“Here he is,” Jack says. “You know my son, Wells.”
Wells smiles, tight-lipped.
“And this is his darling girlfriend, Allie. She came with us to church today.”
I look at the men, blinking, unsmiling. I wish I had a pair of sunglasses to demonstrate I’m not messing around. Instead, I have to stand there, hand over my eyes, squinting uncomfortably as I probably sprout five freckles per second.
The men talk over one another greeting Wells, who politely accepts the hellos. This is something Wells and I have in common: We both know how to treat people to avoid “poking the bear,” as my dad calls it.
One of the men clapping Wells on the back and nudging Jack with his elbow as he tells his own story is Bill McGuinley—a famous bow-tied conservative talking head. He catches me looking at him and flashes me a thousand-watt smile. I smile back politely before looking down, suddenly exceedingly interested in how my silver flats look against the blades of grass.
“Sorry, Allie,” Jack says, looking at me. “This must be boring for you. I’ll send Wells back your way soon. Why don’t you go find Serena inside?”
I’ve been dismissed. I spin on my heel, hightailing it back toward the house. The less I can say to this guy, the better.
I wish I could say more.
I want to tell Jack Henderson what I think of him. To get in his face and say, The way you treat people isn’t okay. The way you marginalize people is horrible. The stereotypes you float are dangerous.
But what good would come? I’d have five seconds of euphoria, it would go in one ear and out the other—there’s no way it would resonate with Jack—and then what?
I’d be mocked. Wells would be humiliated, furious, maybe even forbidden from seeing me. Who knows what Jack is capable of?
So I smile and nod, like I always do.
But, oh. How I want to.
* * *
Inside the house, Serena beckons me to the corner by the fireplace.
As I’m walking over, however, my phone vibrates. I take it out of my clutch purse and realize it’s the Muslim Pro app signaling the call to prayer. Hastily, I turn off the notification and stuff my phone in the bottom of my bag.
“Are you having fun, dear?” Serena asks me. She seems distracted and slightly tired, as if she’s spent too much time in the sun and needs a nap. She wears a small but glittery diamond cross around her neck, dangling from a dainty gold chain.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She leans in. “You don’t have to lie. These parties are excruciating.” I’m surprised by her honesty.
“The gaggle of old white guys is kind of brutal,” I say. “But I appreciate you letting me come.”
“Poor Wells,” she says, looking through the window at her son. He looks miserable surrounded by Jack and his friends. “He hates these things. Jack’s little trophy on display.”
I’ve misjudged Serena. She seemed like a fragile flower the first time I met her, but she’s steelier than I realized.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
The apology catches me off guard. “For what?”
“Wells likes you a lot. Thanks for taking a chance. I’m sure it hasn’t been easy on you because of Jack. I appreciate you coming today.”
She does know.
“Thanks, Mrs.—er, Serena.”
She sighs, watching the crowd and looking defeated.
* * *
I decide to go upstairs to pray, sneaking into Wells’s room and quickly making wudu in his en suite bathroom. After I finish praying, I rejoin the party. Wells has come back inside with Jack and his father’s friends, and they’re now in the living room. Wells shakes his head discreetly, eyes wide, but I’m sick of skulking around. I’m here to hang out with Wells. The crusty old dudes can shove it.
Once I hear the discussion, I discover why Wells warned me off.
“Muslims love crowing about women’s rights and how feminist the religion is,” Jack says, “but let’s be real—Islam is completely sexist.”
My heart starts pounding. Anger simmers inside me.
“Beyond that, many Muslims are trying to push forward their radical agenda and codify Sharia law in the United States,” Bill McGuinley says authoritatively in his lofty, patrician voice, punctuating the air with his tumbler of whiskey. Droplets splash on the expensive-looking carpet.
The men nod and murmur, a Greek chorus of disapproving assent.
It’s your boyfriend’s father, Allie. You’re a guest in his house. No good will come of it.
