Fazeela glared at me, her movements jerky, and I realized it was still a painful subject, so painful she rarely talked about it. “If soccer couldn’t accept all of me, I wouldn’t let it have any of me.” Her shoulders drooped. “I was punishing myself too, really, because I loved it so much. Walking away from soccer changed me. I got married and started working at the restaurant with Fahim. And when this bowling ball came along, I couldn’t stop thinking about the kind of world my daughter would be born into.”
“You could be having a boy.”
“It’s a girl. Trust me.”
We were both silent, and my eyes traveled back to her stomach, where a fragile new life had sprouted only a few months ago. In another few months’ time, a tiny person would join our family. I was still wrapping my head around that. No wonder my sister was wondering who she was and who she wanted to be after the new addition arrived. Aydin had been right; he wasn’t the cause of our family’s identity crisis. But he hadn’t helped, either.
“Do you regret not taking off the hijab and continuing to play soccer?” Fazeela and I had never really talked about this. She had never wanted to.
“Yes,” she said simply. “And I hate them for putting me in that position. I hate that I was a pawn in some stupid political game. I just wanted to play.”
Fazeela placed a small mirror in my hand. A more polished version of me stared back. I admired her handiwork: My eyes seemed larger, the smoky effect dramatic above nude lips. She had somehow unearthed my cheekbones, highlighting them with a subtle glowing blush.
She gathered her tools, putting them neatly back in the bin. “The reign of Three Sisters is coming to an end, and it’s time to think about what you want to do next. It’s okay to be selfish sometimes, Hanaan.” Fazeela grinned at me. “And it would be really awesome to have a filthy-rich brother-in-law willing to invest in an exciting new restaurant in western Canada.”
Feeling lighter than I had since I learned Afsana’s secret, I left for my shift at the restaurant. I texted Aydin on my way, asking if he was busy and if we could meet that night. I needed some time to figure out how I would tell him about his mother, how best to reveal a secret that had been concealed from him for decades. I knew that, no matter how carefully I told him, the knowledge would upend his entire world.
Except Aydin didn’t respond to my text, not in the next hour and not that night. Instead, I received word from an unexpected quarter.
Soufi’s, tomorrow 9 am. Heard what happened with Marisa. Let’s talk about next steps. Bring your podcast.
Big J was ready to talk.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Soufi’s was a tiny, quirky, family-run Syrian café located near the radio station. I was so nervous about meeting Big J that I was fifteen minutes early.
He must have heard all about the unceremonious way I had left Radio Toronto. What if he had written me off as flaky and unreliable? But then why would he want to meet? Maybe he wanted to remind me that walking away in a huff doesn’t help one’s career path, especially considering that I was an intern with no money or useful contacts.
I hadn’t yet told my parents I had quit my internship; I was afraid of disappointing them, especially Baba. Kawkab Khala, on the other hand, would probably wonder why it had taken me so long to grow a backbone. Then again, she was the rich daughter of a nawab. Access to ready money has a way of smoothing the path of dissidence.
Soufi’s was mostly empty when I arrived. I claimed a table at the front, near the window, after ordering an orange blossom latte and knafeh, white cheese topped with phyllo pastry soaked in a sweet rose-flavored syrup.
I spotted Big J through the window as he walked toward the café. He wasn’t alone. Thomas was walking beside him, hands stuffed deep into jacket pockets, stride loping. My former fellow intern caught my eye through the window, then looked away.
* * *
• • •
They shared earbuds, listening to the podcast I had finished editing late the night before. A quick smile slipped across Big J’s face a few times, and his thick eyelashes fluttered in amusement as he listened to my aunt berate me. He was still working on his beard, which was in the awkward, wispy phase. I wondered if he used conditioner and beard oil.
My eyes moved to Thomas. Big J hadn’t explained why he was there, only throwing out a casual “You don’t mind, right?” before striding to the counter to order for them both. Thomas had made polite brown-boy conversation, asking about the restaurant and my parents, until Big J returned with two steaming cups of coffee with generous dollops of cream.
I didn’t want to stare while they listened, so I went to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. When I returned, Thomas and Big J had removed their earbuds. One smiled at me; the other did not.
“You made this episode yourself?” Thomas asked. Rude.
“You have a unique style. Impressive work,” Big J said.
“This is the sort of stuff I want to work on—remarkable, nuanced stories and diverse experiences. Every time I tried to suggest something like this, I was never supported.” I glanced at Thomas. Was he spying for Marisa? I shifted, uncomfortable, and addressed Big J. “I could use some help trying to get my work aired elsewhere.”
Big J leaned back, hands running through the whiskers on his face. “Marisa went ahead with your former show. The first episode, about radicalization in the Muslim community, ran a few days ago.”
I tensed, glancing at Thomas. Had he come there to gloat? “Congratulations. How was it?” I asked flatly.
“Marisa and Nathan had a lot of . . . input. The episode wasn’t exactly what I had envisioned,” Thomas said, fiddling with his phone. “After the episode aired, we got a lot of coverage and online comments. Radio Toronto doesn’t usually get that kind of attention. One of the local TV stations even invited us on their evening program, to talk more about Islamization.”
