“Aydin isn’t simply a businessman, Hana,” Yusuf said slowly, as if he were speaking to a young child. “He’s a colonizer. He and his father have their sights set on our neighborhood, our home. Don’t be fooled by his pretty face and expensive clothes. The father is nasty, but the son is the real predator.”
I flushed at Yusuf’s words. They closely resembled my own thinking, and it was strange to hear them spoken out loud. I was starting to regret coming out for ice cream after all.
Yusuf turned his attention back to Lily and began telling her about his latest passion project, a free medical clinic for refugees. They were looking for doctors willing to volunteer. Would she have time to take a quick tour today?
He gave me a significant look, and I snapped to attention. “We can catch up later, Lil,” I reassured her. “You should spend some time with Yusuf on this very worthy cause.”
We all agreed to dinner in the next few weeks. My two best friends exited, leaving me with an uncomfortable swirl of feelings. Was my aunt right about the rumors surrounding Junaid Uncle? Was Aydin really a colonizer, as Yusuf had put it? Was Golden Crescent slated to be the next stop on his eastward march from Vancouver? If so, why did I feel so awful about making a fake complaint against his business? This was war, after all. Because you lied. Aydin never lied to you.
As if my thoughts had conjured him up, the doorbell chimed and Aydin walked into IScreams, his gorgeous publicist-fiancée on his arm.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Correction: Aydin and Zulfa walked into IScreams accompanied by my cousin. Rashid spotted me and glanced guiltily at Aydin. There was a lot of that going around.
“Stop following me!” Rashid said loudly. Aydin looked startled, then noticed me. The expression on his face turned stony, but Zulfa smiled and made her way over.
“Hana, right?” she said in a sweet, singsong voice. She was dressed in an emerald green jumpsuit with a cinched waist that emphasized her Barbie-doll proportions. Her hair swished around her shoulders like a very expensive curtain, and she walked confidently in three-inch stilettos. Next to her I felt frumpy in my old jeans and black sweatshirt, faded jersey hijab thrown carelessly over my head.
“And you’re Zainab, right?” I asked, playing dumb.
“Zulfa,” she said, smiling brilliantly.
Gag. She was beautiful and nice. “Zalfu?” I repeated, eyes wide.
“You’re so lucky you have a name that’s easy to pronounce,” Zulfa said, sighing prettily. “I’ve started just spelling my name when I introduce myself. ‘Hi, I’m Z-U-L-F-A.’ I still get a blank look, but at least that way they can visualize it in their heads first.”
Nice, beautiful, and smart. Damn. “My full name is Hanaan,” I muttered. “Nobody can pronounce it either, so I go by Hana.”
Rashid sat down beside me. “They followed me here, I swear it,” he said.
“You asked us to come with you when we met outside your aunt’s restaurant,” Zulfa said. A mischievous smile danced on her lips. “Something about feeling lonely in a strange land?”
Rashid shot her a look before turning back to me. “It was most difficult to get rid of them, Hana Apa. You understand how hard it is for an Indian to be rude. The politeness gene has been bred and beaten into me quite intensely.”
I rolled my eyes, but Zulfa’s musical laughter made my cousin smile broadly. “What did you say your name was again?” she said to my cousin.
“R-A-S-H-I-D,” he said, smiling. “And you are the beautiful Zulfa, fiancée to the silent usurper Aydin.”
“We’re here for ice cream,” Zulfa said.
“I thought you were here for the steak and mashed potatoes,” I said, cutting my eyes at Aydin, who stood behind Zulfa. His arms were crossed and he looked uncomfortable. A delicious feeling of mischief bloomed in my mind.
Zulfa laughed again. “Aydin said you were funny! I hope it’s okay if we join you.” Not waiting for an answer, she took a seat and then turned to Aydin. “That Black Raspberry Thunder sounds interesting. Order me a scoop?”
“I’m sure Hana wants to be left alone,” Aydin said shortly, still not looking at me. “There are plenty of empty tables.”