“Everybody knows it,” Jack says. “Although, of course, the social-justice warriors won’t admit the truth. I swear, they’d throw their own in front of a bus to defend a Muslim.”
I can’t take much more of this.
“You know the worst part?” he says. “These bleeding hearts pretend they care about women’s rights, but they cry and evaporate like snowflakes when you remind them Islam is the most oppressive religion on planet Earth.”
Don’t say a word, Allie. Don’t do it.
“Wherever Islam goes, Sharia follows,” Bill McGuinley says. “It’s a moral threat.”
“Absolutely.” Jack, leaning against the edge of a leather-upholstered armchair, takes another sip of whiskey. “We’ve got to stop letting those people in. Too dangerous. I don’t care if you’re six or sixty—if you’re from a Muslim-majority country, you have no business entering the US, period.”
No more.
“Are you for real?” I say.
The words explode from my mouth, heat-seeking missiles aiming for Jack’s chortling bubble of ignorance.
Wells cringes.
“What part do you take issue with, honey?” Jack asks.
“Where to start?” I tick my pointer finger as Wells shifts uncomfortably. “You call Islam sexist. Women in Islam were some of the first in the world to own property. They keep their last names instead of taking their husband’s names. More women than men get degrees. Men are not superior.”
I’m not going to get into my own issues regarding the finer points of the patriarchy in certain countries and regions. Nuance is for those in my inner circle, not these blowhards.
I expect him to respond with condescension. Instead, his face registers something closer to—could it be called concern? “Ah,” he says. “I’ve heard these lines before. You’re a kind girl with a good heart, Allie. But a religion that forces its women to veil can never be called feminist. No amount of liberal apologia will change that.”
I bristle. “Why is everybody so obsessed with whether Muslim women cover their hair or not? Women in Islam aren’t forced to cover. They choose whether to cover. What could be more feminist than having a choice?”
He nods. “Mmm. I’m sure those women in full ninja cowering behind their husbands in flip-flops and shorts are thrilled with their ‘choices.’ You and I both know they’d throw off the hijab in a heartbeat for a bikini.”
Serious question: Is it wrong to punch a bigot in the face?
“You’re dead wrong,” I say. “And you have zero right speaking for any woman. Are there some women who are forced to do things they don’t want to? Obviously. That’s not a Muslim issue, that’s a patriarchy issue. It happens in every country where horrible men—of every religion, by the way—are in charge of women’s bodies and women’s lives, and use the government to enact their stupid misogyny. Um, hi: It happens here.”
He’s struggling not to laugh.
I’m just getting started. “Besides, nobody is trying to ‘codify’ Sharia law in the US. Most people don’t even know what ‘Sharia’ means—the word means ‘path,’” I say, trying to distill an hour-long study group into ten seconds. “It’s principles by Muslims for Muslims—like canon law for Catholics, or Halacha for Jewish people. If you’re not a Muslim, it doesn’t apply to you. The way people discuss Sharia is complete fearmongering. More than that: It’s plain old Islamophobia.”
Ah, there’s the hint of condescension creeping in
to his face.
I’m not done.
“And another thing. Everybody yells about Islam, but nobody takes the time to educate themselves and read the Qur’an. But I bet you’ve read the Bible. No issues with the ban on women priests in Catholicism? The way the church has rushed to cover up pedophilia? With Saint Paul saying women should be silent and can’t have authority over men? With Peter commanding slaves to submit to their cruel masters?” I count the issues on my fingers. “There is some great stuff in the Bible, and there is some screwed-up stuff in the Bible, but everybody shrugs and ignores the bad and says, ‘Oh well. John 3:16, Psalm 23:4. It’s all good!’ And then they refuse to do the same for Islam. You want to talk about threats to women’s rights and human rights right now, in America, you can focus on people twisting Christianity’s message for their purposes in your own backyard. Pay attention to that. Worry about that. Leave Islam out of it.”