“A topic you know so much about,” I said.
“I thought you were crazy when you quit, Hana,” Thomas said, ignoring my snipe. He couldn’t meet my gaze. “I thought we were starting a conversation, that we would make a difference. Marisa told me the show received so much attention they’ve approved another five episodes.” He finally looked at me, but there was no smirking exultation on his face. Instead, I recognized deep remorse. “They didn’t have to read the e-mails, tweets, and posts from listeners. The things people said were . . . I’ve never had to . . .” He trailed off, then swallowed. “I told them they had to make some changes, and they refused. I quit yesterday. You were right, Hana. It did more harm than good.”
I was surprised. I would have guessed that Thomas would step on whomever he needed to, do anything required to get ahead. Perhaps our many conversations had made an impact on him after all. Still, he needed to understand that his privilege was different from mine, that his experiences didn’t give him a free pass from acknowledging that he had hurt me—and others he might never meet. “We had a real chance to change Marisa’s mind, to bring a new perspective to Radio Toronto,” I said slowly. “Instead of backing me up, you chose to stab me in the back and push me out.”
He dropped his gaze. “I’m sorry, Hana. I was wrong. I made a mistake.”
Choice. My mother was big on choice. I could choose to carry a grudge; Thomas did deserve my anger. Or I could choose to give him another chance. I nodded once, acknowledging his words.
Minority Alliance (shakily) reactivated. Though I wouldn’t let him off the hook until he had demonstrated more than a superficial wish to change his behavior.
“Your podcast is great, but you need a sound engineer, and maybe a cohost,” Big J suggested gently. “Maybe you and Thomas were meant to work together after all.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said. After making Thomas stew for a bit first.
I ordered another latte while they ran through my podcast again.
<
br /> CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The decision to work with Thomas on Secret Family History was easy in the end. With his help we would have our pilot episode ready by the end of the week, and Big J promised to work his contacts for us.
When I returned to the restaurant that evening, Mom was at the counter while a few customers finished their meals. She looked more tired than normal. She had been working constantly for weeks, her only day off Nalla’s funeral. I told her to leave a little early.
“It will be good to have dinner with your baba,” she agreed, giving me a hug. “We have barely spoken these past few days.” She had been doing that a lot, ever since the attack—making sure she hugged me and Fazee, noticing how much time she was spending away from the family. Almost as if something had tipped within, a shift in her personal accounting.
The bell on the door jingled as Mom gathered her things, and Imam Abdul Bari stepped inside. “Assalamu alaikum, Sister Hana, Sister Ghufran,” the imam greeted us as he reached the counter, his voice soft. Grief had stolen his usual strong tenor.
I reached behind the counter for the imam’s order: butter chicken, basmati rice, and a special serving of his favorite dessert, carrot halwa, which Mom had made for him. I waved away his money and handed him the bag.
Rashid emerged from the kitchen, where he had been putting away supplies, and the imam lingered to chat. The house must have felt so lonely without his Nalla.
“Everyone is looking forward to the festival in a few days. I hope you are not worried about this latest development,” Abdul Bari said.
My cousin and I exchanged swift glances. I asked the imam to explain, and he pulled out his phone. A simple flyer, plain white with a stark black border, was displayed in his browser: Protest shariah law in toronto! Halal food fest = creeping shariah law! Join the Concerned Citizens Coalition for an anti-halal protest. Free canadian bacon, ham, and pigs in a blanket! There was a graphic of a man with a long beard dressed in a white robe and brandishing a wicked-looking scimitar. He was pointing a finger, Uncle Sam–style, at the reader. The date and time were listed below. Unsurprisingly, the protest was scheduled for the same date, time, and location as our street festival.
I took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. It didn’t work. “It’s not a halal food festival!” I burst out.
“Maybe we should cancel,” Rashid said. I was sure he was remembering the video he had uploaded so gleefully, and the graffiti and vandalism that had resulted.
What if we held the street festival and things got out of hand? Golden Crescent had been through enough.
“We will not cancel.” Mom stood behind us, eyes flashing, her exhaustion gone. “We live here. Our friends live here. I will not be threatened by strangers.” She turned to me. “I will talk to Brother Musa. Put it to the rest of the businesses if you want, but Three Sisters will participate, even if we are the only stall on the entire street.”
Mom walked the imam out. They were discussing who they would talk to in the neighborhood to encourage a better turnout, and how to drum up more community support. I quickly texted Aydin to let him know what had happened. Surely he would respond to the message, even though he had ignored the other three I had sent. I was starting to worry about him.
Rashid reached for his jacket and wallet. “I will go to the police station right now and inform Constable Lukie about the planned protest.” He paused. “Will you be okay to return home on your own tonight after closing?”
I waved him off, trying not to think about the dark walk back and the hateful flyer. This was my home. I was safe. Besides, one shriek and five people would come running.
The last customer left after ten o’clock. I wiped down the counters, ran the dishwasher, and stacked cutlery, plates, and other supplies before turning off the lights. It was after eleven when I turned on the security alarm and flipped the deadbolt.
