All-American Muslim Girl

by Nadine Jolie Courtney

  As relief courses through my body, warmth returns to my fingers. “I was scared.”

  He reaches over to grab my hand and, just as quickly, drops it.

  “Sorry, is that okay?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I laugh, grabbing his hand again. “The kissing thing … so I’ve seen a couple people online say you can kiss as long as it doesn’t lead to anything else, but then others say … well, you can imagine. I feel like we’re making it up as we go along.”

  We lean into each other, kissing—but instead of a passionate take-the-chrome-off kiss, it’s sweet and tentative.

  And short! Superquick. I see you, God.

  We pull away, looking into each other’s eyes.

  “Does this mean we’re still on for prom?” he asks.

  A frisson of excitement shoots through me. “Uh, were we ever on for prom? We’re sophomores.”

  He gives me a confused look before laughing. “Right, I forgot you’re new. Our school lets everybody go to prom. It’s an inclusion thing.” He makes air quotes around the word inclusion. “Purely coincidental it helps them raise more money.”

  “At least they’re inclusive on one count.”

  “Unless you’d rather go with somebody else?” he says.

  “Who, Mikey?” I laugh.

  “Is that a yes?” he says teasingly.

  “I don’t know. Aren’t you supposed to do some big promposal? Where are my balloons? Where is my helicopter? I don’t see a marching band.” I lean forward and give him another short kiss. “But I suppose it’ll do.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The doorbell rings. Wells must be here.

  I give myself a look in the mirror. I’ve decided to mix up my formal wear this year. Instead of the sleeveless V-neck dress I wore to homecoming, I’ve chosen a sparkly champagne-colored floor-length gown with long sleeves. I picked it up at the mall a couple of weeks ago with Dua, and we agreed it was gorgeous and set off my red hair: elegant, regal, and very prom-appropriate. She’s wearing an iridescent navy-blue gown to match her favorite new hijab, and she promised we’ll meet up once she arrives at the hotel.

  I tiptoe down the stairs. I’ve been imagining this moment for ages. Prom.

  But what actually happens when I walk down the stairs—really, I glide, I’m freaking gliding—is that nobody is looking up to see me come down.

  My mother and father are fumbling over the camera while Wells looks on in amusement.

  “It’s this button,” my mom says.

  “No, Elizabeth. For the love of God, let me do it.”

  “I’ve got it!” My mom holds the camera away from him, as if they’re playing a game of Keep-Away. Dad sighs heavily.

  Next to them, Wells is trying to keep from laughing.

  That gives me a chance to feast my eyes on him as I descend. He’s wearing a black tuxedo with a quirky blue bow tie, and a little white handkerchief poking out of his breast pocket, like men have in old black-and-white movies. His shoes are shiny and brand-new: he must have bought them specifically for the dance. He looks confident. Reliable, strong, steady ol’ Wells.

  Finally, I make it to the bottom of the steps. “Do you need help?” I say.

  Everybody jumps.

  “Allie! Wait!” Mom fumbles with the camera. “We didn’t record you coming down the stairs!”

  “I’ve been in the foyer for a full minute. I was practically crawling down the steps.”

  “Go back up, go back up!” she says. “I’ve fixed the camera.”

  “I wouldn’t call taking off the lens cap fixing it, per se,” Dad says.

  “I’m not doing it again,” I say. “That’s silly.”

  “Please! We’ve been dreaming about this for years!” Mom has on her earnest pleading face, which she knows gets me every time. Parental guilt works.

  “Fine,” I sigh. “Let me just—” I approach Wells to give him a hug.

  “Not yet!” My mom shoos me back with her hand. “We’ll get it on video.”

  “Sorry,” I say to Wells from over my shoulder as I walk back up the steps. “Parents’ orders.”

  He laughs.

  “All the way to the end of the hallway—out of sight!” Mom commands. “We want to get your grand entrance!”

  “Is this better?” I bellow from down the hallway.

