Noor looks dubious. “That’s okay. I’ll just watch.”
She shifts awkwardly to sit on a folding chair in a corner and takes a book out of her little knapsack. The others who have taken their registration folders are whooping it up, girls flirting; one boy’s sitting on a table, sneaker laces tied together, annoyed at the girl who did it to him. Noor ignores them all, lost in her book.
“Her parents weren’t sure they wanted to send her,” Ishrat explains. “We should keep an eye on her.”
—
All that week, I’m at it with new zeal, fastening myself to a schedule. Wanting to prove Sanchez wrong, find them something solid. First my morning English class, and then I head over to Taslima’s youth leadership camp, which she’s running through mid-August. Mostly it’s a hodgepodge of feel-good conversations about identity and politics and community service. The kids are all over Queens, scrubbing clean an old mural on the wall of a bank, forking up litter in Forest Park, or sometimes speakers come and give talks.
In the afternoon we break and sit under the waving trees, where Ishrat, who’s majoring in social work, leads us in “group,” discussions about getting to know ourselves. At first everyone is shy or the boys can’t stop making it a joke, tossing pretzels at each other. Then they settle down and the stories slowly leak out: The people on the bus who stare at your mother because she’s wearing a hijab. The kid who changed his name from Mohammed to Mo. The others who are paying attention to those creeps online. Turning on the news to find out about some Bangladeshi store clerk pummeled by a customer. The confusion, the anger. It seeps in all the time, like rust. No wonder they twist on the grass; no wonder they flash with annoyance when Ishrat presses them.
I treat group like acting. I know how to idle on the side, start up a new line of talk. A casual remark about all the wars in Muslim countries. Poor orphans. I look for that click of light in their eyes. A struck match. How much anger is burning? It’s almost too easy, especially with the younger ones.
“You hear about that drone attack? Is that why our parents came here? To pay for that?”
A boy named Ashraf sits up. “Why is it whenever there is a terrorist attack, we have to explain ourselves?”
“Yeah, why do they assume there’s a connection?” a girl throws in.
“It’s true, there isn’t a connection,” Ishrat replies, calm. “But we are new to this country. So people are suspicious.”
“That’s profiling. That’s Islamophobia!”
The others stir, upset. Ishrat doesn’t budge. “Maybe it is. But what is your job? Is it to hunker down and be furious? Or to explain yourself? Every outsider, every immigrant has had to do this.”
Ashraf stares sulkily at the floor. “I didn’t sign up for that job.”
I drop a few more provocative comments, but they don’t go anywhere. Ishrat always firmly leads us back to a quieter place. When we break, she draws me aside. “No more of that talk,” she tells me. I see another side of her: the tough girl who doesn’t take any bull from anyone. “Taslima says she knows you. You’re family. So I’ll cut you some slack. But nobody believes that kind of stuff, okay?”
“Yeah. Sure.” I press the shakiness out of my voice.
When no one is looking, I slip away and send a stream of texts. Names, if I can get them. Guest lecturers. How many times the kids pray, if they do at all. But I sense an impatience on the other end, dissatisfaction. That all?
Yes.
Keep at it.
—
At the end of the day, I drive back with Taslima, Ishrat drowsing in the front seat, her head propped against the rattling window. Strands of her hair, which have escaped from her scarf, lie damp against her neck. She looks exhausted. She gives everything to these kids—and more. It makes me want to brush her hair aside, words welling in my throat, all I’d like to tell her.
When we pull up to Ishrat’s house, I see it’s much nicer than I imagined: a brick Tudor, a beige Audi parked in the driveway. Geraniums sprout in little pots on the brick stoop. Carved metal gates that are popular with a lot of the desi families, showing how far they’ve come.
As we’re opening the trunk to unload some of Ishrat’s supplies, a voice calls out, “You girls want some help?”
We both turn. Dusk is falling, a low, slanted light scattering off the stoops and fire escapes, making it hard to see. Then the figure draws near and we can pick out a familiar, shambling walk, thick shoulders. Tareq.
