Scattered Ashes

by Dona Sarkar

  Where was he?

  Without thinking too much about it, I wrote an email to Zayed when I got home:

  Where were you? Class was terrible without you. Answer your phone!

  I didn’t get a response back that night or the next. I was so mad I skipped the group therapy session the following night and instead camped out at the University Bookstore. I told everyone it was to do some more research on an essay-writing topic, but Erica claimed it was obviously because I was hoping to run into Zayed. To prove her wrong, I made it a point to pore through all of the SAT practice books—in between glancing out the window to see if Zayed might have appeared at Sureshot.

  He didn’t show, but I did read everything I could find on good versus bad essays. I noticed one thing all the good ones had in common: they were deeply personal and almost sounded like diary entries. Whenever I read one, I felt real emotion and even found myself gritting my teeth or laughing out loud at some of them. They didn’t feel mechanical or canned or textbook at all. My goal was to invoke that kind of emotion in my reader for my next essay.

  By the end of the week, people were back to ignoring me in the cafeteria, and I spent the hour doing homework at my sun-washed table. Sometimes Erica would join and ask prying questions about Zayed, but most times she left me alone. She’d realized she wasn’t going to get any more information other than that I was seriously mad at him.

  Finally after a week’s absence, I got a reply to my email.

  Mars,

  I sincerely apologize for disappearing without notice. I was called away on an important project by my academic adviser. I will be gone another week but look forward to seeing you soon.

  Yours, Zayed

  “What the hell kind of project are you working on?” were the first words out of my mouth after the classroom had emptied out after class. I hadn’t seen him in two weeks, and it was hard to believe, but he looked even more gorgeous and mysterious than ever. He had a scruffy, unshaven look that was just . . . amazing.

  I wanted to throw myself into his arms, but refrained.

  “My adviser wanted me to speak to some other people about my experience with Islamic studies.”

  “What people?” I asked suspiciously. He was being purposely vague, and I didn’t like it one bit.

  “Oh, other students. Graduate mostly.” He twirled in his teacher’s chair in front of the room casually.

  “Where?” I was not having any of it. He did not have the right to disappear without notice for two weeks after turning my life upside-down.

  “Different universities around here.”

  I perched on his desk with my legs crossed. “Like Washington State and Portland?” I wondered what he knew about Islamic studies that was so special that he was brought in as a special guest lecturer for various universities. He was an undergrad. How much experience could he possibly have?

  He nodded before I could ask more detailed questions. “We’re going to write a paper on the topic. Please don’t ask me more, Mars, because he’s asked me to not talk about it. He’s very possessive over the topic.”

  I frowned. What was wrong with this adviser that he pulled a student out of school for two weeks to discuss some topic all over the state?

  “Is everything else okay?” I asked, softening slightly as Zayed pulled his chair close to the desk, close enough to rest his elbows on my folded knees and gaze into my eyes. Zayed was too nice to say no and must have gotten dragged into some professor’s pet project. “How are your classes? You must have missed a lot.”

  “Well, I’m having the most difficult time with all the dates in my history of Europe class. I can’t seem to keep track of all the numbers.”

  “Oh, I know what you can do. My friend Erica is a history whiz. She can help you for sure.”

  He looked pained at the thought of sharing his learning woes with someone else.

  I also realized I wasn’t really willing to share Zayed with anyone yet.

  “Or,” I hurried on, “you can use mnemonic devices.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You know, like little phrases to remember things by. One I remember is ‘In fourteen hundred and ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue.’ ”

  Zayed started to laugh.

  “Don’t laugh. It works! See, I remember that, and I haven’t had history in three years!”

  “What else?” Zayed continued to laugh, pulling his chair even closer to me. I was starting to get all breathless again, like always when I was around him.

  “Flash cards! Make them with the date on one side and the event on the other. I can help you go through them.”

  Zayed had stopped laughing and was now smiling at me.