  A photo of Dad and me from my sixth birthday catches my attention. I’m on his shoulders at Disneyland, beaming at the camera while he looks up at me proudly.

  “Okay … ready, set, go!” Mom calls.

  I walk down the hallway and descend the steps. I could pantomime silly, exaggerated moves, but I know this is important to them. They’ll probably rewatch it over and over, like they do with home movies from when I was a kid. It’s only fair I try to get it right for them.

  Mom smiles up at me, her face bright and shining, as she trains the camera on my entrance.

  Dad stands next to her in the foyer, his brow knitted. He seems wistful. We still haven’t officially made up. He clears his throat, swiping at something in his eye.

  And then there’s Wells, standing at the bottom of the steps with his hands in his pockets, grinning up at me.

  “You look nice,” I say politely to Wells.

  “Thank you,” he says. “So do you.” We pat each other on the back like we’re two grandmothers saying hello. “I have this for you.” He unearths a corsage, which he offers to me. I put my wrist out, and he slides it over my skin, his fingers warm.

  “Mom, where’s the boutonniere?” I say.

  “On it!” she says.

  She triumphantly produces it from a hallway console, handing me the plastic carton. I take out the white flower, pinning it to Wells’s tux but careful to leave room between the two of us.

  “Okay, photo time!” Mom says, brandishing the camera. “Allie, come stand over here. Wells … right there … That’s right.”

  The two of us stand side by side, barely touching. We’ve been through this with my birthday. He’s an Awkward Photos at Allie’s House veteran. Although, after my showdown with Dad, the awkwardness has been kicked up to a whole new level.

  Hey, at least Dad gets major brownie points for trying.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, son,” Dad says. “You can put your arm around her for the photo. You look like you’re in a military lineup.”

  Mom giggles.

  Wells and I look at each other, our stiff smiles relaxing, as he loosely puts his arm around my waist. I lean into him, wanting to remember this moment for the rest of my life.

  * * *

  After we’ve gone through solo photos at my place, we have to meet up with our friends to repeat the entire process. Joey’s house is the designated photo spot, Mr. and Mrs. Bishop corralling us outside for pictures. Mrs. Bishop holds a DSLR camera, snapping pictures like a paparazzo, while Mr. Bishop wields a GoPro mounted on a tripod, providing a running murmured commentary like a sportscaster as he darts around the gardens.

  “And here’s Mikey Murphy, with his date Claire Sanchez. An unusual choice—some might say out of his league—but they do make a fine-looking couple. Behind them, on the landing, we have Emilia Graham and Brian Davis. Brian’s had a perfect GPA three years running, so he’s a lock for valedictorian next year. Word on the street is he’s a shoo-in for either Howard or Georgetown, his parents’ alma maters, and Joey says he’ll be president one day. Exiting the house, it’s Zadie Rodriguez with her girlfriend Tessa Chu, a junior at North Springs. We all miss Tessa since she moved last year, but she made the trek out here just for prom. Braving Atlanta traffic, that’s true love…”

  “Sorry,” Joey says, coming over to stand next to us as his dad backs up, panning across the group for a wide shot, still murmuring into the GoPro.

  “Why?” I ask. “They’re parents. That’s what they do.”

  “Document crap?” Wells says.

  “Embarrass us.”

  “It must be in the parenting manual they hand out when we’re
born,” Joey says. “The chapter after stalking your social media accounts, but before the one about guilting you for not spending enough time with them.”

  I think about my dad valiantly putting aside the painfulness of the past month to make sure I had a good prom, and I feel a rush of gratitude.

  I’ve been too hard on him recently.

  After all, it’s not like we can snap our fingers and have things go back to normal. I don’t know what normal means anymore.

  “Okay, Joey and Sarah, you stand on the first step—that’s it, right there—and Wells, you stand behind Joey. Allie, not that step, one down. Perfect,” Mrs. Bishop says, art-directing us so that the group forms an inverted V up the steps leading to the gardens.

