by Farah Heron
Amira giggled, feeling light-headed. “He looked terrified to see Zahra crying. I think he wanted to buy her a kitten.”
Travis took another bite of his sticky bun and chewed while looking appreciatively at Amira. “You were fierce earlier. I wanted to stand and applaud after you tore into Duncan. Never seen anyone shrink so small. But I think a standing ovation wouldn’t have been appropriate. He is our baritone, after all. I think I’m supposed to be on his side.” His eyes narrowed conspiratorially. “What did you mean by not exactly vanilla in the bedroom?”
Amira laughed silently and slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “We’ll talk later. Not in front of Zahra.”
They watched the movie for a bit, before they wrinkled their noses and turned to each other again. Terrible.
“Oh, I wanted to ask you, are you still coming tomorrow?” Travis asked.
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
“No. You have to come. It would mean a lot to us. All of us. And . . . you don’t have to worry about Sameer’s family. You dumped him earlier today.”
“I did?” Amira laughed.
“Yeah, but you’ve decided to stay friends. Sameer called his grandmother and told her not to make a fuss over you at the show. He thought she may listen if you dumped him first.”
“That was the easiest breakup I’ve ever had. Way easier than . . .” She paused, thinking about Duncan. She bit her lip. “He’s going to be there, isn’t he? Duncan’s brother.”
“Yup. And that’s why you should come. Let’s normalize this shit. Gays and Muslims all singing and being happy together. Let’s show him what we’re really like.”
“I’ll come, too, Meer,” Reena said. “Let’s fill that hall up with so much brown love that maybe the bigots will get scared and leave.”
She wished Ryan wasn’t going, but this ridiculous barbershop quartet had come to mean a lot to her, and this could be one of the last times she saw them. She wanted to see the performance they had been working on so hard. She wanted to celebrate their accomplishment with them.
Amira sat up straighter. “Okay. I may regret it, but I want to go. For you.”
Later, after Travis left and Zahra was snoring softly on the top bunk above them, Amira and Reena huddled together in the bottom bunk so they could finally really talk about what had happened to Amira and Zahra.
“I can’t even believe it. Poor Zahra. You think she’ll be okay?” Reena asked.
“Yeah, the pink hair helped. She won’t ever forget what her friend called her, but I’m sure it won’t be the only time she’ll be called a terrorist.” Amira squeezed the pillow on her lap. “I can’t believe Duncan’s brother would spew that nonsense to his child.”
“What’s his name? I’m googling him.” Reena pulled her phone out of her bag.
“Ryan Galahad.”
“If he says it in front of his child, I’m sure he’s vocal to others online. And . . . yup. You do not want to see his Twitter.” She scrolled through silently, wisely not showing the Twitter feed to Amira. “Jesus, he really believes this stuff? Whatever happened to common sense? Ugh. I can’t believe your lumberjack is related to this . . . thing.”
“I know. And he’s not my lumberjack anymore.”
“So, his family is a complete deal breaker? You guys were so hot for each other.”
“I can’t work through this. He lives with his brother. They’re close.”
“Such a shame. Duncan is your manic pixie dream . . . man.”
What the hell was Reena talking about this time? “What?”
“Manic pixie dream girl is a plot device, a trope in romcoms. A girl, or in your case, a man, whose quirky personality and love of life teaches the stodgy hero how to enjoy life,” Reena said.
“I’m stodgy?”
“Sometimes.”
Amira shook her head. “Pixie or gnome, or whatever, I can’t look at him without thinking his family hates me for no real reason. I just can’t.”
“If you’re going to rule out anyone who has Islamophobic family members, you won’t have many men left in North America,” Reena said sadly.
“I know. Remember, I wanted to find a boyfriend from inside our culture for that reason.” She frowned, squeezing her pillow tighter. “And it’s more than just that with Duncan.” Amira turned to face the bright-purple door in her sister’s bedroom, feeling her chest tighten. “If he’d only told me about them. I don’t know, I feel like he hid this from me intentionally.”
