“Your turn,” Dad says to me. “I know you’ve been learning…” He pauses. Clears his throat a couple times. Pulls out a book-sized present. “Teta gave this to me when I was young. I hope you like it.”
It’s a leather-bound Qur’an, in the original Arabic.
I walk over and give him a hug, holding back tears. “Dad. It’s perfect.”
We’re back.
We might not be as fancy as the other families in our town, and we might always feel a little like outsiders—constantly pressing our noses against the glass, worried about leaving smudges when we pull away—but we’re Team Abraham, ride or die.
Ready for adventure.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Eid dawns, and it feels like Christmas. After my early morning prayer, I go back to bed briefly, waking again to break the fast with my parents.
Soon after, they leave to run errands: There are decorations to buy, food to prepare, endless things to do before tonight. As a gesture, my dad has decided to host Eid at our house, inviting my friends from study group, as well as a few of his colleagues who are curious about it. Eid celebrations are supposed to be big and welcoming. Still, I find it incredible that he invites Wells.
I’ve never celebrated Eid before. In the past, Dad would make me call the family on Eid, saying “Ramadan Kareem” to my teta, aunts, and uncles, but that was the extent of it.
I hated making the series of phone calls. I felt awkward, out of my depth, unsure what to say. I always forgot: Was it “Ramadan Kareem” or “Eid Mubarak”? Did you use those phrases at the beginning of Eid or at the end? Was I supposed to send them presents? Congratulate them on their fasts?
Eid was one more reminder that I didn’t understand my own religion and didn’t fit within my own family.
Now, everything has changed.
The WhatsApp messages ping all day long from my family in Saudi Arabia, Egypt, and London.
Amo Taareq: Eid Mubarak to everyone and praying to God next year will be a happy year
Amal: Eid Said to each and every one of you
Fairouza: Kol 3am wu entu b5eer InshAllah
Aunt Samiha, in Saudi Arabia, sends a GIF of Circassians in traditional dress dancing.
I send a text back in Arabic, using the keyboard shortcut I’ve downloaded to my iPhone, wishing them all an Eid Mubarak. This is the first year I don’t need to ask my dad what to say.
After praying in my room, I go downstairs to find Mom and Dad in the kitchen.
The counter is laden with bags. The kitchen smells delicious and garlicky.
“What’d you get?” I ask.
“First, I stopped at the market and got a bunch of side dishes,” Mom says. “Then I went to the bakery and picked up some baklava and some bread.”
“Meanwhile, the mansaf is almost done,” Dad says proudly from behind the stove, where a big bubbling pot of lamb, rice, and yogurt—the Jordanian national dish, and a very special delicacy—is curdling on the fire. I lean over the stove and peek into the pot, lifting the lid.
“Ooh, smells yummy.” I take a spoon from the drawer and dip it into the pot, raising the tangy yogurt sauce to my lips. “Tastes yummy, too.”
“Of course. Your father is the world’s greatest mansaf chef,” Dad says, grinning.
“You’re in a good mood!”
“Am I? It’s been a while since I cooked mansaf. It’s a treat.”
“I know it’s annoying going through all this when you don’t even believe in the reason for it,” I say. “So thank you, Dad. It means a lot.”
“But I do believe in the reason for it,” he says, smiling. “The reason is you.”
* * *
I give the place a final once-over as the doorbell rings. Mom calls, “They’re here!” as Dad gives the mansef a final taste. He puts down the spoon and takes off his apron before joining us at the front door.
“Love you,” I say to them before Dad swings the door open.
“Salaam a’alaykum!” he says.
“Wa a’alaykum as-salaam,” Dua’s mother says, with Dua, her father, and her siblings standing behind her.
“Please, please, come in. Welcome,” Dad says, opening the door wide. “You’re the first ones here. We expect the others soon.” They enter with their own side dishes and desserts, placing them among the spread of foods on the dining table. Mom and Dad stuck to the Jordanian and Circassian classics—mansef, ships-wa-basta, maqluba, koosa, warak enab—but by the end of the night there will be food representing a slew of cultures: samosas, bean pie, and banana rice pudding, from Shamsah’s, Fatima’s, and Leila’s families.
“I made mansaf,” Dad says shyly to Dua’s mom, handing her a glass of sparkling water. “Eid Mubarak.”
“Eid Mubarak! It smells wonderful. Shukran!”
Dad looks pleased with the thanks.
As friends and colleagues stuff themselves inside, the house is filled with wonderful smells and the tinkling of laughter. Outside, Dua’s sister Amina throws a short wave at me while talking on the phone, while her brother, Zaki, plays soccer with his friends, including Fareed. Amina and Fareed give each other shy looks. Abdullah smiles warmly at Dua and her parents through the window, waving hi. Dua’s nose turns pink.
Dua, Shamsah, Fatima, Leila, and I retreat to a couch in the living room, the talk immediately turning to our summer plans.
“We’re ignoring the elephant in the room,” Shamsah says. “When is he getting here?”
She means Wells, obviously.
Soon enough, the doorbell rings.
