“You’re pretending to date me because of your sister?” I have to ask the question slowly, because I’m not sure if I’m getting it right. What do I have to do with Nik?
“No … I’m pretending to date you because I want to be Head Girl because of my sister,” she says. “My sister is like … perfect. She has been perfect in my parents’ eyes for my entire life. I’ve been living in her shadow.” It’s difficult to imagine Ishita living in the shadow of anyone. She is the most determined person I have ever met. She oozes self-assurance in a way that I’m not sure anyone else in the whole world does. Maybe Beyoncé, but that’s it. Though I guess her sister didn’t exactly seem insecure either.
“Well, now my sister’s fucked up and it’s my turn to step out of the shadows and be exactly what my parents want me to be,” Ishu says.
“You don’t think that’s … screwed up itself?” I ask. “I mean … she’s your sister. Shouldn’t you be trying to help her if she’s in trouble?”
“She’s not in trouble.” Ishu shrugs. “She just … finally made some mistakes.” Then, Ishu grins a wicked smile that both terrifies me and—if I’m being perfectly honest—makes me feel a weird tug right in my belly. I just shake my head and take a deep gulp of my hot chocolate. The rain seems to be dying down outside and I want to get home before it gets properly dark. I definitely don’t need to get any more involved in whatever drama Ishu has going on.
chapter fourteen
ishu
I’M NOT SURPRISED TO FIND NIK AT THE DOORSTEP OF the house when I get back from my “date” with Hani.
“Have you really been waiting here in the rain?” I ask, trying to push past her to open the door. But she doesn’t let me through. She stands firm.
“Ammu and Abbu are inside,” she says. “So I don’t want to go in yet.”
“Yes, well. This is where I live, so—” I make another attempt to get past her but I guess Nik is stronger than me, because she pushes me to the side and farther away from the door.
“I just want to talk,” she says.
“I haven’t spoken to Ammu and Abbu yet, if that’s what you want to ask me about,” I say. “And I don’t know if I will and I don’t know that if I do, it’ll make any difference. And—”
“I spoke to them,” Nik interrupts. “Yesterday. The four of us had dinner together.”
“The four—”
“Yeah, four. They met Rakesh.” From the way she says it, I know it couldn’t have gone well.
I still have to ask. “And …?”
“Nothing I say is going to sway them toward my decision,” she says. “Rakesh and I are going back to London tomorrow morning. I just wanted to see you before I left.”
“You already saw me. “I point out, though I don’t really want to draw attention to our brief meeting outside the restaurant.
“Are you really seeing that girl?” Nik asks. “Like … you’re dating her? Like … you’re gay?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I can’t keep the waver out of my voice. And I can’t help the fact that my heart is beating a mile a minute. It’s so loud that I’m sure Nik must be able to hear it. This is the worst thing she could have found out about me. With this, she can make Ammu and Abbu hate me.
“Okay.” Nik actually steps aside, like she’s decided to let me through. That doesn’t make me feel any less nervous. “Just … she seems really nice and … if Ammu and Abbu ever find out and give you trouble, you just call me. Okay?”
“What?” When I meet her gaze, Nik actually seems genuine. Like she’s offering me a helping hand instead of using this information to help herself out.
Nik shrugs. “We’re not kids competing against each other anymore, Ishu,” she says, like she’s become all grown up in the few days since she got here. Like she’s a completely different person to the sister I’ve known for most of my life. “I know it’s important for you to impress them, but when—if—things go south, you can come to me. I just want you to know that. Okay?”
“Things aren’t going to go south. Because … I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Nik nods slowly, though her expression says that she doesn’t quite believe me. “Okay, whatever you say. I just … I want you to remember what I said.” She holds my gaze for a long moment before turning around and stepping into the rain.
Hani’s Instagram post is a hit. By the time I wake up the next morning, it has over three hundred likes, and I’m not even sure who all the likes are from. There are people from our school, people from surrounding schools, and people that I don’t recognize at all.
She even has a story up of our “date. “Pictures of the restaurant that I don’t even remember her taking. Pictures of all the food. There’s even a picture of me where I’m looking off into the distance contemplatively while sticking a forkful of rice into my mouth.
Hani has even put up all of the photos into our “guide,” under a heading that reads Hani and Ishu’s First Real Date, and I have to wonder about the irony of using the word real. Each of the photos has a little caption underneath it, like Seven Wonders restaurant! Our food—it was delicious!
Our plan is working. It will probably succeed with Hani’s help.
But for some reason, that thought doesn’t fill me with the happiness that it should. Instead, I just feel a strange emptiness as I lie in bed, looking at the pictures. We could pass for a real couple. We look happy. We look like we could be in love. But the whole thing is staged. I don’t know why that sends a jolt of hurt through me.
I wonder for a moment if Nik is already back home in London with her fiancé. Or maybe she’s just getting on her plane now.
I don’t even know where she’s living. I don’t even know her fiancé’s last name, or what he’s like. I don’t know when they’re getting married, or where, or if I’ll even be invited to their wedding.
