Evanston was a game changer.
It was like a movie set: charming Victorian houses, sandy summertime beaches, and shady streets lined with twisting oaks and leafy maple trees. It was cozy and contained—I felt safe. I thought we’d be there forever, and I loved the idea that I could go to college and still come back to our cute rental town house for dinner. But then Dad got yet another professorship, and he swore this job was the job—the culmination of the climbing and striving and endless hours applying for tenure-track positions. We lived at an extended-stay for the summer while my parents began an exhaustive search. That’s how long it took to find a small house my parents could afford, not to mention one with all Dad’s requirements. The winner: a slightly old two-story brick house in the farthest reaches of Providence—less than half a mile from Forsyth County, but on the Fulton side of the border—with a third bedroom for a study and a decently sized backyard, and of course in the right school district. Best of all: cheap enough that they could finally afford a down payment after years of scraping and saving. Our very first home.
So here I am.
People smile at me as I walk through the hallways, lobbing “Hi, Allie!” and “Hey, girl!” my way. It’s funny, but even though I feel like an imposter, most people here seem to like me.
Then again, everybody likes the new girl until they get to know her.
The house—our house—should make me feel safe: It’s supposed to mean permanence. But we’ve been here for around half a year—about a quarter of the time I spent everywhere else. Which means we should start slackening the cords and pulling up the stakes in another year, if trends keep up—despite what Mom and Dad say.
Which means, no matter how much I try, it’s impossible for me to stop holding my breath.
Recently, I read about something called duck syndrome. It’s where you look as calm and placid as a duck gliding across the water, but underneath, the feet are paddling furiously, desperately trying to keep up, struggling to maintain the illusion.
Everything looks perfect on the surface, but in reality you’re simply trying not to drown.
* * *
I float through the morning until I get to my elective: chorus.
Chorus is the best—a place where I can forget all my stress and simply focus on the music. I love to sing, and I don’t completely suck at it.
Oh. And Wells is in chorus, too.
No surprise he’s not here yet. He’s always late to everything.
Half the class is already scattered around the room, and Emilia is surrounded by people, of course. You know how life just comes easy to some people? That’s Emilia Graham: pretty, good grades, sympathetic, great at small talk. You can’t even hate her: She’s too nice.
She sees me and smiles brightly. “Hi, Allie!” She’s sitting straight up in the plastic chorus chair, like she always does. That’s her thing: perfect posture. I wonder if she secretly slouches like the rest of us when she’s at home, or if her every waking hour is truly spent with her back ramrod straight.
I banish the thought. “Hi, Emilia!”
We met doing JV cheerleading last semester, and now we’re part of the same loose social orbit. I’m just one of the satellites, though. Emilia’s the sun.
“Sorry I missed y’all this weekend,” she says. “I had a horse show down in Conyers.” She does dressage, which is this sport that makes zero sense to me and costs shocking amounts of money to compete in.
“Wells mentioned it,” I say. “How’d you do?”
“First place,” she says.
“That’s incredible, Emilia. Congratulations!”
“Dancing horses,” Mikey says. “So weird.”
For once, we’re in agreement.
“It was all my horse, Pepita,” she says humbly, tucking her dark hair behind her ears. “It’s a pleasure riding her. But the day started off beyond stressful because of all these extra security measures.”
“Security?” I ask. “Why?”
“You know. Because of that attack.” She sighs.
My stomach clenches. “Horrible.” Her recent Instagram post displayed a photo of the Earth with hands wrapped around it, the words PRAY FOR THE WORLD emblazoned across the image. I liked it and posted a triple blue heart in the comments.
“Why would they need security at a horse show?” Mikey asks. “Not exactly a high-profile target.”
“Maybe because the manhunt’s still going on? Who knows?” Emilia says. “But Pepita was a rock star, as usual.”
Mikey turns his chair around, straddling it casually and leaning in. “They suck.” He flexes his arms, his biceps taking part in the conversation. They ripple underneath his rugby shirt.