  Joey and Sarah are going to prom together, which is kind of adorable, since I’ve long suspected Sarah was harboring a secret crush on Joey. Meanwhile, I still don’t know how Mikey managed to land Claire as his date—although they have been spending a lot of time together during rehearsals for Grease.

  When I see the other girls’ dresses, I have a moment of feeling out of place. With the exception of Tessa, they’re wearing long gowns, too, but theirs are displaying mounds of cleavage—they’re all arms and legs and skin and shimmer lotion. Then I catch a reflection of myself in the sliding glass doors on the Bishops’ verandah, and I relax, thinking, I look good.

  I don’t need to fit in—I still belong.

  Wells reaches out his hand, and I walk over to him, entwining my fingers in his. He twirls me, wraps his arm around me, and pulls my back to his chest.

  “You look gorgeous,” he whispers.

  I lean against him as Joey’s mom and dad take the group photos, feeling content.

  * * *

  At the dance, inside an expensive five-star hotel in Buckhead, Wells and I thread through the crowd of classmates in their formal dresses, tuxedos, and suits.

  “Looks like the Men’s Wearhouse exploded,” Wells comments. “I include myself.”

  “Yeah, well, at least you’re not wearing something that looks like your grandmother is about to serenade a nursing home in Las Vegas.”

  He laughs, a deep, throaty guffaw. “Come on, you look incredible. You look like a movie star.”

  I take the compliment to heart, squeezing his hand.

  As Bruno Mars plays, people rush the dance floor, the ballroom a sea of arms undulating and booties popping.

  But then I see somebody who makes my stomach lurch.

  “Uh, Wells … what is your father doing here?”

  He looks across the room, startled. “What?”

  “He’s right over there, by Mr. Tucker.” We stop dancing, and I discreetly point. “Didn’t you say your mom was going to be a chaperone?” I was hoping we could spend the duration of our relationship away from Wells’s house. I wasn’t mentally prepared to see Jack tonight—or ever.

  He scowls. “Something’s up.”

  We stare at Jack. He’s standing near the center of the room, in a position where he can see and be seen. A blond woman with a sticker saying PARENT VOLUNTEER walks up to him, smiling. They shake hands, Jack laughing as the woman says something animatedly. She must be a fan. Nearby, Brian Davis glares at him. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised, but Emilia and Sarah don’t look too thrilled, either. I look around the ballroom and notice Jack is garnering wildly different reactions—about half the kids are shooting daggers at him while the other half look starstruck.

  As the music comes to an end, I hear a snippet of Jack’s conversation.

  “I just think you’re so strong for how you handled that Muslim girl dating your son,” the woman says. “I know you didn’t say as much, but we could read between the lines. I don’t know what I would do! But you took it like a champ!”

  “You know, you’d be surprised. She’s quite a nice girl, actually,” Jack says.

  The woman nods. “Of course, of course.”

  The knowledge that the two of them are talking about me makes my skin crawl.

  “God, he doesn’t let up,” Wells says. “I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t pick your parents,” I say shrugging. “Don’t let him ruin our night.”

  “Okay,” he says, in a voice heavy with doubt.

  * * *

  When you tell somebody you want to try halal dating, you should expect about fifty feet in between the two of you on the dance floor.

  “Am I contagious?” I say.

  “Huh?”

  I gesture toward the gaping, cavernous space between us. “This buffer zone you’ve got going on here.”

  I love how cute Wells looks when he’s embarrassed.

  “Halo” comes on, and the room goes into slow motion. He takes a step closer to me—about three steps—and holds out his hand. His fingers are warm as our palms press together.

  “Is this better?” he murmurs, now close enough for me to see his eyelashes.

  “Much.” I lean up and give him a tiny kiss, relishing the softness of his lips before resting my head on his shoulder.

  The two of us sway together in a private world of our own making.

  Then I see Jack Henderson in the corner again. He’s watching us.

  His gaze yanks me back to the present moment. I take a step back.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Sorry, but your dad is creeping me out,” I say honestly. “I wish he wasn’t here. I just don’t like him.”

  “Stop apologizing. I get it. I hate that he’s here.”