“Hi,” he says shyly, thrusting a bouquet of red roses into my hands. He’s wearing a suit, with his curls combed and raked neatly across his head. I stop myself from giggling, because as much as he looks like he’s heading to a funeral, I’m touched by the gesture.
“You look incredible.” I smile, leaning up to give him a halal-for-the-peanut-gallery kiss on the cheek.
Wells’s mother opens her arms, giving me a hug. “Allie. Thank you very much for the invitation—what an honor. Happy Eid.”
“Thanks for coming!” I say. “Wells told me you’re the one who made the huge MSA donation. So generous. Seriously, thank you.”
“It was the least I could do.” She squeezes my hand, lowering her voice. “And I was so sorry to hear about your grandmother.”
“Thank you so much. It was…” I clear my throat. “Um, my parents are in the kitchen. Let me—”
But Mom and Dad are already warmly welcoming Serena, double-kissing and looking nervous but hopeful. My mom puts her hand on Serena’s back, steering her into the kitchen as they chatter about life in Providence as transplants, and I’m grateful she’s in good hands. My father claps his hand on Wells’s back, thanking him for coming before retreating to check on the mansaf.
“Are you ready for this?” I ask Wells. “You have an audience.”
“Girls,” I say, leading Wells into the living room. From the fireplace mantel, a framed photo of Teta watches over us. “This is—”
“Wells!” Shamsah says, leaping off the couch. “We’ve heard so much about you!”
Shamsah and Dua give him a hug while Fatima and Leila wave and nod in polite greeting, on their best behavior and at their most welcoming.
I wouldn’t expect any less. My friends are awesome.
* * *
Wells and I sneak outside for a private moment before dinner, walking until we’re obscured by trees. I reach for his hand, the noise of the house falling away until it’s just the two of us.
“Is this still allowed?” he asks, squeezing my hand.
I smile. “I’ll allow it.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay. Sad. It’s only been a couple of weeks.”
“Some people say, ‘Oh, it’s just a grandparent, they’re old,’” Wells says, “but it doesn’t matter if you love somebody.” He looks down at his hands.
“You’re okay?” I ask him.
“Yeah. Mom an
d I talked about my anxiety. Started seeing a doctor, and they gave me a prescription for when I need it, plus therapy once a week. And Mom thinks I should start riding again. Got stuff to work through with my dad,” he says. “Baby steps.”
“I’m so glad. That you’re doing therapy, I mean. Yay for doctors and medicine!”
“How are your parents?” he asks.
“They’re hanging in. Them fasting means everything—especially my dad. I know he’s not going to start praying five times a day, but at least he’s supportive. I wish it were more, but that’s all I can ask for right now.”
“People can surprise you,” Wells says. “Even parents.”
“I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”
“Parents?”
“People like my dad. Religion versus culture.”
“Yeah?”
“People say being Jewish isn’t just about religion—a lot of people are culturally or ethnically Jewish but not religious. Despite what people say, Islam might be like that, too. No matter what culture or country you’re from or how diligent your practice is—or even if you’re somebody raised in the faith who walked away from it—there’s still something greater connecting you. You’re part of an ummah. People think it’s solely religion, but our shared experiences are impossible to escape. They’ve invisibly shaped us. They’re everywhere.”
He smiles, his eyes tender.
“You make me believe big things are possible,” he says. “I love that about you.”
I glance back at the house, to see if my father or my friends are watching. Coast clear. I lean in, giving Wells a sweet, tiny kiss.
I like certainties. I like order. I like precision. It’s hard that I don’t know if we’ll last forever. We’re sixteen. I doubt we’ll go to the same college, even if we do last high school.
But just as I know my father will always be there for me even when the going gets rough, know there’s something bigger than me out there in the universe, know as long as I keep learning and stick to my compass I won’t get lost no matter how much well-meaning people tell me I’m straying from the perfect path, I know I’m in love with Wells.
That’s the thing about love. It’s not certain. It requires a leap. It means stepping into the unknown and surrendering to something bigger than yourself, against all obstacles.
Kind of like faith.
And it might be awkward and difficult at first, but if you’re willing to take the risk, the rewards are beyond your wildest dreams.
* * *
The Eid iftar is a special time for reflection and taking stock.
I sit between my mom and dad at the far end of the table, next to Dua’s family and across from Wells and his mom. Dua’s parents smile at us, raising their glasses of iced tea to us and launching into a conversation with my parents.
Dad’s eyes follow the mansaf platter, his chin raised like a proud father. Mansaf is traditionally eaten with your hands, but here guests use a large silver spoon to serve it onto their plates before digging in.
“So?” Dua says to me as we tuck into our food, dishes being passed up and down the table. “You made it! How do you feel?”
“Like there’s something missing,” I say. “A friend, or a limb. It’s hard to explain. I thought I’d be thrilled once Ramadan was done, and instead I feel … sad. Like I wish it weren’t over. It’s weird.”
Dua smiles. “That’s not weird. People who don’t know better think of Ramadan as this hardship, but it’s a celebration. What could be better than getting closer to God, getting closer to yourself?”
“I would have found that cheesy a year ago.”
