Hani and Ishu's Guide to Fake Dating

by Adiba Jaigirdar

  I open up our fake dating guide for the millionth time, scrolling through our ridiculous rules. We’ve broken every single one of them. All this time we thought our fake dating plan was going exactly the way we wanted it to, but instead my friends were just manipulating us both. I wonder if there was any way that our fake dating plan would have actually gotten us what we wanted …

  But of course, now I’m realizing that I’m glad I don’t have what I want. What I want is to be with Ishu. And maybe I can’t even have that anymore.

  What Ishu wants …

  My fingers pause scrolling through my phone. What Ishu wants is to be Head Girl. And with everyone at school believing she cheated, with Aisling and Dee completely against her, she must think she’s got no shot. But maybe I can help her win?

  By the time I get home, I already have a plan forming in my mind. And it’s not that I think I can single-handedly get Ishu the win, but I know that I can help. That’s one of the reasons why Ishu and I started fake dating, after all.

  Our house is eerily empty when I step inside, slightly damp from the rain. I sprinkle the water off of my umbrella and leave it to dry by our back door before heading upstairs. I’m hoping Abba isn’t home anymore, mostly because I have no idea what to say to him. I know I’ve got to make things up to him too, but I’m not quite sure how to go about that yet.

  I push my bedroom door open, only to find Amma sitting on my bed, her eyebrows scrunched together as she stares at her phone. She glances up when the door creaks, and her face softens at the sight of me.

  “You shouldn’t have gone out all by yourself in the rain,” she says. “Your hair’s all damp.”

  “I took an umbrella,” I mumble. “But … the wind didn’t help with keeping the umbrella up.”

  Amma sweeps past me, grabs a towel, and begins to dry me off, like I’m a kid and not seventeen years old. She does it so gently that it feels nice, but I feel a pit of despair in my stomach. I know Amma’s not been sitting in my bedroom waiting for me just to help me dry my hair.

  “Your Abba told me about what happened today,” she says slowly, like she’s really picking and choosing her words. “He wasn’t expecting any of that. Not today of all days.”

  “I said sorry,” I say, though my words sound hollow. What good is a “sorry” when I might have lost him his election? What good is a “sorry” when I followed it up by accusing him of manipulating people like Salim Uncle? “I feel bad about it … I know I shouldn’t have gone along with Aisling and Dee and abandoned canvassing. I know it’s important to Abba, and it’s important to me because it’s important to Abba, but—”

  “Hani.” Amma cuts me off. Folding the towel up, she sits down on my bed once more. “I know you’ve been struggling with your friends, but it’s not a reason to abandon all the things that are important to you. Your friends shouldn’t have the power to dictate what you do … and how you support your family.”

  “I know.” I can only hang my head in shame. I should have known better—but it was just so much easier to give in to Aisling and Dee’s demands. It always has been. “Is he home? I’ll apologize again, and anything that he needs me to do to make it right, I’ll—”

  “He says you were right,” Amma interrupts. “About what you said … about how he hasn’t exactly been telling the truth either. He went to see Salim Bhai.”

  “Oh.” I blink. Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t that. “Did he … do we know the results yet?”

  “The polls haven’t closed yet, Hani.” Amma chuckles. “We won’t know for sure until tomorrow morning.”

  “I didn’t mean to make this day even worse for him,” I say. “But … he was just talking about all of these things I had done to support him and the election and … it made me feel like the worst daughter in the whole world.”

  Amma reaches up and takes my hands in hers. She pulls me down on the bed beside her and brings me close until I’m in her embrace, and I can smell the scent of her coconut shampoo. It feels like forever since the two of us have sat down together and really caught each other up on what’s been going on in our lives. I got so caught up in my lies that I forgot all the important things.

  “You made a mistake, and your Abba made a mistake too,” she murmurs. “It doesn’t make anybody the worst anything in the world. It just makes us human.”