Taslima stiffens. “That’s okay.”
“Come on, Tas!”
“Really. I got it.” She reaches down into the open trunk, angry, stiff. “Thanks anyway. Naeem’s here to help.”
He swivels, gives me the once-over. “Naeem, man! Didn’t see you there! How are you? You working for her?” There’s a curl of surprise in his voice. “She give you a hard time?”
“She’s okay.”
“Yeah, well, don’t let her put you down.”
The trunk slams shut. “You done, Tareq?” Taslima’s voice is taut, bouncing with annoyance. “Some of us have work to do.”
He does a fake clutch to his chest. “Ooh, Tas. You always break my heart.” Then, looking at me, he jabs a finger at Ishrat. “That your girl?”
Ishrat, who has been staying quiet, shifts away, embarrassed. Our hips nearly bump.
“Just kidding, man. I know you’re still working the field.” He peers close. “That’s not a beard I see?”
A little warmth creeps up my nape. “Yes.”
“What do you know,” he murmurs. I can’t tell if he’s hostile or laughing behind those crinkly eyes.
Taslima shouldn’t get so riled up, I think as I lug a box to Ishrat’s house. He’s just a peacock. A big mouth. Not so different from Ibrahim. Where is he now? I wonder. At his parents’ apartment? I can’t place him in my mind these days. Not without him texting, urging me to do some nutty thing. When I turn back to the street, Tareq seems to have vanished into the grainy early evening. I feel a brush of sadness, I don’t know why.
—
That Friday we herd the kids into the city for a boat cruise. They’re hyperexcited, the boys nudging and elbowing each other on line. I notice a few people, tourists mostly, slide their eyes over us, especially the girls’ head scarves fluttering in the wind. When it’s time to show bags, the security man really checks the boys’ backpacks, unzips every compartment.
Then comes Noor, lugging her huge vinyl bag filled with Japanese anime books. She still doesn’t socialize much with the other kids. Prefers her books. Or spends a lot of time staring at her nails—every day she’s got a different polish—black, purple, glittery decals.
“Hold on there,” he says.
She trembles a little, fingers clutched around her straps. She looks so pale.
“Open it. All the way.”
She turns it over, so her makeup case and lip gloss jars and books go scattering to the floor. Embarrassed, she scoops them up. Am I wrong? Is the guard extra irritated with her? Or am I imagining it? That’s the thing that spins your head. You never know. I suddenly feel protective of her, of all these kids, seeing how exposed they are. Confusion rolls through me. Isn’t that what I’m doing—tracking them? Am I so different from that guard?
Once the boat glides away from the pier, the kids go nuts—rushing in different directions on the swaying deck, pointing at the sights, swiveling the viewers on their holders. The Hudson River glitters like foil in the sun. The skyline eases past. It’s one of those corny New York things that no one ever does. And it’s beautiful.
Then I spot Noor standing off to the side. She’s not with the other kids. She’s leaning her elbows on the railing, her face tilted toward the sun, her big bag wedged between her ankles. It’s only when I get close that I notice her face is wet with tears.
“Hey,” I say softly. I make sure not to stand too close to her. “You okay?”
She remains still. I notice how slender her shoulders are; her features are very fi
ne, as if drawn with a thin, light brown pencil.
“Noor? What’s the matter?”
When she turns to me, strangely enough, she’s smiling. “I’m just so happy. I’ve never done this.” She takes a breath. “I’ve never been on a subway. None of this.”
“That’s great.”
Tears start sliding down her cheeks. “I just want to be normal,” she whispers. “I want to go to camp and Coney Island and…” She uses her sleeve to wipe her eyes and doesn’t finish.
“Hey, you are normal,” I say.
“Yeah, right.”
“Why don’t you go hang with the other kids? Don’t let them monopolize all the good viewers.”
“They’re not my friends, really.” Then she does a small, timid move toward me. “Can I tell you something?”
“Sure.”
“I have a boyfriend.”
I grow alert. “That right?”
“Yeah.” She looks very pleased.
“Here?” I nod toward a clump of our boys who are fighting over a bag of chips.