None of that should matter, because I’m on my way to winning this popularity contest. To becoming Head Girl. To becoming the golden girl for my parents, and to achieving my dreams.
My phone pings with a text. It’s a message from Hani.
Filled in my prefect application—our plan is a go!
chapter fifteen
hani
PEOPLE AT SCHOOL ARE WEIRD ABOUT ME AND ISHU. I guess, technically, we’re the only “out” couple here, though I’m sure there are at least a few closeted ones.
I can hear people whispering as I walk into school, and they shoot me looks as I walk toward my locker. I wonder if our plan is doomed by the fact that we’re in a queer relationship. We are, after all, in an all-girls’ Catholic school. Despite the fact that we got marriage equality a few years ago, there’s something uncomfortable about being queer here. The same way there’s something uncomfortable about being Muslim here.
But when I check my Instagram later that day, there are comments from girls at school sending heart eye emojis and telling us what a cute couple we are. I can’t help the smile on my lips as I scroll through the comments.
Ishu and I do look like a cute couple in the picture. She somehow managed to set aside her resting bitch face for one smile where she looks genuinely happy. And so do I. If I didn’t know any better, I think I would full-on believe we were a real couple from this picture.
During lunchtime, Amanda Byrne comes over to our table.
“I didn’t know you were dating Ishita!” She’s smiling really wide, like she really loves talking about my dating life. “You guys are the cutest couple!”
“Thanks.” I’ve never been told I’m part of a cute couple before, so I’m not sure if “thank you” is the appropriate reply. But it’s the only one I have. Amanda looks pleased, anyway, as she moves on to her group of friends at the table across from us.
“Bethany Walsh actually asked me how the two of us started dating today,” Ishu informs me by my locker at the end of the day. “Like … she actually wanted to have a conversation with me about it.”
�
�And … are you pleased by that or annoyed?” I ask, because Ishu’s expression and voice aren’t giving anything away.
She heaves a deep sigh, and leans against the stack of lockers next to mine. “You know, it’ll be hard to give up the reputation I’ve worked so hard to cultivate here, but …”
“I’m sure you can get it back once you’re Head Girl,” I assure her.
“Oh, I’m planning to.” She grins.
“By the way, it’s Dee’s birthday on Saturday. She’s having a party and she invited you.”
“Really?” Ishu stands up straight, her grin broadening.
“I didn’t think you’d be excited about a party.” I raise an eyebrow at her.
“I’m not really,” she says in a voice that I don’t quite believe. “It just means … this is working.”
“There’s still time for us to mess it up so let’s not get cocky. The party is your time to shine. Schmooze some people and … act pleasant.”
“I can do that,” she says in the least convincing voice ever. Still, if she managed a full conversation with Bethany Walsh, one of the bubbliest girls in our year, maybe she can schmooze everyone at the party.
When I get home from school on Friday afternoon, Abba is in the sitting room wearing his best panjabi.
I peer in through the door. “Are you going to the mosque again?”
Abba turns the volume down on the Bangladeshi news on the TV screen and turns to me with a small smile. “Just to pray Maghrib later.”
It takes me a moment to digest that information. I can’t remember the last time Abba went to the mosque specifically to pray Maghrib.
“Why?” The question tumbles out before I can stop it. Abba doesn’t seem to mind though.
“I just think it’s important to go to the mosque during these times. To show that I’m very much a part of the community.” I’m not sure if showing up to the mosque for one Maghrib prayer will show that, when otherwise Amma and Abba only frequent the mosque for Eid prayers twice a year—if even that.
“Can I come?” I only ever really get to go to the mosque for jummah prayer while school holidays are on.
Abba’s face brightens at that. “Sure!”
A few hours later, we’re both climbing out of his car in the car park of the mosque.
The sun is low in the sky, and I’m a little taken by the way the mosque looks in the light of dusk. The minaret with the crescent moon is almost faded in the darkening sky, but there is something beautiful about the domed shapes that make up the building. All the Islamic motifs threaded through the architecture. A sense of peace takes hold of me at the sight.
“I’ll meet you outside the gate after the prayers, okay?” Abba says as he locks the car door.
“Sure,” I say. I think that by “after the prayers” he probably means after he’s spent long enough shaking everyone’s hands and networking.
We split up by the gates as Abba climbs up the front steps and I duck to the side to climb up toward the women’s section of the mosque. I slide off my shoes by the double doors leading into the balcony and slip inside.
The plush carpet under my bare feet feels comforting, familiar. It’s as familiar to me as the wood-paneled floors of our house. This space feels like the most peaceful thing in the world to me. There is something inexplicably wonderful about coming into this mosque. About the fact that everyone here is joined by one thing: our faith. About the azan, and praying namaz in unison. All of us together in our prayer—but separate too.
I find a space to sit near the front of the balcony. If I peek down, I’ll be able to make out the men below us. I can already hear some of their quiet murmurs, floating up. The men’s section is usually busy during Maghrib time. The women’s section …
I look around, and find about a dozen women scattered about the place. There’s a woman in a burqah and niqab with her palms joined in front of her face. She’s mumbling prayers into her hand and rocking back and forth.
