“I bet. Thanks for keeping everything on the DL. I know it’s a lot to ask. It’s just … easier.”
“What would do if he knew I’m Muslim?”
He thinks about it. “Nothing. He’d be nice to your face. He’d keep inviting you to dinner. He’d wait it out.”
“Until we broke up?”
A smile slides across Wells’s face. “Are we together?”
I blush, embarrassment searing my insides. “That’s not what I mean.”
He waits until we’re at a light, reaching over and taking my hand in his. When the light turns green, he drives on, our fingers still locked together.
“You think he’d be nice to me?” I say.
Wells squeezes my hand before taking it away and putting it back on the steering wheel. “Yup.”
I shake my head, irritated.
“You know the worst part?” he says. “My dad is smart. I don’t know how he believes that stuff. How he sleeps at night.”
“So, what is his deal?” I ask. “What does he believe in?”
He groans. “You really want to hear?”
“Yes. No. Yes.”
“I mean, it’s not original. Immigration is horrible, political correctness is stupid, everybody’s a snowflake.”
“What about your mom? She believes all that, too?”
He shakes his head. “She doesn’t. No way.”
“You sure? They’re still married.”
“There’s stuff you don’t know,” he says, his voice quieter. “Mom is tough. She’s a good person. She practices what she preaches.”
He turns the corner toward my house, sinking into loud silence.
I want to make Wells feel better, especially after what a jerk his dad was to him—but something inside me is bubbling up.
“I hate to say it, Wells, but … you know … you’re condoning his behavior, too.”
“What am I supposed to do?” he explodes. “Leave? Sleep on the street? It’s easy for you to condemn. You don’t live in that house.”
“I’m sorry. It’s gotta be hard,” I say, backpedaling.
“It is hard.”
“Okay. I get it.”
“You don’t get it. Do you know what it’s like having a dad people hate? He’s an embarrassment, but he’s still my father.”
I don’t know what to say.
He exhales in a puff of frustration. “Sorry. It’s not your problem.”
“Don’t be sorry. We don’t pick our parents.”
He pulls up to a light, his hands clenching the steering wheel. “You don’t have to be nice about him.”
“I know.”
“He’s a jerk.”
I nod.
“It’s everybody who’s not white.” His voice has dropped to a whisper. Sunny Wells has been replaced by something darker, deeper. “I’m ashamed of him.”
“You’re not your father.”
“My mom says he wasn’t always like this.”
“You’ve mentioned.”
“You’re not a monster just because you believe in states’ rights and small government,” Wells says. “And she says plenty of people don’t like what’s been happening—not just progressives. But he genuinely believes we’d be better if America went back to the old days.”
“The days when life sucked for everybody who wasn’t a straight, white middle-class able-bodied cis dude?”
“Basically.”
I look down at my hands, thinking, How did I end up here?
He shakes his head. “Let’s change the subject. Please.”
“Okay.”
But we drive in silence.
As we pull up to my house and Wells puts the car in park, I start talking about my teta’s upcoming visit. After a few seconds, I realize he’s not listening to me. His hands are on the steering wheel, and he’s breathing heavily, loudly.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He doesn’t respond.
“Wells?”
“Allie,” he whispers.
His hands grip the steering wheel, trembling.
“Are you okay?” I ask again.
He bends over, putting his head on the wheel. “Gimme a sec.” I strain to hear him over the music.
I don’t know what to do. I think he’s having an anxiety attack.
“Can I help?”
He clutches the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white.
I go into protective mode, turning the radio off. “Come here. Lie down.” I stroke his back, trying to soothe him. It’s wet—he’s sweating through his shirt.
Eventually, after several tense, quiet minutes, Wells’s hands relax. The blood comes back to his knuckles. He sits up, and his posture returns to normal.
When he looks at me, there are tears in his eyes. There’s something else, too. Fear.
And shame.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “I’m here.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. It’s okay,” I repeat. “I’m here.”
I think about how Muslims aren’t supposed to date or have physical contact with the opposite sex. But hugging and comforting him in this situation is okay.
It has to be.
And if it’s not, I don’t care. I’m doing it anyway.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Wells doesn’t want to talk about it on Monday morning.
“It happens,” he says. “It’s not a big deal.”
We’re outside by the school’s log cabin, sitting at a picnic bench waiting for the warning bell to ring for first period. It’s a game day, so he’s wearing khakis with a collared shirt and tie.
“Have you seen a doctor?” I say.
“It’s fine, okay? I can take care of it.”
“But it might be an anxiety attack. There’s stuff you can do. You could go on medicine, you could do therapy—a whole bunch of stuff. It’s no wonder you’re so stressed-out, with your dad…”
And now because of me.
He frowns, his face tight. “No offense, Allie, but I don’t wanna talk about it—and I don’t need you to fix me.”
“Okay.” I put my palms up in surrender. “I’m sorry. You got this.”
We sit in awkward silence for a moment or two. Wells brightens up. “Hey, so my dad’s paying for studio time now.”
“Oh, that’s great.” I feign enthusiasm.
“He felt guilty about what happened over dinner. He didn’t say, but I know. I know him.”