“Oh, no!” She puts her hand over her mouth. “I met him…online. On a website.”
“What do you guys talk about?”
“He’s very nice. He sends me books. About faith. And he tells me so many nice things. He’s not like these boys.” Her brow furrows. “So immature!”
“They’re not so bad,” I offer. “They’ll grow up.”
“But he is grown up already.” Her voice has turned a little cool, which annoys me. This private life, this connection, makes her feel superior, different from the goofballs scrambling on the deck around us.
“Is that okay? Having a boyfriend? I mean, you’re not supposed to do that, right?” She lowers her eyes, blushing. “He is very serious about us. And he is teaching me a lot. Did you know there are places? Where you can go and live a good life. Where you can be useful.”
“Your boyfriend tell you about that?”
“Yes,” she whispers. “He is there now.”
I try to keep my voice casual. “So what’s the website where you met?”
But Noor’s face has gone blank. She’s withdrawn. “I—I should go,” she stammers, and snatches up her bag. My stomach twists, watching her slip away, her small hand leaning on the rail to keep her balance.
After that, I can’t stop thinking about Noor; she’s a burr that’s latched on to my thoughts. Tell someone, I think. But who? She doesn’t show for camp the morning after the boat ride. Or the next.
“I’ll call her mom,” Ishrat assures me. But all she can do is leave a message. “Maybe after Eid,” she says.
But I wonder. I know how it works. During the day kids like her are good. They say the right words or help their mothers clear the table. But when the bedroom door clicks shut, they switch on computers. Their fingers click. A magic door whooshes open. They are someone else. They wear armor, smudge their eyes with kohl, wield swords. They are invincible. I know because I am different too. I walk the streets, peer through the fire escapes into windows, try to imagine these shining avatars, insects flicking and burning through night screens.
—
The last days of Ramadan dwindle down. The days of forgiveness, they’re called. The neighborhood is turning loud and blaring and gaudy. Everywhere is the frantic air of shopping. On one corner, people surround a table piled high with packages of new bedsheets. The old guys’ tables are mounded with new skullcaps and beads. Women rush past, carrying flat plastic bags with new saris.
Taslima and a few of the girls from the camp are setting up a henna table to raise money, joining the other makeshift stands that now line Seventy-Fourth Street. Each table has laminated pages of designs, women selling their handiwork for ten, twenty dollars. They’ll be there all evening, even as their stomachs gnaw with hunger; even as others go home to break the fast, they’ll keep squirting tubes of gelled henna on the backs of women’s hands.
I’m inside a sari store where shoppers stand shoulder to shoulder at the counter, bargaining in sharp, happy voices. The other day a sari for Amma caught my eye—cream with an emerald-green band. But I’ve only got a twenty in my pocket. I hit auto-dial for Taylor.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
There’s a pause. “Long time no hear. You got anything?”
“Not much.” I want to add, It’s Eid. Give me a little bonus. Fat chance.
Quiet on the other end. Not friendly quiet either. “Look. Sanchez and I have been talking. This youth stuff you’re doing. I think you gotta give it a rest.”
“You haven’t paid me in a while.”
“You haven’t given me anything. Move on.”
I knew it would come to this. I’ve dropped down on the number of mosques I visit. Missed a prayer group I was supposed to track. And I haven’t checked out any other campus groups. But the kids are growing on me. I kind of like hanging with them. Ishrat wants me to lead an acting class. I have to remember it isn’t my job. Not really.
In the background, I can hear Sanchez. “He’s a punk. He doesn’t have anything. Cut him loose, man.”
I feel a surge of anger. It’s that tank of a Sanchez again, swiveling away, as if I’m not worth it.
“You there, Naeem?”
I could give Noor’s name. Isn’t that why I called? Tell about her flirtations online. How she hasn’t come back. It’s nothing. Just a name. Do it. Shut that Sanchez guy up already. Taylor will give me another few hundred, for sure. But then I remember Noor leaning over the rail, the breeze blowing back her scarf. I just want to be normal.
