“Allie,” Dua says, pointing to me as if she’s a teacher.
“I have a little more to contribute,” I say, reaching into my purse and pulling out twenty dollars, my allowance for the week. It’ll mean forgoing the movies this weekend, but after I talk to Wells about his dad, chances are my schedule will be cleared indefinitely.
At the end of the meeting, everybody prays together before saying goodbye and making plans to meet in a month.
“Should we do Waffle House next time?” Hamid asks.
Dua pulls a face. “Seriously?”
“There are no bad suggestions,” he huffs.
As I’m heading out the door, Dua calls after me.
“Hey, Allie.”
I turn back. “Yeah?”
“I’m happy you came.”
I give her a dorky little wave as I turn back out the door, feeling grateful to be included.
* * *
Wells and I don’t talk about his dad during chorus or algebra. We don’t talk much period, actually. It’s a simple equation: awkwardness + avoidance = silence.
It’s not until after school, when we’re sitting next to each other in the auditorium for musical tryouts, that I work up the courage to bring it up.
“Your dad.”
My heart pounds in that jackhammer way it always does when confrontation is imminent. Normally, I’m all about that avoidance life. This is different.
He leans back in his seat, not looking at me. “Yeah.”
“Does everybody at school know?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. I guess. But it’s not like I go around broadcasting it.” His word choice feels ironic, considering his father’s job. “People know I don’t really talk about it.”
“Is he different?” I say. “Than on TV? Is that just a character?”
Wells scratches his head. “I dunno.”
I try a different tack.
“Do you share his views?”
This yanks Wells out of his stupor. He glances my way. “No.”
“I mean … you can see why I’d be concerned, right?” My voice is so icy it could freeze Lake Lanier. “With him spouting that divisive BS?”
Wells frowns. He looks conflicted. “I get it.”
“Do you?” I ask, cocking my head.
He knits his brow. “Are you okay?”
“I was surprised, that’s all.”
We sit in silence, watching the kids file into the auditorium. Emilia enters, smiling and waving at people like she’s on the red carpet at the Oscars. Mr. Tucker waits onstage, bathed in the glow of the theater lights.
“Does your dad know Zadie is half-Mexican?” I ask Wells.
Wells looks startled. “I don’t know. Probably.”
“What about Joey? Does he have an issue with the fact he’s Black?”
“Allie, where are you going with this?” Wells sounds irritated.
I blow out my frustration in a puff. “Your dad is kind of toxic, Wells. Can’t you see that?”
“Allie. Come on.”
Something inside me snaps.
“Are you collecting people?” I say.
“What?”
“I mean, all your friends are from groups your dad actively hates. How do you think that makes them feel?”
Wells looks pissed. “Stop it. He’s still my dad.”
He stands up and walks across the aisle, sitting in a chair a few feet away from me.
“Good afternoon, students!” Mr. Tucker says. “We’ll go in order of last names, alphabetically. When I call your name, please come up here and tell us which character you intend to audition for, and what song you’ll be performing.”
I’m first—the burden of having a last name beginning with A. I go through the motions, performing a middling version of “Hopelessly Devoted to You,” then sit through several more auditions waiting for Wells’s turn.
Once he’s finished singing “Sandy,” he walks up the aisle and out of the auditorium, the door shutting behind him without him giving me a backward glance.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bell rings. Twelve noon. Lunchtime.
After grabbing my lunch cooler from my locker, I walk outside, forgoing the cafeteria. I can’t deal with Mikey, Emilia, and the crew.
Wells and I haven’t talked or texted since our fight yesterday. This morning, I didn’t walk into chorus until after the bell rang, and I sat as far away from him as possible. We made eye contact in algebra once, but that was it. Otherwise, nada.
There’s a row of park benches in the front of the school, to the right of the parking lot and by the old log cabin near the cemetery.
Dua sits alone at one of the wooden tables, drawing in a notebook. Her hands look like they’re used to sketching—her thumb and forefinger have deep inky smudges on them.
I cough. “Um, hi.”