“Cool. That’s great.” In all honesty, it feels icky—like Jack is trying to buy Wells. But I can’t tell him that, especially not now. It worries me. If Jack has leverage over Wells because he’s the key to something Wells wants, will there come a moment when Jack makes him choose?
I shove the worries out of my head. “We’ve got five more minutes before the bell rings. Show me one of your videos again.”
* * *
In March, there’s a giant spring festival not far from Providence. Dua and I make plans to meet up there one Saturday night.
“Hi!” she says when I walk up from the drop-off point. “New boots?”
“Yeah,” I answer, looking down at them self-consciously. “You like them?” I was going for a country vibe by pairing them with a gingham dress.
“You look honky-tonk,” she says. “I mean it in a good way.”
“Am I getting you closer to a country concert?”
She scrunches her nose. “Who are we talking here?”
“Pick your poison. Miranda Lambert, Garth Brooks, Brad Paisley. Ooh, Kacey Musgraves! She sings that song I played you a couple weeks ago, remember?”
“Oh, the song about following arrows? Yeah, that was pretty good.”
“‘Follow Your Arrow,’” I say. “Obsessed.”
“Actually,” Dua says, “I watched some of her videos recently. While doing homework—while avoiding homework, more like it.”
“By yourself? Which ones?”
“Something about a merry-go-round
, and then another one about biscuits.”
“Ahh! So good! She’s the best, right?”
“Yeah, she’s all right.” Dua laughs when she sees my annoyed face. “Okay, she’s incredible. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll see Kacey Musgraves with you if you see Haim with me.” Dua has two main Spotify playlists she curates obsessively: modern Arab music, and dreamy rock with female singers.
“Double deal.” I point to the Tilt-A-Whirl. “Do you get dizzy? Wanna go on that?”
After the Tilt-A-Whirl, we wander through the carnival, figuring out which rides we want to do next. We ride the Ferris wheel and the Flaming Dragon roller coaster before hunger hits.
“I love this carnival,” I say, chomping down on a charred corn on the cob. “All the best parts of the South rolled into one.”
“They’ve been doing it for years!” Dua says. “My siblings and I used to go together.”
“Why don’t they come anymore?”
“Oh, they do. They’re around here somewhere. I just don’t hang out with them voluntarily.”
“You never talk about your siblings,” I say.
“What’s to talk about? They take pleasure in torturing me. They take up my parents’ extra time. End of story,” she says. “You must not have siblings. Otherwise, you’d get it.”
“No. Only me.”
“Didn’t your parents want another?”
“They tried. A few times. It … didn’t work out.”
“Ah. Sucks. I bet you’d be a good big sister. Way less annoying than mine.”
“Famous last words,” I say. “How many siblings do you have again? Four?”
“Three.” She ticks her fingers. “My older sister, Amina. My older brother, Zaki. And my younger sister, Tahirah.”
Not long after, a guy with intelligent eyes, a brilliant smile, and dimples approaches us.
“Can I borrow your phone, please?” he asks Dua.
“Why? Is yours dead?”
“Yeah. Please? I’ll be five seconds.”
“Fine.” She sighs, handing it over.
I look back and forth between them, noticing their similar features. “Your brother?”
“Hey, I’m Zak,” he says, turning on his megawatt smile. “You must be Allie. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Off-limits,” Dua snaps.
“Whoa, chill. I was being polite. Be right back.” And he wanders off with her phone.
“You don’t get along?” I ask.
She laughs. “He’s my favorite sibling.”
“Why?”
“He minds his own business.”
We play Skee-Ball, and between a run of good luck, Zak returns with a giant bag of candy. He offers it to us, along with Dua’s phone and coins for the arcade. “I traded in cash for you. Thought you girls might like these.”
Dua pockets the coins and pokes through the bag, taking out her favorite candies. “Thanks, Zaki!”
Her brother hangs out with us for a few minutes as we all play water-pistol derby. Dua’s phone pings with a text, and before I know it, a giant group of Zak’s friends has joined us, turning two into what feels like twenty.
“Allie, Dua, this is Fareed, Abdullah, Isham, Eisa…” Zak goes down the list as we each say “hey.” The guys are around Zak’s age, about seventeen or eighteen, but they seem more interested in laughing at something on Isham’s phone than paying attention to us.
After a few seconds of pleasantries, they head en masse toward the old-school arcade—a herd of jeans, Adidas sneakers, and soccer jerseys—Abdullah waving goodbye to us and flashing Dua a grin as they walk away.
“Um, your brother’s friends are male models,” I say.
She looks incredulous. “You think they’re cute?”
“You don’t?”
“I’ve known them since I was, like, five. Ew.”
“No crushes? Ever?”
She struggles to hide a smile. “Okay, I have eyes. Abdullah isn’t bad looking.”
“Understatement of the year. Abdullah is like if Zayn and Omar Borkan had a love child. Is he nice?”
“How do you know about Omar Borkan?” she says.
“Please. Kicked out of a country for being too gorgeous? I know how to use the Google. You’re avoiding the question.”
“Sure. He’s nice.”
“Have you two ever … flirted?”