I look at him warily. “They?”
“Those Muslim pieces of trash. Round ’em up. One-way ticket back where they came from,” Mikey says. “You wanna attack people, do it on your own turf. Leave America out of it.”
A few of the chorus kids casually listening—Alyssa, Morgan, Brianna—nod in agreement. I look around, alarmed. Is today National Scared of Muslims Day?
Oh, wait. That’s every day.
“We don’t know it was a Muslim,” I say quietly. “They’re still trying to find the guy. Or girl, I guess. It could be anybody.”
“It’s always a dude, and it’s always a Muslim,” Mikey says firmly. He strokes his face, where the faintest hint of a baby goatee is desperately trying to make itself known.
Sarah frowns. “Not always. Sometimes it’s a white guy.”
“I don’t mean all Muslims,” Mikey says, backpedaling as if he suddenly realizes how it sounded. “Hassan’s one of the best tight ends on our team. I’m just talking about, you know, the bad ones. Terrorists.”
Emilia sighs. “I know they’re a product of their culture, but”—she bites her lip—“it’s like, why don’t you just blow yourself up, instead of taking other people with you?”
“Totally,” Brianna says.
“Because they’re subhuman,” Mikey says. “They don’t care. They’re evil.”
“Not all Muslims,” Emilia says, her face sad. “Obviously. But there’s a problem with radical Islamic terrorism. And Muslims always say, ‘Oh, it’s the religion of peace,’ but then why is it always them causing problems?”
I should say something. I have to. But what?
I hate conflict. It makes my palms sweaty, my heart race. The whole world comes to a halt and literally the only thing I want to do is run and hide until everybody’s happy again. I’ll say anything, be anybody, just to make that awful, panicky feeling go away. And I don’t know why I’m like this. Desperate to make people like me, at all costs.
Maybe in a parallel universe, there’s an Allie who doesn’t care if people like her or not. Who doesn’t apologize even when she’s right. Who says what she’s actually thinking.
Who calls her friends out on their toxic BS.
“Um … I hate to say it … but it’s sort of…” My voice falters.
Everybody looks at me.
“What?” Emilia asks.
“It’s just…”
“Spit it out!” she says.
“It’s kind of offensive to say ‘radical Islamic terrorist,’” I say, hating how tiny and tentative my voice sounds. “The phrase, I mean. ‘Radical Islam.’” I pick something small and concrete to focus on. Easier to defend.
They exchange looks. Mikey starts laughing. “Whatever, Lincoln.” He’s always doing that: laughing at serious things, not to mention making up names for people. I’m Lincoln, because apparently simply calling me by my last name isn’t creative enough.
“Yeah, but you have to name the problem,” Emilia says. “Refusing to face it head-on doesn’t do anybody favors.”
I want to explain that some Muslims think the phrase is offensive and problematic—that it demonizes the religion as a whole. I want to take them to task for their comments—all of them.
But I don’t.
Instead, I just say, “Yeah, I gues
s so,” as Emilia smiles warmly at me.
And I hate myself for it.
Mr. Tucker walks into the room. “Good morning, children!” he says in his singsong voice. It always feels like he’s trying too hard, as if he’s playing the part of a chorus teacher.
Once the bell rings, Mr. Tucker passes out music. A minute later, Wells enters. He’s wearing a retro knitted sweater and a beanie cap over his shaggy hair.
“What’s the excuse this time?” Mr. Tucker asks, a sigh emanating from every fiber of his being. It’s funny that Mr. Tucker doesn’t seem to like Wells, because he’s one of those upbeat kids teachers normally have a soft spot for.
“I have a note!” Wells says, holding aloft a yellow sheet of paper from the guidance counselor’s office. He sounds as surprised as Mr. Tucker looks.
Mr. Tucker accepts the note, tossing it onto his music stand without looking at it. “Now that we’re back from break, it’s time to plan the spring musical. We have three contenders to choose from, so my classes will be voting on them. Once we pick a winner, I’ll begin holding auditions later in the month.”
