“That was a game,” I say. “When they were kids.”
“It was.” Amma nods. “But it’s not like they don’t get into major disagreements now. Didn’t you have a huge fight with Akash last time you saw him? You called him a sexist prick, if I remember correctly.”
“Because he made a ‘get back in the kitchen’ joke. That’s not even original, Amma.” Even though Akash is far older than me, he still tries to get me riled up with this stuff, and I always hate it. “Anyway … it’s different. Akash is a sexist prick,” I say matter-of-factly, and Amma’s smile broadens. “But he would never blackmail me about something like that.”
“Family is complicated, Hani. Everyone has a different relationship to their family.” She leans forward and cups my cheek with her palm. Her hands are soft and warm, and I immediately feel better about everything. Amma has a way of doing that. I don’t understand it, but I appreciate it.
“If you’re going to be with Ishu, the most you can do is listen and support her to the best of your abilities,” she says.
I wonder for a moment what Amma would say if I told her the truth. How she would react. What she would think of me.
I nod my head. “Yeah. I guess I was just surprised. Her sister was so nice.”
“People aren’t always who they seem to be.”
Unfortunately, I know that all too well.
chapter sixteen
ishu
I HAVE NEVER BEEN INVITED TO A WHITE IRISH PARTY before. I’ve gone to Bengali dawats and Eid parties and Desi weddings, but those are all easy to dress for because you just wear a fancy salwar kameez. For dawats, the simpler ones. For weddings, the most expensive and sparkliest ones.
But you can’t wear a salwar kameez to an Irish birthday party without sticking out like a sore thumb.
I don’t know when this became my go-to, but I video call Hani almost without thought. She picks up on the second ring. She looks different. Stripped down. Not the just-woke-up tired of the morning we chatted, or angelic like the first day she called me. She just looks herself, with her hair tied up in a towel.
“Hey.” Hani smiles into the camera. “I’m kind of getting ready?”
“Me too.” I sigh. “I don’t know what people wear to a birthday party.”
“Clothes,” Hani deadpans.
“I know.” I roll my eyes. “A dress? Jeans? Is it casual? Semi-formal? Is it—”
“Definitely not semi-formal,” Hani says. “Show me some options.”
“Now?”
“Yeah.” She points to the wardrobe behind me. “Just open it up and show me what you have.”
“It’s kind of messy,” I mumble, inching forward. I haven’t properly organized my wardrobe in a while. When I throw open the doors, Hani’s eyebrows shoot up right into her hair.
“This is messy?” she asks.
“Well, yeah.” I observe my wardrobe. It’s mismatched, because I’ve been putting everything in without paying attention to color coordination or anything.
“Okay. You’re never looking in my wardrobe,” Hani mumbles. “Let’s see what you were thinking.”
I pull out my favorite flannel shirt. Hani immediately shoots it down saying, “Not unless you want to be an absolute lesbian stereotype.”
“I’m not even a lesbian,” I say.
Hani just shrugs. “That’s why I said stereotype. Plus, considering my friends’ reactions to me being bisexual, I think most people at this party will be the types to pigeonhole identities.” Like they have been our entire lives, I think but don’t say aloud. Maybe Hani has chosen to forget about my first few weeks in the school when the two of us were forced together by her friends. I bet they feel satisfaction seeing us as a couple now. Like they always expected it. We are culturally similar and, therefore, must be meant for each other. Never mind the vast differences in our language or our religious beliefs. To most white people, just having brown skin is going to mean we’re one and the same.
We go through a few more things that Hani says no to and end up settling on a simple black dress and—on my insistence—a pair of leggings.
“It’s almost summer, you know,” Hani says. “You can show a little skin.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to.”
Hani just shrugs and lets it go. I’ve realized that’s one of the things I really like about her. She doesn’t press me on things—except when we’re in the middle of an argument, I guess.
“So … I’ll see you at the party? When are you going to be there?” she asks.
“I don’t know. When I’m ready, I guess.”