“No, please have a seat,” I said. What was I doing? The politeness gene had clearly been bred into me too.
Aydin caught my eye. “You don’t have to pretend to like us.”
“I like Zulfa just fine,” I answered, and Aydin flushed.
Zulfa laughed. “Ooh, burn.” She turned to me. “I had a feeling we would be friends.”
Mr. Silver Shades walked to the counter, joined by Rashid.
Maybe she really was only Aydin’s publicist. Zulfa’s eyes were clear and unassuming, her face empty of guile. I supposed beautiful people had no need to be underhanded. People just gave them whatever they wanted, whenever they asked for it. I sank even lower in my seat and considered my options. I wasn’t in the mood to eat ice cream with Aydin. I contemplated making a run for it. If Rashid hadn’t been there, I would have, except his words had made me feel bad.
My cousin had been in Canada for more than a week, and he had been the perfect guest. I, on the other hand, had not been the perfect host. I had tried to pump him for information about Kawkab Khala and then ignored him the rest of the time. Yet he hadn’t complained once, had even come to the BOA meeting and stood up for me, though we barely knew each other. The least I could do was stay and watch him eat ice cream.
Aydin returned with two cups, Black Raspberry Thunder for Zulfa and Mint Chip. He handed the Mint Chip to me and took a seat beside his fiancée. Rashid was still at the counter, holding three different sample spoons and pointing at yet another flavor.
“Aydin has been working at his restaurant nonstop,” Zulfa said, leaning toward me conspiratorially. “I’ve barely seen him all week. You’re coming to the opening, right? We’ve been running ads on social media, giving away coupons and distributing flyers. Please say you’ll be there. Bring Rashid too. Your cousin is fun.”
“Hana’s not going to be there, Zulfa,” he said. “Just drop it.”
Zulfa’s brown eyes were puzzled. “I’m sorry to hear that. Aydin told me how much he enjoyed your mom’s food. I thought she might want to attend as well.”
I looked over at Aydin, then back at the ice cream he had handed me, and took a cautious bite. It was pepperminty and cold, the chocolate chips crunchy and sweet. I felt his eyes on me as I took another taste. “Thanks for the ice cream,” I said.
“It’s not a peace offering.” He looked grumpy. “Mint Chip is my go-to when I’m upset. If you don’t like it, I can get you another flavor.”
“I’m not upset,” I said. Then, more quietly: “This is fine. It’s one of my favorites too.”
“I don’t know how you can eat that,” Zulfa said to Aydin. “It tastes like toothpaste.”
Aydin’s stony expression softened. “We can’t get married if you don’t like Mint Chip. Irreconcilable differences.”
Zulfa laughed again, and I swallowed thickly. Married. These two were engaged to be married, and Aydin wanted to put my mother out of business. I stood up. “I should go.”
Aydin stood too. Still seated, Zulfa gave me a tiny wave. “Please try to make it to the opening. I’m lonely in a strange land too, and could use the company.” She winked at Rashid, who was looking over at us from the ice cream counter. From the heart emojis in his eyes, I could tell my cousin was a goner.
I hurried to the door, but Aydin easily kept pace. “You don’t have to run away. We would have left you alone if you wanted,” Aydin said.
“Does your offer extend to the neighborhood too? Will you leave if I ask nicely?” I asked sweetly.
Aydin’s brows drew together at my words. “I told you I’m not leaving Golden Crescent,” he said. “You might as well stay and fight, if you think Three Sisters has a chance to
survive. Though I’m positive your restaurant hasn’t turned a profit in months. Ask your mom how much debt she’s had to take on.”
Stung by his harsh words, I leaned close, not wanting to make another scene. “There are other ways for a restaurant to fail,” I hissed. “Nobody thought David would win against Goliath, and look how that turned out.”
“Are you threatening me?” Aydin took one step closer, eyes hard on my face. His gaze dipped lower, to my lips, before looking away.
“Yes,” I said, heart pounding.