“It’s cheesy now,” Dua says. “Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
As I look around the room, at Wells and his mom laughing at one of my dad’s jokes, at Mom passing the koosa to Fatima, at Shamsah and Leila giggling over a picture of somebody on Shamsah’s phone, I feel an immense wave of gratitude wash over me.
Life is not perfect, not by any stretch of the imagination. I miss Teta. I don’t know where my meandering path with Wells will lead. My parents have a shaky relationship with their faith. And I have no idea where I’ll go to college or if I’ll even get into college or what on earth my future looks like.
And yet, I feel a sense of peace, hamdulilah.
Realistically, I don’t think I’ll ever have a triumphant movie-musical ending: a moment in my life when I say, Yes! My imposter syndrome has disappeared. I’ve found the perfect balance. I have arrived!
I will have to keep arriving, over and over.
I will have to reclaim my religion, repeatedly.
I will deny those who tell me I’m not Muslim enough.
I will defy those who think I’m not American enough.
I will anger people who dislike how I look and dress.
I will infuriate with my choice of boyfriend—or for choosing to have a boyfriend at all.
I will disappoint other Muslims for not doing it right.
And I will enrage bigots simply by existing.
Though I wish I could say I won’t care what people will think, unfortunately, I will—because that’s who I am. But I will stay strong, inshallah, and will continue questioning and learning and growing.
Hamdulilah, I am enough.
Just as I am.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to:
Jess Regel, my fearless agent. You are wise, encouraging, and excellent at managing my neuroses. I’m lucky to have you!
Janine O’Malley, editor extraordinaire. You believed in Allie’s story from the beginning and were endlessly patient as I brought her world to light. I am so thankful to have benefited from your grace, empathy, and vision.
The rockstar teams at Macmillan, FSG Books for Young Readers, and Foundry Literary, especially Melissa Warten and Hayley Jozwiak. Big thanks to my copy editor Elizabeth Johnson and my publicist Morgan Dubin!
My incredible sensitivity and early readers, who took such care in reading AAMG and were generous with your time, wisdom, and emotional labor: Fadwa Lhn, Adiba Jaigirdar, Silanur Inanoglu, Candice Montgomery, Hiba Tahir, Rania, Hafsah Faizal, S. K. Ali, Meg Eden, Kristie Frazier, Alexandra Ballard, Rebecca Denton, Kes Trester, Katherine Longhi, Christina June, Jerramy Fine, Felicia Sullivan, and Caroline Leech.
A very, very special thanks to London Shah, Fatin Marini, and Ausma Zehanat Khan: Your tireless championing, careful reading, and generous encouragement brought me to (dorky but grateful) tears on more than one occasion.
To my writing buddy Kristen Orlando: Thank you for all your excellent accountability mojo. Now get back to writing!
Thanks as well to friends that have been helpful and encouraging in ways big and small (and who might not even realize it!), both online and in real life, especially Patrice Yursik, Kayla Olson, Hebah Uddin, Celeste Pewter, Samira Ahmed, Farah Naz Rishi, Jamilah Thompkins-Bigelow, Hanna Alkaf, Jordan Reid, Meaghan MacMaster Kindregan, Saadia Faruqi, Shannon Chakraborty, Haneen Oriqat, Ardo Omer, Ashley Franklin, Sarah Klein, Christina Peng, Fitriyanti Tapri, and countless others I’m sure I’ll kick myself for forgetting. As always, thanks and love to Amy Gibson-Grant, Katherine Harris, Jamie Pollaci, Kristin Forbes, Maggie Lee, Robin Phelps, and Allie Intondi. And, of course, Dara Smith, you are forever the best first reader (and friend) a girl could ask for.
To every librarian, YouTuber, Instagrammer, Tweeter, and blogger who recommended All-American Muslim Girl, thank you from the bottom of my heart for your support. Extra shout-out to my childhood friend Janet Geddis of the phenomenal Avid Bookshop in Athens, Georgia, and to the lovely people at DIESEL, A Bookstore in Brentwood, California, and Vroman’s Bookstore in Pasadena, California. Support your local independent booksellers, please!
To my big, loud, loving, wonderful family, I love you all. Special thanks to my cousins Dua’a, Yasmine, and Leila, who I endlessly pestered while writing AAMG. Lots of love to my mom, Brigid Courtney, and a hug to the Sisters of St. Margaret in Duxbury, Massachuse
tts.
To my father, pretty much the greatest dad in the history of dads, I love you. I am so lucky to be your pumpkin.
Miss you, Mama, always.
Erik, it would be impossible to write a more supportive husband into existence. Thank you for believing in me, for giving me the space and support to write, and for being a full and equal partner. I am better in every way because of you. Every woman needs an Erik.
Aurelia, my bunny, my bug, my heart, my reason.
Jido, Allah yerhamak, I kiss your eye.
Finally, to my teta, Allah yerhamik: I love you and miss you. I hope, somewhere, you are proud.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nadine Jolie Courtney is the author of the YA novel Romancing the Throne. A graduate of Barnard College, her articles have appeared in Town & Country, Robb Report, and Angeleno. She lives in Santa Monica, California. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Part Two
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
All-American Muslim Girl Page 30