“Hey,” Wells says quietly as he takes an empty seat behind me. “Had to deal with a thing.” His breath tickles my neck as he leans forward to whisper in my ear, and it’s all I can do to keep from closing my eyes and swooning to the side, like a damsel presenting her neck to a sexy vampire.
“No talking,” Mr. Tucker snaps, glaring at Wells. A few kids in class giggle.
Emilia raises her hand.
“Yes, Emilia?” he says, the scowl softening into a smile.
“What are the options, Mr. Tucker?”
“Good question, Emilia. We’ll be choosing between Beauty and the Beast, The Addams Family, and my personal favorite, Grease. As always, you’re not required to audition for an onstage role, but participation in some form or another is mandatory, whether through backstage work or front of house.”
Wells leans forward again. “Ten thousand bucks says we do Grease, even if it gets no votes,” he whispers into my ear. “No way Dictator Tuck loosens the reins.”
“Mr. Henderson! Do I need to send you right back to the front office?”
“No, sir. Sorry, sir. Silence, sir.” Wells salutes Mr. Tucker, and the whole class laughs.
* * *
When the bell rings, Wells and I walk out of class, my silver flats making clap-clap-clap sounds on the linoleum floor as we do the long trek to Algebra II together. Providence is so spread out it might as well be a college campus.
There’s a hint of tension in the air between us, after we were overtly flirty at his house. Or maybe it’s just my imagination.
But we keep walking, and neither of us says anything.
“I like your skirt,” he finally says, pointing at the flippy black wool piece I picked up at Providence’s only secondhand shop. “It’s cool you don’t wear jeans and sneakers like everybody.”
My classic Hollywood outfits feel like armor—today’s black-and-white ensemble was inspired by Grace Kelly in Rear Window. “Oh, I, uh … my dad always says clothing influences how people see you, so it’s important to put your best foot forward.”
Wells hooks a thumb through the strap of his messenger bag. “He sounds smart. Mine says there’s a sucker born every minute.”
I laugh. “Dark. I like it.”
“Hey, so did you say your birthday’s coming up soon?” he asks as we walk up the stairs toward math class.
“Yeah, it’s a few days before Valentine’s Day.”
I hope that didn’t come out like I’m fishing for a Valentine.
We walk into Mrs. Martinez’s class and sit down next to each other in our normal seats by the window.
As Mrs. Martinez talks about logarithmic equations, a message pops up on my computer screen. The school blocks messaging on our Chromebooks, but—please—everybody knows how to get around it.
The message is from Wells. Who is sitting approximately sixteen inches to my right.
WELLS: Did she just say this won’t be on the quiz? So why are we learning it?
ME: I don’t know, I missed it
WELLS: Distracted by me. I get it.
ME: Haha, you’re hilarious
ME: By the way, want to see another movie this weekend?
WELLS: Yeah, but I think Mikey might have people over. I’ll find out
ME: Cool
WELLS: Btw, birthday girl, what are you doing for the big day?
ME: No plans
WELLS: Okay, you’ve got plans now
ME: What do you have in mind?
WELLS: It’s a surprise
ME: Ooh, I love surprises!
WELLS: I know
ME: Is everybody coming?
WELLS: Thought we could hang just us. Is that okay?
I die and come back to life, only to die again.
ME: Cool
“Wells,” Mrs. Martinez says, startling me. She’s looking at him with an exasperated look on your face. “Can you please pay attention? It’s the third time I’ve had to tell you.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Martinez,” he says, looking sheepish.
Once her back is turned, he looks over at me and grins. He’s so cute. Ugh.
I wonder what he has in store for my birthday? I squirm in my seat excitedly.
For once, Dad’s corny New Year’s toast might be right. This year is definitely looking up.
CHAPTER FIVE
One day, I wake up and realize it’s already three weeks into the new year. So far, it’s been mostly consumed by homework, and hangouts with Wells and his friends, and binge-watching Netflix with my parents.
What else is there, really?