“Are you nervous? Because you seem nervous.”
“Is it that obvious?” It must be, from the sympathetic look she gives me.
“It’s just a birthday party. And everyone will be so focused on their own stuff that they won’t even pay you mind.” I know she means that to be reassuring but the idea that I’m going to all this effort for a party where people won’t even pay me attention makes me feel worse.
“If I’m going to this party, I want people to notice me. We are there to get people to notice us. You want your friends to know that you aren’t just pretending to be bisexual. I want people to see me as someone who can be their Head Girl.”
“Right.” Hani nods firmly. “Then you should definitely leave those leggings at home …” She trails off with a raised eyebrow. For a moment, it seems as if Hani is actually flirting with me. The thought of it fills me with a fluttery feeling that I don’t like one bit. A moment later, Hani shakes her head and says, “Actually … that would only work if you were running for Head Girl at the boys’ school. I’ll see you in a few hours?”
“Wait—” I say, before she can click the “end call” button.
“Yes?”
“Do you … think I can come over and get ready with you? And then … maybe we could go over together?” I ask. “I just … don’t want to show up there and then you’re not there. Aisling and Deirdre aren’t exactly my friends.”
“They’ll be nice to you,” Hani says, though she doesn’t quite seem to believe her own reassurances. The next moment, she nods her head and says, “Yeah … come over.”
A half hour later, Hani and I are in her bedroom once more. Me, in my black dress and leggings. Hani, in a purple dress with long, lace sleeves.
She makes me sit down at her desk and pulls at my hair with a brush.
“You know, there’s not much you can do with short hair,” I tell her, even as she seems adamant about making it do something.
“Is that why you always cut it so short?” she asks, a little too close to my ear. I edge away slightly, though it’s difficult when she’s essentially holding me hostage with a hairbrush.
“Kind of,” I say. “I mean … our hair is a lot of upkeep, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” she asks. I want to roll my eyes. This seems like the kind of naive conversation she would have with her white friends because she wants to keep up this pretense of being exactly the same as them. But Hani’s hair is almost down to her waist and she has to tie it up into a thick plait to keep it manageable.
“You know what I mean,” I say, trying to bite back the sarcasm that comes to me way too naturally. “You have such long, thick hair. It must take a lot of work to keep it that way.”
“Well … just brushing it and putting oil in it and special shampoos and conditioners … and sometimes I put mehndi in it … but … I think everybody does that?”
This time, I have to spin around in my chair to see if she really is that naive.
“Hani, you know Aisling and Deirdre are not doing that to their hair.” Aisling used to have chestnut brown hair once upon a time, and even then it was wispy. Now, she has bleached it a peroxide-blonde that makes her look even more obnoxious than before. It was never as thick as Hani’s—not even close. Deirdre’s hair, though untouched by bleach or dye, is shoulder length and fine. Irish hair just isn’t the same as Bengali hair.
&nbs
p; “Maybe there are some differences,” Hani says, like she’s really not willing to concede defeat here. She spins me back and begins to tug at my hair once more with her brush. “But trust me, their hair comes with a lot of work as well. We’re not the only ones having to go through hair care.”
“I just hate all of it,” I mumble. “Having to spend so much time brushing it every morning, after school, before bed. Tying it up, different hairstyles. Putting oil in it and all of that shampoo and conditioner.”
“Well …” Hani says. “Short hair suits you.”
“You can hardly say short hair makes me look ugly,” I point out. She smiles and grabs a few clips from her desk. She begins to slide them into my hair so that it’s a little less messy than usual. It actually looks kind of sophisticated by the time she’s done.
“If your hair made you look ugly, I would say it,” Hani says once she’s finished. “I don’t really have anything to lose by telling you things as they are. So … you should believe me when I say you look very pretty with short hair.”
I can’t help that my cheeks warm at the unexpected compliment. I can’t remember the last time someone called me pretty. Maybe no one ever has; maybe this is the first time someone has ever called me pretty.
