“We did need time to process, Hani,” Amma says slowly. “We just processed on our own, not in front of you.”
“So … you were upset when I told you?” They were so accepting—like they had never expected me to be anything but bisexual. I never imagined that’s how things would go for us.
“We weren’t upset, but … we had to change our perceptions a little bit.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that … we had these ideas in our head about how things would look for you, and us, down the line, and we had to shift those ideas and make room for new ones.”
“Like … instead of a husband some time in the future, I might have a wife?” I ask.
“Yeah, things like that. And … about how we would deal with telling other family members. How they might react. But … we wanted to deal with that ourselves. Process it all with each other, so you didn’t have to worry about it.”
I never imagined that Amma and Abba had to go off and have conversations about these things. That they would be affected by my coming out in our community, and with our family.
“We could process on our time because we’re adults and we have three kids. We know how things work now. Your friends might need a little bit more time to figure these things out. Just … give them time and space. They’ll come around.”
“Okay.” I nod. After all, if my slightly conservative Bengali Muslim parents can get onboard with my bisexuality with very few questions asked, why couldn’t my white Irish friends?
chapter six
ishu
SATURDAY MORNING, I WAKE UP TO A LOUD PING! FROM my phone.
Reminding myself that I need to start setting that thing to silent—since Nik has decided she actually needs a sister now—I lean forward and pick up my phone from the bedside table.
The notification tab at the top of the phone shows that I have a message on Instagram. I shoot up to a sitting position, rub my eyes, and look at the screen a little more closely.
I don’t even remember having Instagram on my phone. I’m pretty sure the last time I put up a photo was at least a year ago, if not longer. I don’t use Instagram because I don’t care to see all the “aesthetic” photos that people put up there.
I pull down the notification tab expecting that a troll has managed to get through whatever filters Instagram has, but instead there’s a message from Humaira Khan, of all people.
Mairaisdreaming: hey, what’s up?
I stare at the message for much longer than I need to. Trying to process the fact that Humaira sent me a message. And that that is the message she sent. We barely ever talk. We’re definitely not friends, or even anything resembling friends.
I have a bad feeling in my gut even as I accept her message request.
Umm, what’s up with—
Before I can finish typing my message, a call request from Humaira starts up. Has she just been waiting around for me to see her message? Why is she calling me?
My finger hovers over the green accept button, slides to the red reject button … then back to accept.
Humaira’s face fills up my phone screen.
“Hey!” Her voice is too bright—like she’s putting it on for me. And she’s sitting by a window, where the sunlight filtering in makes her glow a little too much. She looks like an angel, with the sunshine forming a kind of halo around her cascading black hair.
“What the fuck do you want?” I rub my eyes again, stifling a yawn. I can only imagine what Humaira is thinking of me. I’m in my PJs with bed head.
“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” she says with a frown on her lips. “Has anyone ever told you that you curse a lot for a Bengali?”
I fix her with a small glare. “What does that even mean? Bengalis can curse a lot. Plus, I’m Irish too. Maybe I curse just the right amount for an Irish person, ever think of that?”
She rolls her eyes, but I can tell that she’s amused from the way her lips are twitching at the corners. “I’m calling because I …” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ears and looks to the side of my head, “… need your help.”
“Well, obviously. Help with what? Did you fail your biology test?”
“No!” she exclaims, finally meeting my gaze. “We didn’t even get back our results yet, but I’m pretty sure I did well on it.”
“Then what subject do you need my help with?”
She actually does smile this time. “Do you think everything is about school? Do you even have any hobbies outside of studying?”
“Studying is not a hobby,” I point out. “And if you want my help, you’re not doing a great job of warming me to your cause. Which I still don’t know anything about, by the way.”
Humaira sighs. For a moment, I think she won’t even tell me what kind of help she’s looking for, because she just looks around herself. Like she’s trying to kill time, or find an excuse or something. I’m just about to tell her to either hurry up and get on with it or hang up the damn phone when she finally starts speaking.
“Look. Before I tell you, I just want you to know that this is a weird situation and I just thought of you because … I talked to you at your locker the other day, and … in the moment, I couldn’t think of literally anyone else.”
“Okay …” I have to admit that she has piqued my curiosity, even if I am a little offended at how much she emphasized “literally anyone else.”
She takes a deep breath and says, “So … yesterday I kind of came out to my friends.”
“Oh.” That certainly isn’t what I was expecting. She doesn’t seem happy to be sharing this news with me, either. She rubs at her arms and stares downward.
“Yeah … it didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. They were … really dismissive. I told them I was bisexual and they basically said I couldn’t be because, well, I’ve never kissed a girl.”
“Okay …”
“Well, so. I had to tell them that I have kissed a girl, because … y’know.”
“Right …” My piqued curiosity has turned into a kind of cold anxiety. Because I’m afraid I know exactly where Humaira is going with this.
“So I told them that we’re together,” she finishes off in a rush. “They already found it weird that we were kind of talking in biology, and I guess there was like a weirdly pixelated version of half of you in one of my Instagram photos from last weekend at that dawat, so it was just like … the natural conclusion, and now—”
“You want us to stage an elaborate breakup?” I offer, already knowing that’s not what she’s asking me.
