* * *
That night, I FaceTime with Houri looking for guidance. I’ve been feeling guilty about Shamsah—we haven’t had an in-depth conversation since she came out to me. I wanted to talk to her today in the van, to show more support, but there was never an opportunity.
Houri answers on the first ring.
“That was quick,” I say.
“I’m waiting for the doctor to call me back. Lulu has this weird rash.”
“Blech.”
“You’re not the one looking at it. What’s up?”
I push away from my desk, moving over to the bed and plopping down among my pillows. “Can I ask your advice?”
“Yeah, shoot.”
“So, you know I’ve been doing the study-group thing, learning about Islam, praying, et cetera, et cetera.”
“Right,” she says, setting the phone down on the table and pulling out her laptop. “Don’t mind me. I’m multitasking. It might be hand, foot, and mouth.”
“There’s a rash called ‘hand, foot, and mouth’?”
“Whatever you do, don’t Google it,” she says, picking up the phone and swiveling it around to face her computer screen. I’m confronted with a series of horrifying images.
“Houri, I can’t unsee that.”
She puts the phone back on the table. “Sorry, continue. You’re religious now, yay! Go, Islam! What’s the problem?” She frowns at her laptop screen, tapping on her keyboard.
“Okay,” I say. “For the most part, my study group is pretty progressive—”
She stops me. “Progressive progressive, or Muslim progressive?”
“I don’t know. Is there a difference?”
“Your friends are still doing a Qur’an halaqa. I doubt they’re that off-the-leash.”
I feel mildly offended. “Can we not with the judgments?”
“Gross.”
“Huh?”
“These images. They’re horrifying. Sorry, sorry. Continue.”
“As I was saying. One of the girls came out to me. Like, she’s a lesbian.”
Houri laughs. “I do know what coming out means, Allie.”
“Well, I don’t know what to do.”
She pauses her typing, looking at me through the screen. “Why do you need to do anything?”
“Because I want to help her. And I want to help the other girls accept her. And she feels alone. And she wants to tell the other girls, but she’s worried they’ll judge her.”
Houri sighs. “Look, I know your heart is in the right place. You don’t need to be her savior. Just be her friend. Be there if she needs an ear. Have her back if you need to. But don’t feel like you need to ‘help’ her or bring the other girls around to your viewpoint. She’s not a project needing fixing.”
I’m reminded of what Wells said last month after his anxiety attack.
“She’ll come out if she wants to come out,” Houri says. “When she’s ready. On her own terms.”
I mull it over.
“Good advice. Thanks.”
“Any time.”
“Kinda ironic,” I say, “you giving me advice about how to be a good Muslim.”
“Why? Because I’m not?”
“Uh … yeah.”
She laughs. “News flash: You don’t have to be religious to be a good person.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” she asks, arching an eyebrow at me through the phone.
“Houri, let’s not. I enjoy praying, okay? I like reading the Qur’an. It doesn’t make me some brainwashed dummy just because I like the teachings about how to be a good person and I believe the Prophet was the messenger of God. I still believe in science and marriage equality and intersectional feminism and the Fourth of July and Santa Claus. I find the idea that you can’t simultaneously be intelligent and religious and American and Muslim offensive.”
We stare at each other through the screen. Obviously, that outburst was not entirely directed at Houri.
“You still believe in Santa Claus?”
I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean. Christmas trees and eggnog. Love Actually. American culture.”
“I don’t know what you mean, but I’m all ears. You’re sixteen, Allie. We might need to have a serious conversation about it,” she says. “Love Actually is British, by the way. And a terrible movie.”
“Goodbyeee. Hanging up now.”
“Oh, the doctor is calling! Gotta go!”
“You can’t hang up on me. I’m hanging up on you!”
We rush to be first, laughing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Wells’s mom stables horses in a two-story barn out by the edge of the fields surrounding their house. After school one day, Wells and I park in his driveway and take a walk down to see them. Before moving to Georgia, I never knew anybody who owned horses as actual pets. But in this corner of suburban Atlanta, they’re as common as dogs.
Hugely expensive, ridiculously high-maintenance dogs.
I expect to step over manure and hay as we enter, but the cavernous barn is pristine. “Wells. Come on,” I say. “This is nicer than my house.” It’s paved in brick, and wood-paneled, with gleaming chrome gates for the horse stalls, a vaulted wood ceiling, and air-conditioning. “Your horses have it better than I do.”
Wells leads me to the last stall and reaches his hand over the gate, patting the glossy mane of a spotted black-and-white horse. “This is Sprite.” He laughs as the horse nuzzles the side of his face.
“Sprite?”
“She’s my favorite. She’s down-to-earth, not a stuck-up show pony like the rest. If you bribe her, she’s yours.”
“Bribery? That’s your thing?”
He laughs again, reaching into a bag and pulling out a horse treat. He seems at ease. “Here you go, Sprite. Sweet girl.”
As he talks to her, his voice is gentle. It makes me feel like he could horse-whisper me, too.
“Do you ride?” I ask.
“Not much—at least, not anymore. It’s my mom’s thing. She spent summers on a horse farm in Canada. These horses aren’t all hers, though—she rents out stalls. She always talks about how horses are great therapy…” He clears his throat.