Sometimes it smells like dinner when I get home from school, but tonight it’s a silent, odorless house. Mom and Dad take turns cooking, depending on who gets home from work first (although Dad’s cooking is highly superior), and there’s often something sizzling on the stove or smoking in Dad’s beloved Big Green Egg out back. Tonight, nothing.
I walk into the kitchen, and nobody’s there. There’s no chopping board, no medley of colorful vegetables, no chicken marinating in cumin and olive oil. I peek out the window to see if Dad’s lovingly tending to meat on the Egg. Nope.
“Hello?” I call.
“Upstairs, Al!” Mom replies.
I find Mom and Dad in the small office, the two of them frowning at something on her laptop. Dad has a stack of papers from one of his classes tucked under his arm.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Syria,” Mom says, shaking her head in horror. “It never ends. Thank God Teta got out when she did.”
I look at the picture on the screen—a young boy covered in burns—and turn away, tears in my eyes.
When Teta married Jido, set up by their families, she moved from Damascus to Amman—jumping into the unknown at only seventeen. They spent decades in Jordan. It wasn’t until after my dad moved to America that Teta and Jido followed, just before 9/11.
Either the world’s best timing, or the worst.
“Stop watching this,” I say, snapping my mother’s laptop shut. “This isn’t helping anybody. Let’s watch a movie.”
I corral my parents downstairs. “Sit down,” I command. “I’ll bring you tea.”
The two of them sit on the couch. Dad reaches for the remote and clicks on the TV, turning the volume up. Jack Henderson, the political commentator, sits behind a shiny desk with a stack of papers in front of him. The word IMMIGRATION is emblazoned across the screen in a big red font.
“No cable news!” I shriek. “Netflix!”
Jack’s voice goes silent.
I unwrap the tea bags and pour the water, letting the tea steep for a few minutes. When I walk back into the room, a steaming mug of tea in each hand, I find my parents curled up on the couch together underneath a shaggy blanket. They’re clutching hands, my mom’s head resting on my dad’s shoulder as they stare at the TV.
Dad looks up and sees me standing in th
e doorway. He smiles, holding out an arm.
“Come here, pumpkin. Watch with us.”
I put the mugs on the coffee table and snuggle under the blanket with them, crawling under my dad’s outstretched arm and feeling about five years old. He presses PLAY.
I’d never admit it to my friends—I’m not about social disaster, thank you very much—but at this moment, safe with my parents, there’s almost nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.
* * *
After takeout dinner and a couple episodes of a British comedy, we’ve moved on to An American in Paris. The coffee table is covered with half-eaten containers of guacamole and salsa, plus various books and paper stacks and open laptops.
Dad’s phone rings. It’s Teta, FaceTiming.
“Marhaba, Mama. Kefic?” Dad says, launching into a conversation. I catch the words Suria and haram and tayaara, and understand they’re talking about an air attack. It must be especially scary for Teta. Her sister, brother-in-law, and several nieces and nephews still live outside Damascus.
I pause the TV as Mom walks into the living room with a tray covered in ice-cream toppings.
Our nightly tradition has been the same ever since I was a kid: We gather in front of the TV and make an ice-cream sundae while Mom and Dad catch up on work and I do homework. As I’ve gotten older and my homework routine has become more intense, I don’t always stay downstairs—too many distractions—but I do always make time for dessert.
My dad has favorites he returns to over and over. He’s not big into foreign films with subtitles and doesn’t have much patience for noir, gangster, or shoot-’em-ups. (Except The Godfather. Always The Godfather.) His favorites are the big Technicolor cotton-candy musicals from the golden era: Meet Me in St. Louis, The Sound of Music, West Side Story, and his beloved, the one he goes to when life has him down, Singin’ in the Rain.
It’s no wonder I like chorus. I grew up with musicals as second nature. It’s a magical world where everything is beautifully decorated, there’s nothing that can’t be cured by singing about it, and everybody gets a happy ending.
All-American Muslim Girl Page 5