“If you’d known about his family, would you have started anything with him?”
“I don’t know. Probably. Would’ve been nice to have that dialogue, you know? He had plenty of opportunities to tell me; we had a lot of conversations about this stuff. At least I would have known what I was getting into. And I would have kept Zahra away from his family.”
Reena was silent for a bit, then frowned. “The Galahad brothers are not brave knights, after all. Bunch of man-boys.”
“Yeah. And we’re going to see them both tomorrow.”
“You sure you want to go? You don’t owe them anything.”
“Yeah, I do want to. For Travis and Sameer, mostly. Travis is right. We need to normalize this shit. I’m done letting bigots prevent me from doing what I want.”
“It sucks, though. I still can’t believe he let you call him farm boy. You’d think someone willing to role-play The Princess Bride would be an automatic keeper. Not to mention he learned to make your chai.”
“Yeah, but that was just because he discovered his own love of masala chai.” She paused, thinking. “Anyone ever examine the power dynamics in that movie? The farm boy has no choice but to do whatever Buttercup wants. He’s her bloody servant. And it’s all made out to be this great act of love.”
Reena smiled. “It is an act of love. He still obeys when he’s a pirate. It’s not the words, Amira, it’s the way he looks at her. He sees more than just the spoiled princess. He always did. He sees what she needs.”
Amira blinked, hearing the melancholy in Reena’s voice. Reena really deserved to find her own happily-ever-after. Soon. They both deserved it. She rested on her friend’s shoulder and sighed. “Well, I guess we see the truth now. Duncan Galahad was no farm boy.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
AMIRA’S PHONE RANG early the next morning, waking her. Her father.
“Oh my god, what time is it?” Reena mumbled as Amira answered the call.
“Morning, Dad,” Amira grumbled.
“Daddy!” Zahra yelped from the top bunk.
Her father chuckled. “Zahra’s with you?”
“Yeah, I slept in her room. Here, you’d better talk to her first.”
After Zahra told their father all about their sleepover and her new pink hair, she dangled her arm over the edge of her bed to hand Amira her phone, then hopped down the ladder and pulled Reena out of bed to find Mum and breakfast.
“Pink hair, Amira?” Dad asked.
“Mum said yes.”
“I’m sure she did, but”—he paused—“that’s a fight for another day. I woke up early today to go over your paper with you. I’ve finished my review of it.”
Amira’s chest tightened with nerves. “Well, what did you think?”
“Honestly? I was a proud papa reading it. It is very good, Amira.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I made some notes, little things you can fix. I’ve emailed them to you. Overall, I can’t see why your professor wouldn’t accept this. You’ve done an excellent job.”
Amira fell back onto her pillow, body going slack. “Oh, I am so relieved. Did you see Raymond’s notes?”
“I didn’t agree with his assessment. I’m sure if you reworked your algorithms to address his concerns, it would be good, too, but that doesn’t mean the report isn’t excellent as is. I disagree with his opinion that you are beyond your scope. You’ve clearly demonstrated comprehension of your topic. You took a direct but novel approach to solve the problem. May
be Raymond expected a more conventional solution, but that’s not why you’re doing this master’s degree. I’m not convinced your applications are impractical.”
She listened to him speak more about her algorithms and suggestions for some extra real-world applications to add, all while a warmth radiated from her core. There was nothing like praise from her father. A huge part of why she’d decided to do this master’s program was her hope to be more like him. Always so smart, so capable. But then she struggled in the program and avoided sending him any of her school work or grades because she knew she wasn’t living up to his high standards.
But this time, she was. He was proud of her.
“Thank you, Dad. Seriously, I’m so glad you like it.”
“It’s not a matter of like, Amira. You know what you’re talking about, and it shows. In fact, I’d seriously consider hiring you for a position in noise control. I know the president of a firm in Toronto that specializes in that area. Would you like me to see if he has a place for you there?”