I change the subject, hoping to make him feel comfortable. “I wish I could ride. The closest I’ve come has been pony rides at state fairs.”
That seems to brighten him up. “Hey, I can teach you!”
“Deal. Just not today, please.” I gesture down at my outfit. “I had to save three weeks’ allowance to buy this dress.”
“Worth it,” he says.
He reaches for my hand, threading his fingers through mine. Never gets old.
“Uh, I wanted to ask you something,” he says. “My parents were wondering if you wanted to come to church with us for Easter.” His cheeks are pink. “I don’t care. It’s not a big deal to me. But it’s kind of a thing for my parents—especially my mom. They rarely invite people to church. They like you.”
“Kind of ironic.”
He looks apprehensive. “You mean because…?”
“You don’t think?”
He sighs. “If you don’t want to come, I get it.”
Sprite whinnies, nodding her head up and down vigorously.
“Why wouldn’t I want to come?”
“Are you even allowed?”
“Wells, it’s not like Muslims are vampires and Easter is garlic. I won’t burst into flames if I see a cross—or a chocolate bunny, for that matter. It’s all good. Jesus is a major prophet in Islam. Mary is all over the Qur’an—more than in the New Testament. Muslims even believe in the Psalms and the Gospels. The Torah, too.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, Muslims believe they’re books of God—although they’ve probably changed over the years. Unlike the Qur’an.”
He looks surprised. I’m tempted to blow his mind with more facts about how Islam is mischaracterized, but I don’t.
“Plus, my mom grew up Catholic, you know.”
“Right. I forgot.”
“I’ve even … been inside a church! Ooooh,” I say in a spooky voice, waving my hands in the air.
His laugh doesn’t have its usual tenor, and his eyes are quiet. He runs his hand down Sprite’s mane over and over.
“You’re nervous,” I say.
He nods.
“It’s not like I want your dad to know, either. I’ve got enough to worry about without ‘Jack Henderson’ up in my business.” I say his dad’s name in air quotes, and he winces. “It’ll be fine.”
The anxiety radiates off him. Sprite takes a step back and walks to the other side of the stall, poking her nose in a bucket of hay. “He’ll know something’s up when you don’t take Communion,” Wells says.
I’m reminded of my mother taking me to church with my grandmother on Easter when I was younger—how my grandmother scowled when my mom stayed seated with me as everybody else made their way toward the altar.
I shrug. “I could take Communion. Throw him off the scent.”
He cocks his head to the side, considering. “Are you sure?”
“I mean … you’re not supposed to lie in Islam. But maybe it would be okay, because I’m trying to help you and keep the peace? You’re really only allowed to lie in life-or-death situations…”
He exhales. “Okay. If you’re cool with it.”
I didn’t necessarily expect him to take me up on it.
“Life-and-death it is,” I joke, feeling uneasy as we exit the barn and make our way back up to the main house.
On a scale of one to the fiery bowels of hell, how big of a sin is it to lie in a church? Even if you’re not Christian? Because that’s what I’d be doing.
But now that I’ve given Wells my word, I feel like I can’t back out.
Way to pull a fast one on God, Allie.
* * *
Despite Wells’s worries, I’m not concerned about it being Easter.
I am concerned about it being an entire day spent with Jack Henderson.
As Mom drives up the hill to Wells’s house, we see the mansion festooned with lights and Easter decorations. It looks like a southern White House.
“I’m never going to get over this place,” Mom says.
“Me neither.”
“What do his parents do?”
I haven’t told Mom about Jack—for obvious reasons.
“Family money, I think,” I lie.
The car pulls up in front of a valet station. A man in a suit, white bow tie, and white gloves opens my door.
“Don’t tell Dad, okay?”
“About you going to church?”
“Yeah.”
She opens her mouth and shuts it. Her eyes search mine. My mother’s understanding look transports me back to childhood—back to that warm place where I knew I was safe, as long as I was with her.
She sighs. Nods. “Okay, Al.”
“I’ll call you when I’m done, Mom.”
“Have fun,” she says, blowing me a kiss and putting the car in drive.
I walk up the remainder of the driveway. It’s lined with tall white candles blazing in glass lanterns, each adorned with robin’s-egg-blue and cotton-candy-pink bows: There must be a hundred of them on either side of the stone tiles. As I approach the house, I see through the tall windows into the living room beyond, where caterers are bustling around, getting the party ready for later. I want to text Dua a photo, but then I remember I lied to her about my plans today.
I’ve been doing that a lot recently. Lying.
To my dad. To Dua. To strangers. To friends.
It’s exhausting.
What would happen if I just … told the truth?
I’m about to knock on the front door when it swings open and Wells is standing in front of me. He’s wearing a white suit.
I start giggling.
“What?”
“Nice outfit.”
He grimaces. “My dad made me.”
“Very Gatsby.”
“Or Colonel Sanders. I’m glad you’re here,” he says. “This is going to be so boring.”
“Gee,” I say. “Just what everybody wants to hear when they’re walking into a party: It’s boring!” I’m happy to see him, though. He leans down and gives me a sweet kiss on the cheek, like we’re five.