All I can manage to do is avoid Hani’s eyes and stutter out a thank you.
chapter seventeen
hani
ISHU’S LEGS GO UP AND DOWN AND UP AND DOWN FOR the entire car journey to Dee’s house. Dee only lives twenty-five minutes away, so it’s not exactly unbearable. Actually, it’s still kind of sweet to see Ishu nervous about something. With her hair and makeup done, and her black dress on, Ishu could almost pass for any cute girl nervous about her first party.
“Call me when the party is over?” Amma asks. “Unless you’re planning to sleep over?”
“We’re not planning to sleep over, Aunty,” Ishu says before I can even open my mouth. “We’ll call you. Thank you for the lift.”
“Have fun—tell Deirdre happy birthday from me!” With that, Amma backs out of the driveway. We watch her car disappear down the road, before turning toward the house. Ishu looks a little green, like she might just throw up into the bushes.
“Just stick with me, yeah?” I give her fingers a little squeeze before knocking on the door.
It only takes a minute for Dee to swing the door open. She throws herself at me as soon as she does, squealing, “Hey, you’re here!”
“Happy birthday!” I mumble, while trying spit out tufts of her auburn hair. When she pulls away, she fixes me with a bright smile before turning to Ishu with a tighter one. She invited Ishu. I remember it clear as day. I didn’t even ask her to.
“Hey, Ishita,” she says flatly.
“Hey, happy birthday.” Ishu tries a smile of her own, but it’s too much teeth and not enough eyes.
“Is everyone already here?” I change the subject, slipping inside and waving Ishu in behind me. “I don’t hear a lot of noise.”
“Most of us, yeah,” Dee says. “It’s actually a little more low-key than originally planned.”
“And Aisling was okay with that?” Aisling has never been low-key about anything in her life. She tried to hire a limo for her last birthday party and only decided not to because another girl in our class did it first and Aisling didn’t want to be a follower.
“It is my birthday.” Dee smiles.
“You look really nice,” I say. She does. She has her hair all done up, and her dress is sparkling and pink like a princess’s. That’s kind of Dee’s brand though. With her round face and sparkling eyes, she could pass for any Disney princess—especially Ariel with her auburn hair.
“Thank you!” Dee’s grin widens. “You look nice too. And you as well, Ishita.”
Ishu actually smiles for real this time. “Thanks … Hani helped me get ready.”
“Hani?”
“Oh, that’s just my nickname,” I say.
“Oh, like a pet name?” Dee asks.
“Not exactly …” I trail off. I’m not sure how to explain the concept of Bengali dak nams and bhalo nams to people. “It’s just a nickname Bengali people have for me.”
“But your nickname is Maira.” Dee frowns, like the concept of two nicknames is a bit difficult for her to grasp.
“We should go in,” I say to change the topic. Thankfully, Dee’s face brightens at that.
“Yes, into the sitting room, come on!” Even from the hall, we can hear the sound of rumblings coming from the sitting room.
“I was expecting more noise,” Ishu whispers. “Should I take off my shoes?”
“White people don’t really do that,” I say. “I think Dee is probably keeping her big party for her eighteenth birthday, not her seventeenth.”
“That makes sense, I guess,” Ishu says.
Dee turns into the sitting room, without paying attention to whether we’re following behind or not. Ishu stops by the door, her face a pallor that I haven’t seen on her before.
“It’s just a party, Ishu.”
“I know.” She takes a deep breath, and gives me a pained smile.” Should we …?”
And we do.
The sitting room is full up with people. The couches and armchairs have people draped all over them. Sitting, crouching, leaning. There are even a few people on the floor, which is basically blasphemous for white people as far as I know. There’s music thumping along in the background, but it’s too low to overpower the chatter—you can only really hear the bass.
“Hey, guys!” Aisling waves over from where she is on the couch, basically at the center of everyone’s attention. “Good thing you’re here. Now we can finally start the party.”