Dua looks alarmed. “No way.”
“What’s the issue? He’s cute, he’s nice, he’s religious—isn’t he?”
“All of Zaki’s friends are. But I told you: No guys. Not until I’m ready to get married, in a billion years.”
“You can still look,” I tease.
She doesn’t seem amused.
Dua and I are walking back toward the Flaming Dragon when we cross paths with Emilia and Sarah.
“Allie!” Emilia says, looking guilty. “Hey!”
“Hi! What’s up?”
“How are you?” Sarah asks, in an overly polite tone normally reserved for people you’ve observed from a distance—not people who’ve been to your house for a sleepover and have seen your parents fighting.
“Good,” I say. “You?”
“We’re good!” Emilia does this thing when she’s nervous, where she twirls her hair. She’s twirling up a storm right now. It makes me feel a little protective toward her. She’s not a bad egg.
She’s just not my egg.
“Oh, hey, this is my friend Dua,” I say. “Dua, this is Emilia and Sarah.”
“Hi!” Dua raises a hand in greeting. Emilia and Sarah say “hey” back.
“Where’s Wells?” Sarah asks me.
“Home, I guess?”
“Oh. Right. Ha ha,” she says weakly. “We would have invited you, but we assumed you’d be with him.”
“No worries, honestly.”
“You go to Providence, right?” Emilia asks Dua.
“Yep.”
“Cool. Thought I recognized you.”
“We’re about to go on the Flaming Dragon again, if you want to come,” Dua says.
“Ooh, thanks, but I don’t do roller coasters,” Emilia says. “Rain check?”
For when? Never?
“Totally,” I say. “We’ll see you around.”
“They seem nice,” Dua says as we stand in line.
I shrug. “Nice enough.”
* * *
On Monday, Wells makes it to chorus before the bell rings.
“How’d you do it?” I say.
“Do what?” he asks.
“Get to class on time for once. Do you go home between Spanish and chorus every morning for a quick Game of Thrones binge-watch?”
He laughs.
“You never get in trouble.” I sigh. “You’re one of those people.”
“Why do you sound disappointed?” he asks, poking me in the side.
Emilia walks into the room and sits on the other side of me.
“Hi!” she says brightly. “I love that dress, Allie. You look gorge.”
I’m surprised she’s making an effort after our semiawkward carnival encounter. She and Sarah were obviously excluding me, which would have upset me over winter break. But now, she can probably sense I’ve pulled away, too. And she doesn’t like it when people don’t like her.
A fellow people pleaser, I suppose.
“Hi,” I say. “What’s up?”
“Drowning in algebra homework. Martinez has been going hard recently. You?”
“Yup,” I say, nodding. “Same. Did you have fun at the carnival?”
“Definitely. You?”
“Yep.”
“Your friend seemed nice. What’s her name?”
“Dua.”
“Dua. That’s … unique.”
“Yep.”
We sit next to each other silently, our conversational limits reached. It would be so much easier if Wells were involved. But he’s playing on his cell phone, reading comments on his latest YouTube video.
Finally, I deci
de now’s as good a time as any. Honestly, I want to see what she’ll say.
“Hey, Emilia.”
“Yeah?”
“Did you know I’m Muslim?”
She blinks. She blinks again.
After the third round, I have to stop myself from asking her if she has something in her eye.
“You’re being serious, right?” she says.
“Yep.”
“Wow,” she finally says. “I had no idea!”
“Most people don’t. I keep it quiet.”
“Oh,” she says, realization dawning on her face. “So that’s what that thing was all about.”
“What thing?”
“I’m not trying to start something,” she says. “Seriously. I just mean it makes more sense now. When you went ballistic in the cafeteria with Mikey a while back.”
I squint, looking at her.
“You mean, me calling him out?” I say. “And you, too?”
She pauses, her expression wary. “Right.”
“Okay.”
“Allie?”
“Yeah?”
“I won’t judge you for being Muslim, if that’s what you’re worried about. I think it’s cool.” She smiles expectantly at me, like she’s waiting for praise and undying gratitude.
Breathe deeply, Allie. Just breathe.
A verse I read recently comes to mind: And him who seeks thy help, chide not.
Be cool, Allie.
“I’m not worried,” I say. “But thank you.”
“I know you were sticking up for your people,” she says. “And I know you’re a good person.”
Literally everything about the conversation is rubbing me the wrong way.
“You mean a good Muslim?”
“Well, yeah, of course.”
“As opposed to a bad one?”
She looks wary again, as if I’m leading her into a trap. In a way, I am. But I’m sick of this good Muslim/bad Muslim crap. “Um,” she says. “I guess?”
“A nice Muslim? A Muslim who does ‘normal’ American things, like drinking or eating bacon? A Muslim who doesn’t cover their hair and who doesn’t pray and who doesn’t make people uncomfortable, right? That kind of Muslim?”
She puts her hands up. “Look, Allie, I don’t want to fight. I’m sorry I didn’t know, and I’m happy you told me, and can we leave it at that?”
I turn back to face the front of the classroom, seething inside, and I don’t even know why. Is Emilia in the wrong, or am I?
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