There’s pity in Jack’s face. “Allie, Allie, Allie.” He shakes his head, sighing heavily as if to say, What am I going to do with you? “You’re clearly well-meaning. Your heart is in the right place.” He smiles sadly at me before continuing. “But it pains me to say you simply don’t understand what you’re clunkily defending.”
“I do understand what I’m defending,” I say, angrily.
It’s now or never.
Do it, Allie.
Claim it.
You’re ready.
I stand up straight, pulling myself to my full height. My voice carries, crisp and clear. “I know it better than anybody in this room. I’m a Muslim. My grandmother is a Syrian immigrant. I am what I’m defending.”
Game, set, match.
For a fleeting second, his face contorts into a mask of shock, only to quickly morph into a smile.
There’s a new look in his eye, but I can’t quite place it. “I apologize for speaking dismissively of your religion, Allie. I wasn’t aware you were a Muslim.”
“You admit you were wrong?”
“Wrong? No, I’m not wrong, sweet girl. Islam is a regressive, backward religion. Its mission is fundamentally different from what we, as Americans, are about. You cannot be a Muslim and be a true American; they’re mutually exclusive.”
Breathe, Allie.
“So why did you apologize?” I say.
“It was rude of me to denigrate your religion in front of you.” There it is again—that weirdly kind look. Like he’s doing me a favor.
“You’d have preferred to do it behind my back.”
“Sometimes it’s kinder to spare people from the truth.”
“Sometimes kindness is overrated.”
“Muhammad was illiterate, you know,” Bill McGuinley says, butting in. “The idea that he spoke directly for God is a joke.”
“So? Jesus was a carpenter,” I say. “Who preached love, tolerance, and inclusion, by the way. I don’t see any of that on your horrible TV show.”
“Oh, a viewer!” Bill says in his distinctive voice. He smirks, fiddling with his bow tie. “Lucky me.”
“Bill. Please,” Jack says, shooting him a disappointed look. “I know you must think I’m evil,” he says to me. “Believe it or not, that bothers me. I can tell you’re an idealist. Good people are often misguided. I was once, too. You mean well, Allie, but you’ll understand when you’re older.”
“I’ll never understand thinking you’re better than somebody else because of the religion they practice or what country they were born in,” I spit. “And the only thing I understand is, you’re a condescending old bigot.” I spin on my heel, storming for the door.
Everything about this situation feels wrong. I should feel triumphant, but instead I feel ashamed that I diminished my religion, using it as a weapon in an argument.
“Sorry,” I say to Wells as I leave, “but just because he’s your dad doesn’t mean I have to listen to his crap anymore.”
“Spirited young thing,” I hear Mr. Henderson say, chuckling behind me.
* * *
As I hurry down the driveway, Wells chases after me.
“Allie! Wait!”
I turn around, putting my hand up. He stops right in front of me, and my hand lightly brushes his chest. His hand engulfs mine, pulling it flat against his heart.
“I can’t do this,” I say.
He reels as if I’ve slapped him. “What? Why?”
“You know why.”
“Because of him? C’mon, Allie. I’m not my dad.”
“You keep saying, ‘I’m not my dad,’ but his oppression literally pays for your life. Every time your father says something disgusting on TV and you keep your mouth shut because you know he’ll eventually feel guilty and pay for a music video or buy you a new car, you’re complicit.”
He looks stung. “You think I’m as bad as him?”
“Are people who stand by and give the racists and the bigots free rein blameless?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Ignorance doesn’t exist in a bubble. We have to give it air to allow it to breathe.”
“I know, but—”
“If we sit by silently, because we don’t want to make people uncomfortable, because we don’t want to rock the boat, because they’re our family, we’re part of the problem. I don’t want to be part of this problem anymore. I can’t, Wells. I literally can’t.”
“Please don’t do this, Allie,” he whispers.
“I don’t want to,” I whisper back. I want to grab him and escape together, away from our parents, away from expectations, away from everybody who wants us to fit the mold of what they need us to be. I just want to be with him—no shame, no fear.