  Abba is sitting at the breakfast table the next morning when I come downstairs. There’s a frown on his lips as he types away at his laptop. I haven’t spoken to him since our awful conversation in the car—he didn’t come home from Salim Uncle’s house until late last night. Now I’m not sure how to break the overwhelming silence between us.

  I don’t have to worry for long though, because as soon as he glances up and notices me, his entire demeanour changes. His expression softens, and a smile spreads across his lips.

  “Hani,” he says, like seeing me this morning is the best thing that’s happened to him in ages. “Did you hear the good news?”

  “You won?” I ask.

  “I won.” He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him when he says this, and it takes a lot for me to not just jump up and down with happiness.

  “You won! Abba … that’s … wow.” It feels like there aren’t enough words to really express how amazing it is that he’s won. Because Salim Uncle was right—it’s historic that he’s won. It’s historic that he was even in this election to begin with. He’s going to be the first ever Muslim and Bangladeshi person to have been elected as a councilor in Ireland. But my excitement is quickly clouded by our argument yesterday.

  “Amma said you were at Salim Uncle’s yesterday. Did you … talk to him about me? About what I said?”

  Abba’s smile dissipates and he nods solemnly. “Actually, I’m working on something for him right now.” He waves me over so I can look at his laptop screen. I shuffle over to find a word document.

  Islamic Center Outreach Program it says at the top, and a picture of our local mosque is pasted toward the bottom.

  “What’s this?”

  “Well … what you said, it made me think a lot about the people who were voting for me yesterday. Everybody I saw at the mosque, they were voting for me because they trusted in the fact that I’d represent them … as a Muslim.” Abba heaves a sigh. “Hani, has your Amma ever told you about how things were like when we first came here?”

  I shake my head slowly. Amma and Abba have been living here for more than three decades now. They know Ireland like the back of their hands—it’s their home. Maybe even more than Bangladesh, since Bangladesh wasn’t even an independent country when they were born. But neither Amma nor Abba have spent a lot of time talking about the past—except to rave about all the ways things have gotten better.

  “Well, when we first moved here, it was … difficult. There were barely any Bangladeshi people here, and there were barely any Muslim people here. There was no mosque, nobody from our communities. For the first few years we were here, we couldn’t even find any halal meat.” Abba has a faraway look in his eyes as he says all this, like he’s remembering a time that he had all but forgotten. “We both missed Bangladesh, and we missed our family. But … we had fought so hard to come here. And the money your Amma and I made here was putting some of your cousins at home through school and university. We couldn’t give up.”

  “You wanted to give up?” I can’t imagine Amma and Abba ever wanting to give up on anything—especially not something as big as setting up their life here. But I also can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for them to come to a completely different country where everything was unfamiliar and try to start a life.

  “Sometimes.” Abba chuckles. “But your Amma and I had each other, and then soon Akash was born. That helped put everything into perspective. Akash, Polash, you … you’ve all had more opportunities here than you ever would have had in Bangladesh. But … being here, it was always difficult to hold onto some things … and I guess one of those things was … Islam.”
<
br />   “Oh …” I’d never thought about how something like immigrating to a completely different country could affect your faith. Of course I hadn’t, because I had spent my entire life in this very house, with my exact same friends. With everything the exact same. How can I possibly understand the things that Abba and Amma have done to get us here?

  “It was more difficult when there was no mosque to go to every Friday for jummah prayers, no family and friends to celebrate Eid with, nothing that … held us close to Islam, I suppose.” Abba heaves another sigh, like it’s paining him to speak about this. “I guess gradually it became easier to just forget about those things, to … distance ourselves. So when Clonskeagh mosque was built, when a community started coming together … it didn’t feel like our place anymore.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, mostly because it’s the only thing I can think of saying. It has been so easy for me to find myself in Islam, to read the Qur’an, and go to the mosque every chance I get.