I checked my phone. Still nothing from Aydin, but there was a message from Lily.
Where are you?
Walking home, I typed back.
Meet you on the corner.
Lily was waiting for me at the edge of Golden Crescent, just before the street emptied into our residential neighborhood. She wore a white hoodie over tights, her hair tightly wound in a braid. Her face was pale under the streetlamp, and I hugged her, happy she had thought to text me. I was relieved to have some company in the dark quiet of the neighborhood, and I was eager to update her about Aydin and the restaurant and to ask for some advice.
I opened my mouth to speak, but hesitated. Lily had drawn her arms tightly around herself and ducked her head into the warmth of her sweatshirt hood. She wasn’t there to catch up or hear my latest gossip, I realized. Lily had come to tell me something, and she was working up her nerve. Silence stretched taut between us, an elastic band ready to snap.
“Yusuf and I . . . ,” Lily started, before trailing off and trying again. “He’s coming with me to Timmins. He wants to get involved in First Nations advocacy, to see if he can set up a Muslim–First Nations cooperative.”
I smiled at her in the darkness. Some good news, finally. “Did you like the ring?” I asked.
Lily nodded, and I knew there was more.
“We eloped last week,” she said softly. “Yusuf and I are married.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Over breakfast the next morning, Rashid filled me in on his conversation with Constable Lukie, but I wasn’t paying attention. My mind was stuck on a single thought: Married. Yusuf and Lily are MARRIED! And they didn’t tell me!
I had spoken to Yusuf recently and he hadn’t said a word. Lily and I had talked during the protest at Aydin’s launch, and she hadn’t hinted that they were even back together, let alone joined by a more permanent bond. My two best friends had taken that huge step without telling me, the keeper of their confidences.
On top of the other secrets everyone had kept from me, it felt like a betrayal. Things were changing all around me: Fazeela and Fahim’s plans to move halfway across the country for a fresh start, the idea that my mother might close the restaurant, my self-imposed ouster from Radio Toronto, and now my two best friends leaving me behind. Rashid would eventually return to India, and Kawkab Khala’s departure would come even sooner than that. All I would be left with was a rapidly changing Golden Crescent, my jumbled feelings for Aydin, and my life in the middle of a massive upheaval, whether I welcomed the change or not.
I remembered Fazeela’s advice from a few nights before, while her careful hands smoothed and shaped my face. It’s time to think about what you want to do next. It’s okay to be selfish. I had filled my heart and hands with everyone else’s burdens, had accepted their worries as if they had been my own, assuming they were all doing the same for me—but they weren’t. The thought made me feel lonely, and my eyes filled with tears.
Rashid stopped talking instantly, stricken at my reaction. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I know it has been difficult lately, but things will work out for the better. You will see.”
I sniffed, wiping my eyes. “Don’t you mean work out for the best?”
Rashid looked puzzled. “Best is not for this world, Hana Apa. Better is all we can hope for in this life.”
He was right. No matter what happened next—with Aydin, with Three Sisters, with my family and my career in broadcasting—I could only keep working and hope for better. In the case of Aydin, I could also confront his silence on his own turf.
* * *
• • •
The chef and manager of Wholistic Grill, Gary, was taking orders at the cash register when I entered the busy restaurant. I asked if Aydin was around and free to talk.
A frown crossed Gary’s face. “He had to rush back to Vancouver.”
Aydin had left? “Did he say why?” I asked.
Gary shrugged. “His dad had some sort of emergency. Aydin told me I was in char
ge and that he’d be back.” He smiled at the next person in line.
I felt more confused than ever. I was glad Aydin was okay, but why wasn’t he replying to the—I checked my phone—half-dozen messages I had sent over two days? Was I being ghosted?
* * *
• • •
Brother Musa called an emergency meeting of the BOA after hearing of the latest threat to Golden Crescent. This time my mother—a popular, though mostly absent, member—was in attendance. Everyone was curious to hear what she had to say, and they weren’t disappointed. She had even prepared a handwritten speech.
“We have lived here and raised our families in this neighborhood for decades,” she said, clutching her lined paper, voice steady. “I have known most of you for over fifteen years, and though we come from different parts of the world, we know what hatred can do. Many of us have witnessed firsthand the effects of anger, violence, and bloodshed back home. We cannot allow that same hatred here on our street. We must push back against those who want us to feel afraid in our own homes. We are a part of this neighborhood, this city, this country, just as much as anybody else. It is time to make our presence known.”
By the end of the meeting a dozen businesses had confirmed their participation in the street festival. A few held back, particularly the newer ones, but the response was better than I had dared hope.
I hugged her afterward. “You’re amazing,” I said.
Mom shrugged. “Might as well end our time here with a big splash.”
My heart sank. I knew what she was hinting at and wondered what new secrets were about to be revealed.
I sent Aydin another text, filling him in on the challenge ahead. I wasn’t sure if he would receive it or respond, but I wanted him to know anyway.
Hana Khan Carries On Page 26