“So, hi,” I say, grinning at him. I twirl in a circle, letting him admire my dress. It’s a knee-length canary-yellow frock, which I found online for twenty dollars. Score. “For once, I’m not going to be the most dressed-up person at the party.”
“You look incredible,” he says, his face relaxing into a wide smile. “Come on. We leave in five. My dad’s driving.”
* * *
Despite my joke about not bursting into flames, I do feel weird half an hour later stepping into the Hendersons’ huge Episcopalian cathedral in Midtown Atlanta. I look around the church, taking it in: the altar, the vaulted stone ceiling, the blue-and-purple stained-glass window, the smiling congregation in their beautiful pastel-colored Easter finest. I have to keep myself from flinching as people glance my way, instead pasting on a fit-for-public-consumption smile. I feel vulnerable. Major imposter vibes.
“You okay?” Wells whispers, looking at me with concern as we follow his parents down the aisle, Sawyer trailing behind us. It takes a while to reach the front of the church; people stop Jack every few feet to greet him and shake his hand.
“Am I that transparent?” I whisper back as Jack bursts into laughter, vigorously pumping the arm of a short white man in a cream-colored suit.
“This would suck without you,” Wells says as music plays. “Thank you, for the thousandth time.”
“For the thousandth time, you don’t have to thank me. I’m glad to be here.” I mostly mean it. That’s what being in a relationship is about—showing up, even if it’s not your thing—right?
I smooth down the front of my dress and sit next to him, trying to avoid picking at my cuticles as the ceremony gets underway.
It’s a lot of standing and off-key singing, following by sitting and listening, before doing it again. Eventually, a woman in white robes stands in front of the congregation and reads from Psalm 118. I follow along, enjoying the meta message and poetry of the words, and I attempt the right notes when it’s our turn to warble again.
At one point, Wells looks over at me. He smiles. He’s pleased.
I’m happy to make him happy.
But the awareness dawns that we’re approaching Communion, and everything is happening so fast.
“We offer our sacrifice in praise and thanksgiving to you today,” the priest says as he blesses the bread. He calls for Eucharistic Prayer B, and the congregation turns their pages, reading and singing, “Holy, Holy, Holy Lord, God of power and might, heaven and earth are full of your glory…”
“In him,” the priest says, “you have delivered us from evil … ‘Take, eat: This is my Body, which is given for you. Do this for the remembrance of me.’”
Everyone kneels.
It’s funny how people mock Muslims for the intricacies of our prayer, but I’m struck by how the mass shares similarities with Islam: the repetition, the group reciting familiar words in unison, the kneeling and genuflecting, the sincerity and seeking.
“‘Drink this, all of you: This is my Blood of the new Covenant,’” the priest says, proffering a cup of wine.
Now it’s a detailed analysis of how Jesus was crucified, and what Christians believe, and something about the Holy Ghost, and baptism, and the resurrection of the dead, and it’s overwhelming, and—
Oh no. I don’t believe this. I don’t want to do it, this is a horrible idea. I’m being a total hypocrite by pretending I do to make my boyfriend’s father happy.
This is going completely off the rails.
Before I know it, everybody is reciting something I recognize through cultural osmosis and childhood memories as the Lord’s Prayer. I struggle through it, feeling like a bad person, when I notice Jack’s eyes on
me.
He smiles.
What would happen if I just told the truth?
Everybody gets up, and Wells reaches over, squeezing my hand. I squeeze back and mouth, I’m sorry before sitting down. He looks back at me, alarmed, but it’s a wave of people propelling him forward, and he can’t do anything without calling more attention to the thing he wants to hide. He follows his family up the aisle to receive Communion, kneeling as the bread wafers are placed into their mouths.
As they’re making their way around the front of the altar and back toward our row, people politely stepping past me to get back to their seats, Jack and I lock eyes again. His brow furrows.
And as Wells comes back to sit next to me, his cheeks pink, his lips set, this time he doesn’t reach for my hand.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Back at Wells’s house, the caterers are done setting up the party, and Serena and Jack immediately swing into host mode.
Wells and I are left alone in the kitchen, among a bunch of waiters in white tuxedos.
“What happened?” he asks. “I thought we, uh, had a plan.”
I stare through the windows, where the vast backyard has been turned into a garden extravaganza. Guests are piling in to find an Easter egg roll, candy-colored lanterns, balloons, and floral bouquets, and somebody in a bunny costume waiting to take photos with kids.
“Let’s go outside.” Clearly, I’m stalling.
We walk outside, where a photographer descends on us.
“Let me take your picture!” she chirps.
We put our heads together, smiling obediently, before continuing down the lawn in silence. We’ve mostly hung out in the basement, so I didn’t realize Wells’s backyard is the size of Central Park.
“Wells!” a voice bellows from across the lawn, over near a thicket of roses. It’s Jack. “Will you come here, please, son?”
Wells’s face drops.
“Do you want me to come with you?” I say.
He grimaces. “Do you mind?”
I sigh.
Jack is holding court with a gaggle of old white men, all wearing sunglasses, and linen or seersucker suits. He’s clutching a tumbler of something brown.
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