“More like … an elaborate relationship, followed by a breakup?” She’s looking at me with so much hope sparkling in her that I almost—almost—feel bad about the fact that I’m going to crush her.
“You realize that this would be the most complicated thing ever?” I ask. “Have you even considered the implications? We would have to come out to the school, to our families, to the community! It’s a big ask, Humaira.”
“You can call me Maira,” she mumbles.
“I do not want to call you Maira.” I sigh. “Look. I’m sorry your friends are assholes, but … I can’t help you. I’m not out to my parents yet.”
“I didn’t know you were—”
“Yeah. Because you didn’t think about me, or how pretending to be in a queer relationship would affect me, right?”
Humaira at least has the decency to look embarrassed. She shakes her head and says, “I’m sorry. I should have … thought about it more. I was just …” I can hear a waver in her voice. “My parents are so accepting of my sexuality and my friends were … awful. I guess I was just so overcome with how terrible I was feeling. I didn’t really think—”
“Whatever.” I cut her off. Humaira is the kind of girl who definitely thinks she’ll get what she wants by turning on the waterworks. Her friends are, after all, white feminists. “If that’s all, I have to go. I haven’t even had a cup of coffee yet.”
“Okay … bye. Have a good—
”
I hang up before she can finish. Leaning back on my bed, I heave the kind of deep sigh of relief that makes the bed reverberate. Dating Humaira Khan, or even pretending to, would have been … a lot. I’m not even sure why her friends would believe for a moment that it’s actually true. We’re so different.
Too different.
chapter seven
ishu
AMMU AND ABBU ARE QUIETLY ANGRY FOR THE WHOLE weekend. I know I should broach the subject of Nik and her boyfriend (fiancé?) with them, especially since Nik keeps texting me day in and day out to see what the situation is. But after seeing their anger, I decide to leave it for a bit. Maybe in a few days they’ll calm down enough for me to try and put in a good word. Though I’m not even sure what I could say to warm them to the idea of their apple-of-the-eye daughter going against everything they’ve worked for by dropping out of university.
The only good thing to come of it all is that Abbu and Ammu have started to pay more attention to me all of a sudden. They both take the day off from work on Sunday so that we can sit down to have lunch together.
“I’m sure the news from Nik has got you thinking,” Ammu says midway through our meal of rice, chicken curry, and daal. I knew it was coming but it doesn’t stop my heart from plunging into my stomach with nerves. Ammu speaks slowly, like she’s really picking her words. “We just want to make sure you know that sometimes … people make mistakes like this.”
“When they’re young and think they’re in love.” Abbu sighs like the very idea of love is preposterous. “There are more important things than love, Ishu. Or what young people think is love.”
“You can’t survive on love,” Ammu adds. “You survive on security. Money. A good job. And with that everything else will come too: happiness and love and a family.”
“And the most important thing is keeping your eyes set on your future goals,” Abbu says firmly. He holds my gaze with a hardness in his eyes. “Do you understand?”
I nod my head. “Yes … I mean, I’m on track! I have good results, and I’m sure I’ll get into a good medical course in university …”
“Yes …” Ammu nods, though my good standing in school doesn’t seem to be bringing her much satisfaction. “Your sister was getting good results too. She was prefect, remember?”
Abbu nods fondly, his face softening. It’s like he’s remembering a memory from a long time ago, even though Nik is only three years older than me. “She should have been Head Girl. Maybe she would have got into a better university then. Cambridge, Oxford … Maybe then she would be …”
I’m not sure that being Head Girl would have changed the trajectory of Nik’s life. Then again, I guess you never know, do you?
Ammu and Abbu look so devastated, like they’re mourning something as they chew their chicken curry and rice slowly.
I don’t know why I say it; the words just tumble out of me: “I’m going to be Head Girl.”
They both snap to attention at that. Ammu with bright eyes, Abbu with a flicker of suspicion.
“They don’t choose Head Girls until later in the year,” Abbu says.
“Yes …” I say slowly. “But … I’m pretty sure I will be. I mean … because I have the best results and everyone likes me? I’m definitely a top contender.”
Ammu smiles wider than I’ve seen her smile in a long time. “Why didn’t you tell us before?” She leans forward and squeezes my hands for a moment, before glancing at Abbu. “We don’t have to worry about our Ishu. I told you.”
My heart fills up with a mixture of pride and guilt. Pride that Ammu is finally seeing me as the daughter that can succeed—that can fulfill her hopes and dreams. But the guilt? It grows deeper with every passing moment. Because I’m pretty sure I could never be Head Girl.
There are prefect and Head Girl applications at the office. They’ve been there since last week, and I haven’t even thought to pick one up. Why would I?
Being Head Girl is not about results or studies, it’s basically a popularity contest. I don’t think I’m about to win one of those anytime soon.
But if I’m not Head Girl—if I’m not even prefect—that’ll be another blow to Ammu and Abbu’s expectations. Another thing that we couldn’t do for them, despite everything they’ve done—they’re still doing—for us.