  “Don’t be sorry.” Abba shakes his head. “You know, when you started becoming interested in Islam, when you asked your Amma and me about praying and fasting for Ramadan … all of those things made us feel a little closer to Islam again. And … now I’m realizing you were right. I shouldn’t have used the people at the mosque for a vote when I didn’t feel like I was a part of that community. When I’d never been a part of that community before.”

  “But it’s not your fault,” I say quickly. The last thing I want is to make Abba feel like he has anything to prove—to me, to himself, or the people at the mosque. “It’s easy for me because you’ve given me everything I need to make it easy. To study Qur’an, and pray, and go to the mosque. But … I didn’t know it was so hard for you and Amma.”

  “It was,” Abba admits. “But I’m not completely blameless either. And … yesterday your Salim Uncle and I had a long talk about all of this. And … we made a decision together.” Abba points again to his computer screen. “This outreach program is for the local South Asian mosque. With your Salim Uncle’s help we’re going to work on making it better. On making it into a proper Islamic center, and more inclusive as well.”

  I’ve never been inside the local mosque—since there is no space for women to pray. It’s a small building that looks like an apartment complex, gray and sad, and the only people who go to pray there are South Asians—mostly Bangladeshi people.

  “How are you going to do that?” I ask, because I’m having a difficult time imagining anybody getting excited about jummah prayer there.

  “Well, I’m working on contacting the right people. We’re going to figure out if we can make it a little bigger, or even consider relocating it. And your Salim Uncle suggested that when the mosque isn’t being used for prayer, maybe we can get some teachers to teach Arabic, Qur’an, and even Islamic history.” Abba’s face is lit up as he says all this. He looks happier than he has in a long time. I can’t help the grin that stretches my lips as well.

  “It sounds like it’s going to be a pretty big project.”

  “It will be …” Abba trails off. “And it’ll probably take a long time. Which is why I’ll need your help with it too.”

  He meets my eyes, and though he doesn’t say anything about how I disappointed him with the canvassing, I can tell that’s what he’s thinking about.

  “I’m sorry about how I … didn’t help enough with—”

  “Hani.” Abba cuts me off, reaching forward to place his hands on my shoulders. “That conversation wasn’t about you not helping. It was because you lied, and you didn’t tell me that you couldn’t do it. I would have understood. But … I needed you and you let me down.”

  “I know.” I look down on the tiled floor of our kitchen instead of meeting his eyes.

  “But we both made mistakes.” Abba’s hands squeeze my shoulders gently, and when I look up there’s no disappointment in his eyes. “And I’m proud of you. I wouldn’t be working on this project without you, Hani.”

  I feel the pinprick of tears behind my eyes, and for once they’re happy tears. I try to blink them away as Abba wraps me in the warmest embrace.

  After our conversation, Amma makes us the most perfect breakfast to celebrate Abba’s victory: bhapa pitha. She makes a few with gur between the steamed rice, a few with minced meat, and some with cheese. I eat one of each, and by the time I’m done with breakfast I’m completely full.

  More than the breakfast itself, though, it’s sitting at the breakfast table with Abba and Amma, feeling content and happy, that makes everything perfect. Like everything is finally getting back on track. Everything … except Ishu. But I have plans for that too.

  So, after breakfast I find myself pulling out the baking trays from the kitchen cabinets.

  “Planning on baking something?” Amma asks with a raised eyebrow.

  “I need to make things up to Ishu,” I say. “Like you and Abba said … I want to show her that I’m in her corner.”

  “And baking is going to do that?” Amma asks. Her question makes me pause in my tracks. It’s not exactly the most ingenious idea, but it’s all I have.

  I take a deep breath and say, “God, I hope so.”

  chapter forty-four

  ishu

  I WAKE UP ON MONDAY MORNING TO A TEXT FROM NIK that reads good luck today! Instead of making me feel better, though, it makes my stomach drop. The thought of going into school and standing up in front of our entire year to tell them about why I should be Head Girl next year? It feels like too much.