“You don’t want me as your enemy,” Aydin said.
“Well, we can’t be friends, so where does that leave us?” I asked.
Aydin swallowed. The ice cream shop had grown quiet around us, as if we were inside an intimate bubble. I flashed back to the first time we had met, the way his father’s words had affected him, and I felt sorry for him all over again, and then guilty about what I had done to sabotage his store. Without thinking, I handed him my ice cream. He took a large bite, face relaxing as he swallowed. Our eyes met once more, and the ice cream shop resumed breathing. Or maybe that was just me.
He had a smear of Mint Chip at the corner of his mouth. His chin was prickly with stubble, smoother near his lips. The urge to run my fingers along his jaw, to feel that scratchy-smooth skin, was suddenly overpowering. I had to leave.
“Hana,” he said, voice low, eyes completely black.
Shit. “There’s something on your face,” I said, and stumbled out of the store.
* * *
• • •
I had imagined it. Aydin was my sworn nemesis. That jolt of electricity between us was nothing more than old-fashioned burning hatred. Easy to mistake for that other emotion I definitely wasn’t feeling.
“Hana Apa, wait!” Rashid jogged up to me. He held an enormous sundae in his hands, at least five different flavors loaded into an oversize bowl, the entire concoction covered with sprinkles, nuts, chocolate chunks, and caramel syrup, topped by a single cherry. It looked like something a sugar-deranged five-year-old might order.
“I was talking to Brother Musa about the summer street festival. I told him that you and I would volunteer to organize this year. It might help business at Three Sisters,” he said. “I told Aydin about the festival as well,” he added as an afterthought.
What? “Why would you do that without asking me?”
Rashid said innocently, “It is a street festival for Golden Crescent. His restaurant is part of the neighborhood. And he said Zulfa would be there.” My cousin got a dreamy look on his face. “She looks just like Sridevi,” he said, referring to the late Bollywood superstar. “I don’t think Aydin and Zulfa have been engaged for very long. They barely look at each other. Do you think I might have a chance?”
I rolled my eyes and we walked to the restaurant in silence. Now I had the street festival to contend with along with everything else. Aydin would want to be included in any planning. My stomach churned at the thought of talking to him again after that strange moment between us at IScreams—and my recent attempt at sabotage.
Once back at Three Sisters, I sat in my usual booth to wait for customers and did what I should have done a long time ago: I googled “Wholistic Burgers and Grill.” A professional-looking website was the first hit, and links to the restaurant’s menu had already been posted on Facebook. I noticed its page had more than a thousand followers, and when I clicked on its Instagram account, a barrage of artfully arranged white plates heaped with glistening baskets of hand-cut fries, perfectly round and crispy onion rings, and artisan gourmet burgers topped with avocado slices, alfalfa sprouts, fried egg, and crispy halal beef bacon greeted my stunned eyes. The meat was organic and hand cut, sourced from a local farm, an advertisement claimed. “The way zabiha halal was meant to be!”
Another picture displayed a parade of milkshakes in pastel colors, each topped with whipped cream and artful decorations such as creamy chocolate shavings and luscious fresh fruit. The French Vanilla came with silver and gold sprinkles, and the vibrant green Mint-Chip shake was studded with a bright red-and-white candy cane. All were offered in lactose-free and vegan varieties.
Each picture had been liked hundreds of times, and the comments were positive and slavering:
COMMENTS
Can’t wait!
omg loooooove where do I line up?
gourmet halalz in Golden Crescent? Finally! SIGN ME UP BROTHER!
My mouth began to water, even as I felt an overwhelming wave of jealousy mingled with panic. I closed the apps. We were screwed.
The last time Three Sisters had bothered to advertise had been . . . never. My attempts at making a website had been nothing but wishful thinking so far. No one in the family had even thought to marshal the power of social media to post beautifully curated, well-lit pictures of our food, or to distribute flyers and coupons. We didn’t even have a menu posted online.