“No, it’s fine. I . . .” Amira paused. “I don’t really want to specialize in acoustics. Hyde is actually starting up a new sound-reduction division, but I think I’m caught in some office politics there.”
“It’s a booming field. And if you’re having problems at Hyde, now is a good time to move on. Let me ask my friend Robert, he may at least know of—”
“No, Dad, it’s fine. Thank you.” She valued her father’s opinion but she needed to solve this herself. She still wasn’t sure if it was time yet to leave the company she had loved.
“Is something else wrong?” he asked. “You sound down.”
Amira paused. Should she tell Dad what happened with Duncan? “Yeah, I had a terrible day yesterday, not just because of this work crap. Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Since you’ve been in the US, are the people there, you know, friendly to you?”
“Honestly, yes. Everyone here has been so kind. I have more workplace friends in Philadelphia than I ever had in Toronto.”
“Are there a lot of, you know, conservatives there? Do they accept you?”
“If you’re asking if I’ve had any problems because I’m a Muslim, no, not personally. Philadelphia is primarily liberal, and quite multicultural. I have found that most who have a problem with Muslims haven’t had the chance to get to know any.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s true here, too.”
Dad was quiet a moment before speaking. “Amira, what you went through last year was traumatic. It’s no wonder you’re still affected by it. It’s wrong for people to distrust us, but they’re being told by people who look like them that we are the enemy. It’s a dangerous time for Muslims, but I have to believe that even if humanity as a whole is bad right now, individual people are not. I fully believe we are seeing a shift—and that the value of increased diversity, starting in the workplace, is finally being recognized. Variety is the spice of life! Can you imagine curry made with only one spice?”
Typical Dad. Profound, intelligent, caring. Amira missed him so much. “I know, Dad, but I’m tired of excusing this. I don’t care anymore why someone is intolerant. I just . . .” She sighed. “Anyway, I’ll take a look at your email. Thanks for doing this for me. Love you, Dad.”
“I love you too, Amira. We need to discuss plans for the summer, but get your paper in first. And once again, well done.”
Amira lay in the bottom bunk of her sister’s bed for some time. Her mind was swirling with contrasting feelings of relief that her father liked her paper and anger at Raymond for wasting so much of her time. And, of course, disappointment with Duncan and his family. Dad said some people just needed to get to know a Muslim. Well, Duncan knew her. At least, she thought he did.
Finally, she forced herself to get up. She found Zahra and Reena kneading dough in the kitchen.
“She’s teaching me to make those sticky cinnamon buns we had last night,” Zahra said.
Amira smiled. “Sounds delicious. I’m just going to get some chai, then can I use your desk to work, Zahra?”
Zahra nodded as Amira poured a cup from the pot simmering on the stove.
“You work. I’ll stay with Zahra until it’s time for us to go,” Reena said, waving Amira out of the room.
Amira set up her computer in her sister’s bedroom and started going over her dad’s notes. His points were valid. There were things she could have included but didn’t, and a few arguments that were redundant. He thought her research was sound and the rationale for her approach was appropriate. And Dad knew his stuff. He had more education, and more experience in the field, than Raymond. She added one more quick analysis as the finishing touch to the report.
While working, her mind stayed fixated on Raymond. She still didn’t know what the hell had happened there. Dad said that he agreed with many of Raymond’s points about her work, and he thought the paper would work as well if she redid it according to Raymond’s suggestions. Maybe he wasn’t trying to sabotage her after all. Perhaps just the opposite—he wanted to challenge her to lift her work to a higher standard and maybe prove she could implement practical solutions at Hyde. Maybe he did want her to move to the new division with him, and he knew a great project would impress Jim enough to allow her transfer.
But if that were the case, why hadn’t he told her about the division? What would be the point of hiding it from her? Her return-to-work date was after the internal job postings would be taken down. She would have missed this opportunity altogether if Shelley hadn’t told her. Would she have come back to see Raymond leading the new division? What would he have said to her?