“So don’t.”
“We all have choices.” I throw my shoulders back, to display a bravery I don’t entirely feel. “It’s time for you to make yours.”
I turn and walk farther down the driveway, pulling out my phone to call my mom.
“Allie? What’s wrong?” she says. “Why are you crying?”
“Mom. Come get me. Please.”
* * *
The second Mom puts the car in park, I race into our house.
“Allie?” Dad says, calling after me as I clomp up the stairs, my flats slapping against the wood.
I close the door without answering. I can’t face Dad right now. Everything is falling apart, and the ground feels shaky underneath me.
I take a deep breath, and I do the one thing I know will calm my racing heart, slow my jagged breath, quiet my troubled mind:
I pray.
I’ve been so afraid to be me. To show myself. To show all the parts of me: happy, sad, complex, fearful, angry, hopeful, wrong.
I don’t want to be the bright and shiny Allie who puts on a happy face and tells everybody else it’s okay, who implores them to accept her as a good Muslim.
What if it’s not always okay?
What if I’m not always a good Muslim?
I’m still a Muslim.
And I’m still good.
I’ve always worried they won’t love me anymore if I’m not perfect. They: my parents, my classmates, my boyfriend, now my Muslim friends, too.
I want approval—but I’m sick of the contortionist act: hiding myself away, jumping through hoops, whispering half-truths to please everybody else.
Yes, I want to be loved. But for me.
Not for the ideal of what I could be.
CHAPTER THIRTY
It’s been three days since the Easter party, and Wells and I have been completely avoiding each other, which makes for awkwardness at school. At least we have different lunch periods.
“Trouble in paradise?” Mikey asks, jamming a sandwich into his mouth.
Mikey’s been nicer to me since the hallway incident. He saves me a seat at lunch and sometimes offers me extra Hershey’s Kisses that his mom packs. I appreciate that he’s trying to be a better person, but I’d rather he was never a jerk to begin with.
I shrug. “I dunno.”
“C’mon, Mikey, leave her alone
,” Sarah says.
He rolls his eyes. “What, I can’t ask? You girls are so touchy.”
“It’s not touchy. It’s rude. And it has nothing to do with being a girl. Allie will talk about it when she’s ready,” Emilia says, giving me a little smile.
I guess Emilia’s nicer now, too.
“Wells doesn’t tell me anything. You don’t tell me anything. Nobody tells me anything,” Mikey grumbles, and just like that, I picture him as an old bald guy with high school trophies on the shelf and his best days far behind him. Suddenly, I feel a little sorry for him.
My World History class is across the hall from Wells’s chemistry class. I try my usual trick of showing up just after the bell rings so I can avoid the slightest chance of conversation with Wells. But after several minutes in the girls’ bathroom fluffing up my hair and reapplying makeup, I exit to see him practically inching down the hallway, buried in his phone. Looks like he had the same plan.
“Oh. Hey,” he says, looking pained.
“Uh, hey.”
“Is … Did … How was … How’s it going?”
“Good, good. You?”
“Fine.” He swallows. “I’ve been better.”
I press my fingers together behind my back, quelling my impulse to reach out and touch his face. His skin is so clear and soft. His eyes are the perfect shade of brown. His curly hair was made for fingers to run through it.
Focus, Allie. Principles.
The bell rings.
We walk inside our classrooms, spell broken.
After World History, I walk into the hallway tentatively. He’s bolted, which makes me feel both disappointed and relieved.
* * *
I’m propped up against pillows on my bed after dinner, diligently working my way through math homework, when my phone pings with a text.
I grab it hopefully. Wells?
Just thinking his name makes my heart hurt.
Nope. A puzzlingly terse text from Dad:
Come downstairs, please.
In the living room, Dad is surrounded by paperwork, bags dragging down his eyes from the longer hours he’s been working ever since moving to Atlanta. He doesn’t look happy. West Side Story plays on the TV.
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