I checked my phone for messages from StanleyP. He had sent me a meme of an army of spider robots attacking a fortress.
It was time for the next phase of my plan. I couldn’t let Aydin win. Not when my family had so much to lose.
* * *
• • •
That night I signed on to Facebook using an anonymous account I had created and proceeded to write unflattering comments under a dozen professional photographs on the Wholistic Grill page. “Halal gourmet? More like halal not,” I wrote, wincing. My attacks didn’t have to be clever, only damaging. “I know where this so-called halal restaurant buys its meat, and they aren’t halal. The owners aren’t Muslim either. STAY AWAY!”
On the carefully curated Wholistic Grill Instagram account, I spent half an hour planting more seeds of doubt about the restaurant’s authenticity. Muslims who care about the halal provenance of their meat take that designation very seriously. If there was any suspicion the owners were lying about the authenticity of halal on offer, the results could be disastrous. Ours was a close-knit community, and rumors spread quickly. I hoped.
I logged out of my fake accounts. My queasiness had now turned into actual nausea. For my family, I reminded myself, but the thought wasn’t as comforting as it should have been. If Mom or Baba knew what I had done, they would be horrified. But someone had to fight dirty.
I texted StanleyP. He would be on my side, surely.
AnaBGR
Checking in. You said you would soon be anticipating success. How goes the campaign to vanquish your foes?
StanleyP
Not as well as I’d hoped.
AnaBGR
What happened? Were you double-crossed? Is there a spy in your midst?
StanleyP
The more I get to know my competition, the harder it is to hurt them.
AnaBGR
This is business, not personal. Repeat after me: NOT personal!
StanleyP
Except it would be personal, for both of us. I can’t stop thinking, is this what I really want to do? There has to be a better way. What is the point of destroying your enemy if it leaves you all alone?
AnaBGR
No matter what happens in the kitchen, never apologize.
A long pause. Then:
StanleyP
Where did you get that from?
AnaBGR
Julia Child said it, obvs. You’ve never heard it before? It means take control of your domain and own your actions.
StanleyP
No, I’ve heard it before. I thought your family was in the tech business.
AnaBGR
Techies like to cook too.
StanleyP
I have to go.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Secret Family History. Family Fodder. Family Fandom.
I was wide awake after fajr and decided to drag myself and my laptop into the backyard to watch
the sunrise. I had been trying to work on the story in my heart, as Big J had suggested. So far, typing possible titles for my possible podcast was as far as I had gotten. The backyard was quiet in the post-dawn hush, the sky lightening slowly.
The click of a lighter brought me back to the present, along with the sharp scent of tobacco. Kawkab Khala leaned back against the fence beside me, blowing smoke up into the pale morning sunlight.
“Secondhand smoke is almost as dangerous to bystanders as firsthand smoke is to smokers,” I said.
“Feel free to move. I won’t be offended.”
I edged my chair a few feet away as Kawkab watched with amusement. “Did you look me up on the internet?” she asked, shifting closer to me.
“Yes,” I said, irritated. I had searched for my aunt after looking up Wholistic Grill the previous night, with little success. I had tried every combination of my aunt’s full name, her family name, even “Billi Apa.” My search had yielded nothing.
“And did you ask Rashid about me?” There was a hint of satisfaction in her voice.
I didn’t answer.
“Cats climb,” Kawkab Khala said, blowing more smoke into the air.
I coughed dramatically, waving a hand in front of my face. “As you said.”
In response, Kawkab took a deep drag before changing the subject. “Your sister married so young. Have your parents tried to marry you off as well?”
My hands stilled over the keyboard. “Fazeela and Fahim fell in love and decided to marry. I guess my parents assume I’ll do something similar. I’m only twenty-four, so there’s no rush.”
“Yet you have no suitor on the horizon. Unless you are interested in that vapid but undeniably handsome friend of yours, the grocer’s son. Or perhaps you would prefer to have a more comfortable life and have set your sights on Junaid’s son.”
Hana Khan Carries On Page 12