On the other side of the balcony, two girls—who can’t be much older than me—in jeans and t-shirts are trying to pull headscarves over their damp hair. They’ve obviously just done wudhu.
I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I hesitate for a moment before pulling it out. It could be something important.
There are a bunch of different messages on the group chat I have with Dee and Aisling. I muted them before coming here, but there’s a video call request coming through. I reject it, and scroll through some of their messages.
Aisling: which dress for the party tomorrow??
Aisling: [picture 1]
Aisling: [picture 2]
Dee: hmm definitely the second one!
Aisling: Maira??
Dee: I have a couple of dress options too …
The discussion of different dresses and accessories seems to go on for almost a hundred messages.
The azan begins, so I make sure my phone is in silent mode and slide it back into my pocket.
I’m waiting outside in the chilly air for a whole twenty minutes before Abba finally comes traipsing out. He’s deep in conversation with a man wearing a cream-colored panjabi and a white-patterned tupi on his head. After a few moments, Abba shakes his hand and heads over toward me.
“Sorry I’m a little late,” he says, though he doesn’t look sorry at all. In fact, he’s wearing the brightest smile on his lips.
“Who was that?” I ask. If he’s a Bengali Uncle, I’ve definitely never seen him before.
Abba leads us over to the car, still smiling. “He might be my ticket to winning this election.”
“So … someone important?” I ask.” Is he Bengali?”
“He’s an Uncle. He’s been here in Ireland for a long time … longer than a lot of people.”
“So, he has connections,” I say.
We pile into the car and Abba starts the ignition, pulling out of the mosque’s car park. It’s almost completely deserted. It’s still a while until Isha prayer.
“If he puts in a good word for me, then I’m sure to have a lot of people in my corner,” Abba tells me. “He’s influential. That’s why it’s important to make the right connections, Hani. Remember that.” He says it as if I aspire to be a politician. Even Abba wasn’t really interested in entering politics until recently—until he retired early from the company he’d been working at for pretty much his whole career.
“So, do you think he’s going to help you?” I can’t help but ask.
Abba “hmms” contemplatively. “I think he’ll probably need a little bit more convincing. We’ll have to talk a little bit more. He’s a very devout person and has a lot of aspirations for Muslims in our community, so I have to convince him that I have our best interests at heart.”
I’m not sure how exactly Abba is going to convince him of that, but I have no doubt that I’ll be seeing a lot more of this Uncle soon enough.
I only check my phone again when I’m crawling into bed later that night. Other than the dozens of messages in our group chat, I have a private message from Aisling.
Where have you been all day?
I sigh, not sure how to answer that. It should obviously be easiest to just tell her the truth, that I decided to tag along to the mosque with Abba—because I like going to the mosque whenever I can. But I’m not sure how Aisling will react to the truth.
I was helping my dad with election stuff.
The three dots to suggest that Aisling is typing appear immediately. As if she’s been waiting by her phone for me to reply to her messages.
Aisling: All this time????
Me: Yep
Aisling: you’re still coming to the party tomorrow, right?
Me: definitely
Aisling must be satisfied with that answer, because her messages stop there. No questions about Dad’s elections. No questions about what exactly I was doing that took up all my time.
It’s good, of course. I don’t have any answers to those questions. But I can’t shake the discomfort itc
hing its way through me as I pull my duvet over my head.
On Saturday morning, Amma slips into my room with a jar of coconut oil. It’s our weekly tradition.
First, she brushes my hair and applies oil to it. Then I do the same to her hair. All the while, we catch up on the week’s goings-on.
Now, Amma sits behind me on the bed, brushing back my hair slowly and gently. I close my eyes, reveling in this. It’s my favorite time of the whole week.
“How was your week?” Amma asks, like she does every week.
“It was … complicated?” I bite my lip, not sure how much I want to share.
“Yeah?” Amma asks. “How was it complicated?”
“Ishu is complicated. I … met her sister. And Ishu was really weird about it.”
“Weird how?”
I chew on my lips, half regretting bringing this up when I don’t know how to share it with Amma. I guess she must sense my reluctance, because she puts down the hairbrush and shifts so that she’s sitting in front of me. Her eyebrows are furrowed as she takes me in.
“Okay … what’s wrong? What happened?”
I sigh. “Well … Ishu and I went out the other day …”
“And?”
“It was good until we ran into her sister.”
“Nikhita.” I don’t know how Amma dredges up the name from memory. “Because Ishita is hiding your relationship from her family?”
“No … because… . Ishu said that her sister would use that to blackmail her. It was the first thing she thought her sister would do. Doesn’t that seem strange to you? They’re family!”
Amma smiles. “You know, when Polash and Akash were young, they used to do things like that all the time.” She says it as if she’s remembering a fond memory. “Akash would take something that belonged to Polash and unless Polash agreed to do everything Akash asked him to do, Akash wouldn’t give it back.”
Hani and Ishu's Guide to Fake Dating Page 8