“You could have started without us. Aren’t there more people coming?” I ask.
“A few, but we wouldn’t do anything without you, Maira.” Aisling says in the sweetest voice possible. That’s how I know that she has something planned. Probably something to do with Ishu. They’ve never got along, after all.
Aisling nods to a few people beside her to move along and make a space for us. She pats the empty spot next to her. It’s really a tiny couch meant for two people, but somehow Ishu and I manage to squeeze in beside her. I sit in the middle. I don’t think putting Aisling and Ishu side by side is a good idea.
“We were going to play Kings,” Dee says, bringing out a couple of bottles that I’m sure I’ve seen locked in a cupboard above their sink before. I doubt Dee’s parents know that she’s decided to sneak their drinks into the party, and I’m sure they won’t appreciate it when they inevitably find out. This plan has Aisling written all over it.
“What’s Kings?” I ask.
“It’s a drinking game.” Aisling grins. “The rules are a little complicated but you’ll pick up on it.”
“Why can’t we play a fun game? Like Never Have I Ever?” asks one of the other girls, rolling her eyes at the idea of playing Kings.
“Because Never Have I Ever is boring and cliché,” says Aisling. Her tone is harsher than it needs to be but nobody bats an eyelash at it.
Dee passes around shots to everyone as Aisling divides us into two teams. The three of us and Dee are all on the same team.
Ishu nudges me with her shoulder as Aisling is explaining the rules.
“Um, do you want me to tell them that you don’t drink?” she whispers, leaning into me and sending a shiver down my spine.
I shake my head. I definitely don’t want Ishu to have to deal with that. I hardly want to deal with it myself. But my options are pretty limited here. I’m obviously not going to drink for the sake of this game, but I also don’t want to announce myself as the odd one out in the middle of this party.
I chew on my lips, weighing my options. If Dee or Aisling notice my discomfort, they don’t say anything. I don’t know how they don’t notice, or how they don’t realize that this is not an appropriate game to ask me to play. They know—they have known for a long time—that I don’t drink. When they slink
off somewhere under the blanket of the evening darkness and the seclusion of an open field to sneak a drink, I don’t join them. Or on the rare occasion that I do, it’s just to have a chat. What did they think all of that was?
“Okay, everybody clear?” Aisling asks when she has finished explaining the rules. Most people in the room look like they have absolutely no idea what they’re supposed to be doing. Aisling looks like she doesn’t care. “You’ll get the hang of it as we go along.”
“Aisling,” I say. “I think you’ll need someone else for this team.” I’m hoping she and Dee will just find another way to divide the teams instead of drawing attention to me, but Aisling whips her head around and looks at me with narrowed eyes.
“Why?” I can’t tell if she’s being deliberately obtuse or if she really doesn’t know. Maybe she’s already been drinking, though it doesn’t seem like it from the clarity in her gaze and voice.
“Because … I can’t play,” I try again.
“You have to play,” Dee chirps. “It’s my birthday. You can’t not play the game I want to play on my birthday!”
Now everybody has turned to look at the couch where the three of us are sitting. Exactly what I was trying to avoid.
I can feel Ishu tense beside me, and I just hope that she won’t say anything. Ishu will only make things a thousand times worse.
“You know that I can’t.” My voice is low and I hate the way it sounds. Defeated. Sad. Sorry, almost.
“Why not?” Aisling pushes. I don’t know if she’s just an excellent actor or if she really doesn’t know.
“I’m Muslim … I don’t drink,” I say finally. There’s silence for a moment, as if this is the first time everyone in the room has realized that I’m Muslim.
“Yeah, but you’re not that kind of a Muslim,” Dee says after a beat of silence. “You don’t even wear like the …” She makes a circular motion around her head. To indicate a hijab, I guess.
“Well. I don’t know what kind of a Muslim I am, but I don’t drink,” I say, trying to swallow down the lump in my throat. “Sorry …”
Hani and Ishu's Guide to Fake Dating Page 9