She looks up, startled. When she sees it’s me, her face relaxes. “Oh, hi, Allie! What’s up?”
“Do you mind if I sit?” I feel nervous.
“Knock yourself out.”
I sit down at the table next to her, pulling out my sandwich and eating in silence. Dua seems content to draw, and I don’t want to bother her more than I already have.
It’s not until I’m halfway through the sandwich that it occurs to me Dua’s not eating. I look her clothes up and down—she’s not wearing the unofficial Providence High School uniform of Hollister, Michael Kors, and Tory Burch, but I don’t think she’s low-income, either. She probably can afford lunch, but I don’t want to assume—Providence has its fair share of underprivileged people. After all, it used to be a rural suburb—a literal one-stoplight town. Not that you’d know it from the student parking lot full of brand-new luxury cars.
“Um, I’m not eating this other half,” I say. “Do you like turkey? Want it?”
“Nah, I’m good,” she says. “Thanks.”
“You probably already ate,” I say, feeling silly.
She pauses, as if weighing her words. Finally she smiles and says, “No food for me today. I’m fasting.”
I put my sandwich down, fascinated. “You’re fasting? Why?”
She pauses again.
“I’m sorry. I’m so rude. You don’t have to answer—obviously.”
“No worries. I’m making up Ramadan days I missed last year.”
I nod, saying, “Ah, right,” in a tone implying I know what she’s talking about. The fact is, I didn’t know you could make up days for Ramadan. I’ve never fasted before.
To be fair, my parents never asked me to fast. Most of my cousins do, but they grew up in households where Ramadan was a thing.
As opposed to mine, where Ramadan was a thing to be avoided.
Her eyes run over me as if my innermost thoughts are a barcode and she’s the LED light scanning my secrets. She says, “Your dad is Mo Abraham, right?”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
She nods triumphantly, as though a crucial fact has been gleaned. “My mom has his books. Plus, it’s not like Providence is crawling with Muslims. You know who’s who.”
“That makes sense,” I say, feeling guilty, like I should make an excuse for why I’m not more open about my family. I look down at my sandwich. “Do you want me to put this away? I shouldn’t be eating in front of you. Sorry.”
“It’s fine! I’m used to it,” she says. “It’s not your fault I’m fasting—my choice.”
I nod, desperately wanting to ask her a million questions but not wanting to be rude.
She must see it in my eyes, because she laughs. “What do you want to ask me?”
“It’s just”—I say gratefully—“why do you have to make up the fast?”
“If you miss days, you need to make them up later. Otherwise, your fasts don’t count.”
“Right. Totally.” I don’t ask her why somebody might miss a fast. I’ll look it up online later.
“My turn,” she says. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
&
nbsp; “Your mom is Christian, right?”
“No, she’s Muslim. She converted when she married my dad.”
Dua looks surprised. “Really? Huh. Okay.”
“Why?”
“I shouldn’t have assumed. Do you practice?”
“No,” I say, my cheeks feeling hot. “My dad’s kind of weird about religion. I call his family on Eid, and if we’re in town, my mom’s family makes me go to church on Easter. That’s about it.”
She smiles. “I love those ornate Gothic cathedrals—the kind where it smells like incense and dead guys are buried in the alcoves, you know? The bigger the better. Don’t tell my mom.” She stands up, looking at her phone. “I gotta go. See you around? Next MSA meeting?”
“Definitely.”
“Don’t worry, we’re not doing Waffle House.” She walks away, giving me a tiny wave.
As she’s halfway across the driveway, she turns around. “Hey, Allie?”
“Yeah?”
“No pressure, but if you’re into it, I’m part of a Qur’an study group. No guys, no regressive gender politics, total safe space. We meet once a week, on Sundays.”
“Oh!” I say. “I’d love to.” I hope she can’t sense my anxiety. The idea of hanging out with Muslim girls who aren’t my family makes me nervous. I’m not one of them.
“Cool!” she says, coming back to the table. “I’ll text you the info.”