  Still, I climb out of bed and slip into my uniform. I shuffle down the stairs to find Ammu waiting for me at the table. For a moment I wonder if she’s somehow found out about the Head Girl presentations. Maybe she heard from one of the other parents, or maybe the school texted her about it. The thought of her knowing fills me with dread. Because what if I don’t win—and that seems like a pretty big possibility at this stage—and then I’ve disappointed my parents once more?

  “Ishu.” A smile flickers on Amma’s lips when she spots me. “Do you want me to make you some breakfast?”

  “Um, no,” I mumble. “I’ll have some cereal.” I grab the milk, bowl, and cereal and take a seat opposite Ammu. She’s not even on her phone or anything. She just observes me, as if she’s seeing me for the first time in a while.

  “Your school called,” she says finally when I’m already halfway through my cereal.

  “Oh?” I try to sound nonchalant but the dread in the pit of my stomach grows.

  “They told us that the accusation that student made about you has been dropped. You’re not being investigated anymore.”

  “Yeah,” I say, stifling a sigh of relief. “Did I … not mention that?” I’ve become too good at avoiding seeing Ammu and Abbu. Since they’re so busy all the time, it’s too easy.

  “Your principal said that Nik was the one who spoke to her and helped clear your name.”

  I pause with a spoon of cereal halfway to my mouth. Ammu is looking straight at me, and there’s a question in her gaze.

  “Yeah … Nik … I … called her.” I drop the spoonful of cereal back into the bowl, and it makes a splashing sound. Suddenly, I don’t feel so hungry anymore.

  Ammu shakes her head. “Your Abbu wasn’t happy to hear about that. You should have talked to us. We’re trying to give Nik some space. We’re trying to—”

  “Cut her out of our family,” I say. “I … talked to you two. You didn’t believe me. Nik … she believed me. She knew that I would never cheat. I didn’t even have to ask her for help. I didn’t ask her to do anything. But she did help. She knew how to fix everything. She was there for me.”

  Ammu takes a deep breath. “Well, I’m glad that she helped you, I am. But you can’t go running to your sister when you have a problem. She needs to know that what she’s doing is wrong. We don’t support her in her decision.”

  “But she’s happy,” I say.” And she’s … figuring things out.”

  “Everything was alre
ady figured out.” Ammu’s voice is cold and heavy. Like her mind’s made up about Nik and there’s no changing it. For a moment, I’m not sure if I should ask the questions I want to ask. I’m afraid of the answers that Ammu might give me. I’m afraid that maybe our parents don’t love us the way that I’ve always thought they did.

  But then, the words are suddenly out of my lips. “What if Nik never goes back to university? What if she never becomes a doctor? You won’t speak to her ever again?” The questions hang heavy between us, and Ammu’s face shifts. From cold and hard to an expression of despair.

  “That won’t happen.” But the waver in Ammu’s voice makes me realize that she thinks it might. Maybe the last time my family was whole was that day Nik came home. The day we sat together at this very table, eating our biryani. The day everything changed.

  And I hadn’t even taken the time to appreciate it.

  Principal Gallagher calls me into her office almost as soon as I come into school. I’m half afraid that Aisling has made another accusation against me. I step into the office gingerly, wondering if this is another ambush. But Principal Gallagher just urges me to take a seat and shoots me a pleasant smile, which makes her look kind of constipated.

  This must be what I look like when I try to pretend I like people that I actually detest—at least according to Hani.

  “How are we doing this morning?” Ms. Gallagher asks, clapping her hands together. Like we’re old pals. Like the last time I was here my older sister wasn’t trying to clear my name, and Aisling wasn’t sitting in this exact chair crying her white woman tears to get out of trouble.

  “I’m doing all right.”

  “Wonderful. And are you all ready for your Head Girl presentation?” she asks.

  “Yeah … Nik helped me prepare.” I hold up the thumb drive with my PowerPoint on it.