She pushed these thoughts out of her head. Her only priority right now was to get the damn report ready to submit tomorrow, then worry what the hell she was going to do about her job.
Amira stayed upstairs and worked until she heard the boys leave for the competition, then she went down to her room to change. Reena would be back soon to pick her up. Amira needed to mentally prepare herself to face Duncan again.
* * *
THE ONTARIO REGION Barbershop Quartet Competition was held in a theatre north of the city, one of those medium-sized concert halls that local schools and amateur theatre groups rented. The crowd was bigger than expected, and Amira was glad she saw no one she knew as they walked in.
“Hi, you’re Amira and Reena, right?” an unfamiliar voice behind her said.
Amira turned to see a small woman with tightly curled bobbed hair and a yellow sundress. She had one of those faces that could be anywhere between sixteen and twenty-nine years old.
“I’m Marcia, Barrington’s girlfriend,” she continued. “Well, I guess, fiancée. I’m still getting used to that. He showed me a picture of you two, at a brewpub.”
Marcia was cute, but she looked about the size of Barrington’s left femur. “Hi, Marcia. Yeah, I’m Amira, this is Reena.”
“Can I sit with you? I don’t know anyone else here.”
“Of course. Let’s go find seats.”
As they made their way down the aisle, someone else called Amira’s name, motioning them over to their row. It was Shirin and one of Sameer’s aunties.
Damn.
Amira smiled, knowing she really didn’t have a choice but to join them. Nanima would hear about it if she didn’t, and she wouldn’t be thrilled if Amira snubbed her best friend. Thankfully, after squeezing down to the empty seats, Amira found herself sitting next to the aunty, not Shirin. Reena, then Marcia, were on her other side. She scanned the crowd. No sign of Ryan or Maddie. Good. Maybe they’d pulled a no-show. Duncan would be disappointed at that, though, despite everything.
“Amira,” Shirin said, leaning over the aunty, “I’m happy you came for Sameer. He told me you’re not dating anymore but are still friends.”
“I’m friends with all of them. They’re good guys.” She tried to smile.
“Sameer is such a good boy. Did you know he is a pharmacist? He works so hard, he ne
eds a nice girl like you to take care of him. Maybe . . .”
“Maa, please. Don’t embarrass her,” Sameer’s aunty said. She turned to Amira and smiled. “I’m Tazim. Sameer’s mother is my youngest sister. I think we met at the anniversary party? It was great of all Sameer’s friends to come.”
“It was a lovely party.”
“Looks like they’re starting,” Marcia interrupted.
Amira looked towards the darkened stage. The curtains were open, and the house lights were dimming. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him. Ryan was here, sitting in the same row as her, but on the opposite side of the theatre. And it looked like he was alone. Maddie wasn’t with him.
Ryan Galahad. Unassuming and clean-cut. Good-looking, too. Just sitting, waiting for the show to start. Not worrying about anything. Comfortable in the knowledge that he could do or say whatever the hell he wanted to.
Why had she agreed to come to this thing? Her heart rate sped up.
Finally, the master of ceremonies stepped onstage. Or, Amira corrected herself, masters of ceremonies. Should she be surprised it was a quartet?
Three older men—two with white hair, one with no hair—and a middle-aged woman. All wearing identical red-and-white-striped blazers, white pants, and red bow ties and holding straw hats. And instead of talking, they were singing.
Because of course they were. This was absurd. Amira looked around. People of all ages filled the crowd, likely friends and family of the competitors. There was also a sizable contingent of millennials, clad in copious amounts of floral prints and plaid, jewel-toned glasses perched on their faces, who were cheering wildly for the quartet on the stage. Weirdly, all that earnest joy had an unexpected effect on Amira—she felt her own heart swell.
“Welcome to the fourteenth annual Ontario Region Barbershop Quartet Competition. Today we have the privilege of showcasing the best of the best in barbershop singing from across Ontario.”