“Can’t wait,” I say, handing her my phone and trying to put on a confident, breezy face masking my terror.
After I finish my sandwich, I look at my watch. There’s still time left in lunch period. Nothing to do but walk back inside to my usual table.
“There you are!” Emilia scoots over to make room.
“Did you get in trouble or something?” Sarah says. She and Emilia are both wearing red polo shirts with red ribbons in their hair; they must have a softball game today.
“I ate outside today.”
“Why?” Emilia takes a dainty bite of her farfalle pasta. “It’s gross outside.”
“I needed to get some homework done.”
They turn back to their conversations, seeming satisfied by my lie.
“And then my dad goes, ‘I promise, it’s not what it looks like!’” Mikey says, continuing some story, oblivious to me. “But it was nasty, dude. You do not want to catch your parents like that.”
As my friends surround me, talking and laughing—friends I’ve worked so hard to make over the past few months—I’ve never felt lonelier.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
That’s how I find myself in a car with Mom two days later, on the way to Dua’s house for study group.
“Since you’re sixteen, we should think about finally going for your driver’s license,” she says, for the fiftieth time.
“Maybe next month,” I reply, for the fiftieth time.
She grumbles as we barrel down State Bridge Road, passing yet another Waffle House—Atlanta mandates one on every street corner in the burbs. “When I was your age, a car was freedom,” she says. “It’s beyond me why you’re not begging me for your real license. I harassed my mother every day until she let me get a car.”
I grin at her as we turn onto Medlock Bridge, toward Dua’s house. “Why get a car when it’s easier for you to drive me?”
“Easier for whom?” she says, rolling her eyes.
“But we get to spend quality time together!”
She bursts out laughing. “You’re good, kid. You’re very good.”
I peek at my phone as we turn into the subdivision. Still nothing from Wells. It’s been radio silence since our fight.
Normally, I’d reflexively apologize for going off about his dad, but something inside me has shifted. After finding out he’s Jack Henderson’s son, I see him differently. I know that’s not fair, but I can’t help it—and if we’re going to work, I need him to meet me halfway.
But now it’s been three whole days since we’ve spoken—an actual, literal I-can’t-even-deal-with-it eternity.
What sucks is we were finally starting to get close to each other.
Although I guess not that close.
The group is at a different person’s house each week. This week is Dua’s turn.
Once she sees Dua answer the door, my mother waves cheerfully and drives away, pantomiming using a telephone for picking me up later.
“Hi! I’m happy you made it,” Dua says, hugging me.
I hug her back, grinning. “Me too.”
Inside the foyer, the Mahmoud house initially reminds me of my aunt Bila’s: elaborate gold-plated Qur’an calligraphy art framed on the walls, potted plants almost as tall as the ceiling, intricate Persian rugs. But where Aunt Bila’s house is colorful and chaotic, Dua’s is soothing and elegant: shades of beige, cream, and taupe; cashmere throws; soft lighting.
The great room is massive, with an open-plan two-story layout, but it somehow manages to feel cozy instead of cavernous. In the center, there’s a wooden coffee table covered in sweets and displaying an expensive gold tea set, with the other girls in the group perched on a long L-shaped wraparound couch, shoeless feet tucked underneath them. They look at me expectantly as I trail Dua into the room. I want to hide—instead, I picture “I Have Confidence” from The Sound of Music, an imaginary nun running around the corners of my brain and belting out inspiration.
Why, yes I do bring imaginary singing nuns with me to Qur’an study group. No wonder I’m so mixed up.
“Everybody, this is Allie, from my school. Allie, this is Fatima Thompson, Leila Elmahdy, and Shamsah Amin. And, of course, our fearless leader Samira Wahab.” Everybody laughs.
Samira is older than the other girls—maybe midtwenties. She has a pleasant smile and wears a peach-colored headscarf with blue flowers on it. I wonder how she manages to look so pretty in the scarf with her round face. Over the years, whenever I’ve tried playing with a headscarf—in the privacy of my room, obviously—I look ridiculous.