I pick up both the prefect and Head Girl applications from the office during lunch. The school secretary—Anna—gives me a curious look as she hands them over to me. Like she already knows that I’m not winning any favors with my classmates.
Maybe I can turn things around? It can’t be that difficult. If Aisling Mahoney can be popular, why not me? I just have to put on a smile and turn on the charm.
I can do that.
I think.
I try it as I walk into our base classroom with the applications tucked into my backpack. I paste a smile on my lips, as bright as can be, and stroll in.
Nobody notices me. Since we don’t have a dedicated cafeteria for the school, most of the girls from our year gather in this base classroom during lunch and breaks. The classroom is split into different groups of friends, each of them crowded around desks. The mixture of their laughter and talk fills the air. It’s already giving me a headache, but I’m determined to try this being sociable thing.
I approach a group of girls who are sitting at the front of the room: Hannah Flannigan, Sinéad McNamara, and Yasmin Gilani. I’ve never spoken to Sinéad or Yasmin before, but Hannah has been sitting beside me in economics all year.
“Hey!” I put on the brightest voice I can. It comes out a little too high pitched. I try to ignore that. The three of them turn almost simultaneously, questions marks on their faces.
“Um, hey,” Yasmin says in a tone that isn’t exactly oozing friendliness. But I’m willing to look past that.
“That economics homework was really hard, right, Hannah?” I ask, leaning against the desk in what I hope is a casual gesture.
Hannah shares a look with Yasmin and Sinéad. “Yeah … I guess,” she squeaks.
“So um … can I join you guys for lunch?”
They share another look with each other.
“We don’t really have any space.” Sinéad says, even though there’s an empty chair right beside her. When I look at it pointedly, Hannah adds, “We’re saving that for someone. Sorry, Ishita.”
“Okay, whatever.” I roll my eyes, before remembering that I’m trying to be popular so I probably shouldn’t do that. “Um. Maybe another day?” I smile, even though I hate how desperate my voice sounds.
“Yeah, maybe,” Yasmin says in a voice that tells me there will definitely not be a day when I’m sitting next to them for lunch.
I turn away and look over the rest of the classroom, broken up into cliques: I belong in none of them, and I can’t see that changing in the future either.
I’m about to turn around and go back to my usual lunch spot at a dark corner by the lockers when I spot the group at the back of the room: Humaira, Aisling, and Deirdre are joined in a hushed discussion.
My strange conversation with Humaira from Saturday morning had almost completely dissipated from my mind, despite the strangeness of her request. Now it comes to me again. Humaira’s desperation.
Maybe Humaira’s desperation is exactly what I need right now. Usually, I would write a pro/con list before making a decision like this, but seeing the three of them right there, deep in conversation, I know I don’t have the time for my carefully curated decision-making process.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m strolling to the end of the room, hoping against hope that Humaira hasn’t come clean to her friends yet.
“Hey, Humaira.” The three of them blink up at me. “Um … do you think I could talk to you for a sec? Uh, privately?”
“Oh …” For a moment, Humaira’s eyes travel to her two friends, before she turns to me with a smile that takes up her whole face. “Sure!” She’s up in a flash, almost like she was expecting to see me. �
��Be right back!”
chapter eight
hani
ISHITA LEADS ME AWAY FROM THE CLASSROOM AND TO a deserted corner of the hallway lined with lockers.
“So …” She folds her arms over her chest, like I’m the one who dragged her here and not the other way around.
“So …”
“Did you tell your friends the truth?”
“Not yet.” I sigh. “Sorry … I mean. I was just going to.” That probably doesn’t make me sound any better, considering I leapt out of my seat as soon as Ishita appeared.
“Don’t.” Ishita’s voice is stern. “I mean, look. I was thinking, and maybe we should give your plan a try.” She shrugs, her voice sounding so casual that it makes me suspicious.
“And what made you change your mind?”
“I just had a change of heart. I want to help you out.” She looks at me like she’s doing me a huge favor.
If it was anyone else, I would believe that they were doing it out of the goodness of their heart. But Ishita?
“Right.” I scoff. “Cough up the real reason. Come on. What’s in it for you?”
She finally drops her arms to her sides and says, “I need to be Head Girl.”
It’s so unexpected that I can only blink at her for a full minute. “What?”
“Head Girl. I want to be Head Girl.”
“Since when? You’ve never cared about that stuff.”
“Yeah, well. I care now. And … people … like you.” She frowns at me, like she doesn’t quite understand why they do but she’s willing to entertain it. “You’re like, friends with everyone. So if we pretended to date and you put in a good word for me …?”
“And you would play along with my friends?”
“Yes.” Ishita nods. “Totally. Like, whatever you—well.” She stops herself before she can finish her sentence. “Not whatever you want. Within reason, obviously.”
“You know you’re going to have to pretend to like me, right?” I ask. “And … if you want to be Head Girl, you’ll also have to pretend that you like other people.”
Hani and Ishu's Guide to Fake Dating Page 4