emma Phillips said, staring into her phone, still combing out her hair with her fingers while we walked. “Anyway, that was a crush back then. Now we talk.”
“Really? Since when?” Emma Domingo looked up eagerly. “I thought he’d dropped off the face of the earth when he went to London.”
“Then he got back. He’s around the corner from me, remember?” she said, as Emma Zhang side-hugged her excitedly. “But you know how he is; he’s not the type to show it.”
I listened to this part quietly, my face growing warmer.
Right.
Right, right, right.
MARVEL: REVELATIONS
Exhibit A: Emma Phillips and Adam.
I guess this marvel is about God.
Because He’s the one who lets you know the things you didn’t know before. Who allows circumstances to come into your life that make you see.
I’m so grateful my crush on Adam lasted exactly five days. Six if you count the airport first sighting.
Wow, Emma Phillips’s crush on him lasted six years. And was only now coming to fruition.
She’s zen. He’s zen. I’m not.
That’s what’s important.
ADAM
TUESDAY, MARCH 12
MARVEL AND ODDITY: FRIENDS
SHE WAS SITTING AT THE next table over, on her phone, fries untouched in front of her. Emma Domingo was across from her, Emma Zhang next to her. They were both talking, but she wasn’t.
I was at the end of a longer table parallel to hers. Connor directly in front of me, going on about Nancy, his TA, with Tsetso and Isaac beside us, then Emma Phillips and Jacob across from Madison. There was another table with a few other guys from DIS behind us.
But all I could see was her.
She wouldn’t look up.
She hadn’t even said salaam back after I’d salaamed her when she and the other girls had first shown up.
Maybe she hadn’t heard?
“Adam, you in for the dunes this weekend?” Emma Phillips asked loudly. “Everyone else, except Tsetso, who, ahem, decided to ditch Doha early, is coming.”
“I’ll have to check. I don’t know if my dad has stuff planned.” I took another bite of my chicken shawarma sandwich.
“Okay, let me know by tomorrow then? Maybe you could hitch a ride with my dad and me.” She smiled. “You’re practically next door!”
I nodded back at her and then busied myself picking up the lettuce that had fallen out of my shawarma.
Oh boy. Was it true then what Connor had told me? That Emma Phillips still had a thing for me?
Hope it’s just my imagination. The way Madison looked at Emma Phillips just now, raising her eyebrows.
I’d tried for a long time to stay distant but polite with Emma Phillips.
Zayneb stood up suddenly. She bent over and whispered something to Emma Domingo and Emma Zhang. And then turned and left.
I continued eating my shawarma.
• • •
She didn’t come back.
I should ask Emma Domingo or Emma Zhang if she actually left.
No, it was better this way.
ZAYNEB
TUESDAY, MARCH 12
ODDITY: IMPULSIVENESS
EXHIBIT A TO Z: THE root of everything that has gone wrong in my life. Like falling for people without thinking things through. And running away from malls where they were sitting close by, because I wanted them to know how much I didn’t care about Ada—I mean them.
It was five p.m., and Auntie Nandy wasn’t back from work yet. As I looked at the food on the dining table from this morning, that I’d covered before leaving for the mall, I remembered she’d said she’d be doing errands all day.
I unraveled my hijab, hung it on the back of a dining room chair, and then methodically packed the breakfast into containers.
I went into the kitchen to put them away in the fridge, and seeing the dirty dishes stacked on the counter, I decided to do them.
I opted out of using the dishwasher. This was my chore at home, cleaning the pots and things that didn’t go in the dishwasher, and, right now, I knew I needed it. I needed the familiarity.
The soapy warm water was like a balm—on my skin and deep inside me—as my arms plunged again and again into it, soaking and scrubbing dishes and cutlery and small pots. When I was done rinsing, I dunked my hands in the sink filled with warm, sudsy, murky water, to squeeze the dish sponge over and over.
Maybe this was the peace I needed, because in that water I saw a truth: Girls like me who see and feel the pains and problems of the world don’t make sense to people. So maybe we’re meant to be alone, or only with people exactly like us.
I’d thought that the Emmas and their friends made sense to me, but, as we hung out, I realized we had nothing in common.
No, this wasn’t the complete truth that I saw in the murky waters, Marvels and Oddities journal.
I’m not supposed to lie to you, and here I am letting a boy come in between you and me.
I also saw the truth of Emma Phillips and Adam.
When I saw him at the food court today, looking so cutely rumpled—had those been splatters of paint on his T-shirt and cargo shorts?—with his hair up, lifted right off his head in some parts, the wrong parts, and yet also falling into his eyes, I’d taken one look at him and bolted inside.
Retreat, Zayneb. He was unattainable. Most likely taken. And supremely not interested in you. For example, see unanswered text of yours from yesterday, whereas he talked to (well, mostly listened to) everyone else around him.
That was what led me to texting him again, Please disregard that last message thanks, on the way home from the mall.
Because I’d wanted him to know just how much I wasn’t thinking of him. So I reminded him of it. That I wasn’t thinking of him.
Oof, I’m such an impulsive klutz.
I let the water drain from the sink and wiped the counters. It was time for Little Women, the one with Winona Ryder as Jo.
I changed into pajamas, undid my hair bun, removed my contac
t lenses, put on glasses, wrapped Binky around me, cradled Squish, and pressed play on my favorite comfort movie of all time.
As Jo traipsed around being allowed to be angry when she wanted to be, and Amy threw things in the fire during one of her rage sessions, it hit me that maybe it was because Jo and Amy were considered cute that they got away with showing their emotions.
Like the girl on the plane coloring so happily.
Was that a factor in me not being able to just be messy me?
• • •
At the part in the movie when Jo’s neighbor Laurie tried to kiss her, my Adam-and-my-hair fantasy popped right back into my head, churning my insides.
God, I had it so bad this time. I’d never felt this intensity with that brief thing I had with Yasin, Ayaan’s friend.
Ayaan.
She, too, hadn’t wanted to answer my texts.
She hated my guts.
I stopped the movie and closed the laptop.
Then, even though it was only seven thirty, I got under Binky, removed my glasses, and closed my eyes.
I didn’t want to think.
• • •
Beeps from my phone woke me. It was Kavi messaging me to hop on FaceTime.
“I thought I’d do today’s bulletin face-to-face. Since I miss your face,” she said, her phone far enough away that I could see her sitting crisscrossed on a chair. The brick wall behind her, with its familiar posters (LIBRARIES ARE FOR EVERYONE! and WE READ BANNED BOOKS HERE!) told me she was in the school library quiet room, the exact one we hang out in when we have work to catch up on at lunchtime. The one we call our Situation Room.
I swallowed a pang of homesickness and got busy finding my glasses in Binky’s folds.
As I propped my phone against the bedside lamp, Kavi peered at me. “WHOA. YOU’VE TRANSFORMED. Is that really you, Zayneb?”
I slid my glasses on, sat up on my knees, and twisted to look at myself in the mirrored cabinet door above the headboard.
My Fenty makeup was still on, subtle and flawless. My dark hair, echoing the dark frames on my glasses, lay sexy and curly around this perfection. I was in pajamas, but . . . still.