  I know he does, but it still feels incomplete. Unresolved.

  “I need a sec, okay? I’ll be back.”

  As I’m leaving the ballroom on the way to the bathroom, I hear footsteps behind me, muffled on the carpet.

  “Allie?” a male voice says in that distinctive drawl.

  I turn, and it’s Jack Henderson.

  “Hi, darlin’,” he says, taking a step toward me. I instinctively take a step back.

  He puts his hands up, as if calming a horse. I’m reminded of Wells. It’s unsettling. They are nothing alike, and yet my boyfriend is of this man.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “I have nothing to say to you.” The strength in my voice surprises me.

  “Allie. Look, I know you probably think I’m a monster.” He shakes his head, giving me a hangdog smile. “I’m not a bad person. Politics isn’t personality.”

  I look past him, unwilling to engage further. I want to get out of here. I want to go back to the ballroom and slow dance with my boyfriend and be a normal teenager who doesn’t have to fight so hard to exist.

  “I know what you probably think, Allie,” he says. “I don’t hate Muslims.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Wells has been distracted this year. You might not realize it, but he’s not focusing on his studies, not pursuing his music, and his practice PSAT score was abysmal.”

  It was?

  Jack smiles, catching my reaction. “You’re a distraction,” he says. “A lovely one, but a distraction nonetheless.”

  “Mmm.”

  “And, in any case, college is approaching. It’s a high school fling, no? Besides, you’re a Muslim—you’re not supposed to date, are you?”

  I stare at him.

  He keeps going.

  “You’re an incredibly smart girl, Allie. You care about your religion, your family … Why don’t you part ways with Wells now? Then you won’t hold each other back.”

  I cross my arms.

  “Surely, your parents can’t be happy with the relationship. I’m not exactly popular with the Muslim community,” he says with a self-deprecating smile.

  My phone vibrates in my hand. I glance down at it.

  WELLS: You outside? Can’t find you

  “I have to go,” I say tonelessly.

  Jack takes a step toward me. “It would help Wells. I know you care for him. We both want what’s best for him.”

  “I have to go.”

  Jack clears his t
hroat. “I get it. But I think it’s important to clarify: There would be something in it for you, too.”

  I make a buffer between us, sweeping as close to the wall as possible as I walk back toward the ballroom.

  “I’d make a donation to the Muslim Student Association,” he calls after me. “Serena told me you’re trying to fund-raise. You have such a kind heart.”

  I stop.

  “A substantial donation.”

  I turn around. “Please. You going on TV and spouting some kumbaya crap about Muslims to make yourself feel like a good person is one thing. But actually supporting refugees? Like that would play with your base. Keep your money.”

  “Anonymous,” he says, his gaze serious.

  We lock eyes.

  “Substantial,” he repeats, all levity vanished.

  And as I consider his proposal, my heart sinks.

  * * *

  I walk back into the ballroom, dazed.

  I run into Dua near the DJ booth, dancing with her arms in the air. She looks happy and carefree, swaying joyfully. I don’t want to ruin her night. I decide I’ll figure it out on my own.

  “Something’s wrong,” she asks, seeing my face.

  I guess I’m not as good at hiding my emotions as I thought. I hesitate.

  “Tell me,” she says.

  “Jack Henderson cornered me in the hallway.”

  She stops dancing. “He didn’t. What is he doing here?”

  “He’s a chaperone, I guess? He gave me a sob story about how I’m distracting Wells, and how everything he’s done is because he’s a concerned parent, and how he’s not a horrible person at all, just a poor, misunderstood nonmonster.”

  “He’s the worst.”

  “There’s more,” I say. “He told me if I broke up with Wells, he’ll give us a huge donation for the MSA. Like, huge. And anonymous.”

  She laughs. It’s a loud, brusque “ha.”

  “Allie. You can’t trust anything he says.”

  “I don’t know. He seemed pretty serious. That’s how badly he doesn’t want me dating his son.”

  “Are you considering it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Allie.”