“Salaam, Allie. Thanks for coming!” Samira’s voice is soothing, with a slight Southern lilt.
“Salaam,” I say shyly, putting my hand up in a wave. I gingerly take a seat in a sectional chair opposite them, which has the effect of making me feel like I’m either interviewing or on trial. “Thank you for having me.”
“Hi, Allie,” the girls say back in unison, their faces happy and smiling. I bet they come from homes where they say “bismillah” before driving, and where there’s a Qur’an by the bed, and where none of them have ever felt they weren’t Muslim enough.
Or maybe I’m projecting.
“Shall we introduce ourselves and tell Allie how we came together?” Samira says. “I’ll start. I’m Samira, just graduated from Emory with a degree in Islamic civilizations. I was born and raised in Atlanta. I’m active in the North Fulton Muslim community, where I met Dua and Shamsah’s mothers. I love running and have a weakness for spicy food.” She grins. “It’s the Malaysian in me.”
A girl in an electric-blue hijab smiles at me next, her white teeth highlighted by candy-apple-red lipstick. “Hey, Allie, I’m Leila. Um, I’m originally from Florida, outside Fort Lauderdale. My mom and Shamsah’s mom are like BFFs, so. I’m a junior at Northview, and I’m still not over y’all crushing us at homecoming, so you’re gonna have to make it up to me,” she says, and laughs. “Um, let’s see. I’m also obsessed with SoulCycle.”
“Shamsah,” another girl says next, raising her hand in greeting. She has a sandy complexion, curly black hair, and wide-set eyes, heavily rimmed with makeup. There’s a coiled, confident way about her. “Senior at Westminster.” The Harvard of Atlanta prep schools. “If we’re doing the dating profile thing, I like weekends at the lake and Zendaya movies.”
“Hi! I’m Fatima.” A younger-looking girl with dark-brown skin smiles at me. “My family converted when I was six, but that was a long time ago. I’m in ninth grade at Johns Creek, and Dua and I met last year—our brothers are friends. I love to cook, and I’m gon
na go to culinary school so I can open up my own restaurant in VaHi. Oh, and I love Harry Styles.”
“Not Zayn?” Dua says, teasing.
Fatima frowns. “Zayn needs to get his act together.”
“And I’m Dua. Obviously.”
Heads swivel to me.
“Um, I’m a sophomore at Providence with Dua.” Steady hands, Allie! You’re introducing yourself to a group of peers, not giving a TED talk. “I was born in Texas, but we moved here over the summer from outside Chicago. And I’m Circassian—well, half-Circassian. My dad is from Jordan, and my mom is American.” I look at Fatima and smile. “I like Harry Styles, too.”
She beams back at me.
“Allie, why don’t you tell us more about Circassians?” Samira says. She must have noticed the confusion on Leila’s face. “I’m sure we could use a little primer.”
I twist my hands. The first few lines of “I Have Confidence” play through my head again.
“So Circassians are from southwestern Russia, in the Caucasus Mountains near Turkey,” I say. “You know when the Olympics were in Sochi? That’s basically my ethnic backyard. Most people don’t know who Circassians are, but they used to be famous in the 1800s, mostly because the women were totally beautiful, and P. T. Barnum would exhibit them as the famous ‘Circassian Beauties’—supposedly the most beautiful women in the entire world. Except, he was too lazy to get real Circassian women and would just find random girls from New York City to pass.”
Shamsah shakes her head and rolls her eyes.
“I know,” I say. “Oh! And the women in the harems of the sultans of the Ottoman Empire were usually Circassian, because they were prized as concubines for their beauty and smarts and, um, mannerisms, I guess. Although if you think about it, how they’re light-skinned, it’s kinda problematic, actually. I mean, more problematic than it already is.”
Fatima nods at me. “Colorism.”
“Exactly. Oh! And they made wine!”
“Did they drink it?” Leila asks, frowning.
“Uh, I’m not sure? But my parents drink,” I confess.
Leila cringes.
“Everyone’s on their own journey, at their own pace,” Samira says.
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