“Naeem? You got something?” Taylor asks.
“Soon.” I hang up before I give him anything more.
Across the street, I catch sight of Taslima and her girls, and head over.
“Hey, Tas—”
She turns. “Yeah?”
“Do me a favor. After Eid, can you follow up on Noor?”
She gives me a puzzled look. “What’s up?”
“I dunno. Just a little worried about her, that’s all. She goes online a lot—”
There’s a flash of alarm in Taslima’s face as she registers this. I don’t have to say anything more. She pats me on the arm. “You’re a good kid,” she whispers. Then she thrusts up her sleeve, showing the scroll-like pattern down her wrist. “Wanna stay?”
“Nah, thanks.”
But I can’t keep my eyes off the girls, who are laughing, comparing designs. Even Taslima, with her worries, her severe little mouth, the slash of her hair, looks happy, relaxed. Next to me, a father tries a new skullcap on his son, pats it approvingly. I love this. All of us getting to be out in the open, not afraid. Not hidden at all. When we can be ourselves.
Then I step back into the crowds and a seam of forgiveness folds over and around me.
For Eid Ul-Fitr we load into a borrowed car, the first time in ages, and drive over to the big mosque. Zahir in the back with me, his skinny arms goose-bumped from the air-conditioning. I’m feeling good, tight in here with the family.
What I love about this holiday has nothing to do with belief or Islam. It’s about quiet. Three days stretch before us. First we’ll go to prayers and then we have visits and eating and more visits. Maybe a trip to the mall or, if Abba is in the mood, an amusement park for Zahir—and me too.
This morning when we go for prayers, it’s about submitting to that still space inside. My best times with Abba are when we walk, he with his wrists at the small of his back. We don’t say a word. A tether between us. Sometimes our shoulders bump. That’s all. That’s as good as any prayer.
“This year we will have more luck,” Amma says. “I am hopeful.” She spreads her fingers through her hair, which has been clipped back with studded combs. They match her little turquoise purse, her outfit, which she bought on Eid special with the extra money I gave her.
As we’re nearing the masjid, we see a barricade across the street; a cop waves us toward a side street. Other barricades are placed at the far end.
“So many police,” my mother murmurs.
“It’s for our own good,” Abba replies.
But I see the hesitation in his face, how his shoulders pull back as we walk toward the open area. Amma, though, is lighthearted; she angles toward the women’s side, which is roped off with a string of plastic flags. I can still hear her voice singing high, like a little girl’s, while we make our way to the big lawn, where the prayers are being held.
Zahir skips beside us, chin tipped up, eager. He knows that there’s a big meal and sweets later, and a gift, pulled out from under Abba and Amma’s bed.
Abba’s movements are stiff and nervous. I see how hard it is for him to even come here, to show his face openly at Eid prayers, after so long. We find a place on one of the long white cloths that have been spread out on the ground. There must be hundreds of people sitting cross-legged before the makeshift stage. We arrive in time to stand and say our niyat, our intention. And then I am with the others, hands up by my ears, across my chest, reciting the Surah Al-Fatiha, then another Surah. We bend and kneel. I touch my forehead to the ground. When I sit back on my haunches, I feel as if I’m floating, not fully here. What do I see and hear? The rustle of feet as we hear the call, move and bend again in unison. Men all around me: some hunched and fervent, others distracted. Boys wandering between legs. A baby wails. Two kids are smacking each other with balloons. My mind drifts. I try letting the prayers pour down, flow over and around me.
The prayers are rising, louder, more insistent. More men squeeze in next to us. Our thighs bang. I shut my eyes, let myself duck inside, like the old days.
And then I’m coming back for air: everyone standing up, the men shaking out their loose pants, embracing one another. Abba, who is busy talking with some friends, turns to me and says, “Go find your mother. It will take a long time with all the cars.”
I head across the lawn and scan for Amma in the women’s area. Under a canopy of trees, I catch sight of Ishrat, who is watching two girls chasing each other on the grass. She gives me a shy smile; her eyes shine under the dark leaves.
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