  “What? You think flash cards are stupid, too? How did you ever learn anything in high school without flash cards?”

  He shook his head and stood up. “Flash cards are a good idea. Thank you, Mars. It’s nice to have an adviser who can give me long-term ideas on what to focus on, but it’s really very nice to have a friend to talk to about these small things.”

  Friend. And although he took my hand in his and led me downstairs for a cup of coffee at Sureshot, my heart sank a little at the use of that word.

  * * *

  “Mars has something to share,” Erica announced at our Tuesday therapy group session, passing the flag to me. “It’s about her feelings.”

  I glared at her. I did not need to be outed in front of a bunch of people I barely knew. And I was hardly sure of my feelings, much less ready to verbalize them. I knew Erica was tired of waiting to hear more about Zayed. Frankly, I was getting tired of waiting for something to happen. After the “friend” remark, I’d dialed down my interactions with Zayed to only the teacher-student ones. No more emails. No more letters. He’d come to me once he was ready. I hoped.

  Everyone stared at me expectantly.

  I picked at an overgrown fingernail and stared at the floor. “I feel good. Normal.” Despite everything, I was feeling like things were starting to be less tumultuous. There had been a lot less drama lately, and I was enjoying the lull.

  “Tell us about that!” Stephanie jumped on that statement. “What’s changed? What’s normal?”

  I glanced around the circle. Did I really want to share all this news with this random group of strangers?

  “Well, I think I’m starting to accept some things for what they are. Some people will never change, and some people might, given enough time . . .”

  “Is it that guy?” Ken interrupted, clearly not in the mood for a philosophical talk.

  “What guy?”

  “That guy you played hero for.” He grinned. “That elevator guy or whatever.”

  I had to smile. “The roof guy. Yeah.”

  “Have you seen him lately?” Stephanie pressed.

  I nodded.

  “And?” Krish, the heartbreakingly pretty girl, leaned forward, more animated than I’d ever seen her. “What has he said? What has he done?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing. We’re just friends. He said so himself.”

  Erica sniffed. “I doubt that. You should see the letters these two write each other.”

  Krish’s eyes widened. “Ooo, let’s see one.”

  “You should read one to us,” Octavio said.

  “Maybe he’s waiting for you to say something?” she persisted.

  “He’s the guy; he should make the first move.” I retorted. “Anyway, I’m not in a rush to push him into anything. And I’m not reading any of his letters!”

  “Maybe he’s shy,” Angel offered up. This was the first session he hadn’t cried.

  Yeah, right. He’d had no problem ripping apart my essay from that week with very direct comments. “Bit clichéd” and “Lacking emotional or tangible support here.” Shy, my stiletto-clad foot.

  “Okay, let’s get back on topic, everyone.” Stephanie seemed to tire of our regular-people talk. “Let’s discuss insomnia. Who has it?”

  I rolled my eyes. I sat
there silently for the rest of the session, watching the others. Whenever one of us needed help or seemed to be having a hard time talking about something, the others would jump in, animated and helpful. That’s when we felt like a real circle, working on something together. Listening to each other. Helping each other, rather than each person talking, one at a time, and Stephanie taking notes.

  If I was in charge, I would treat this like a project. We were all in it together, with the common goal of helping each other heal—whatever that meant. Healing was different for different people. For some, it was letting go of guilt. For others, it was something more practical, like finding ways to support their family.

  Maybe I actually could take charge of this group and do something great with it.

  I almost laughed at the thought. I could barely manage my own life, much less help others with their issues. No, Stephanie wasn’t very good, but she was probably doing a better job than I would.

  As the group was ending, the others hung back after Stephanie left to chat some more about Zayed.

  “I think you ‘like him’ like him, Mars. I think you should tell him so. I bet he likes you, too.” Ken got in the final word.

  I had to smile. How simple it sounded from a thirteen-year-old. I did indeed “ ‘like him’ like him,” but I certainly was not going to tell Zayed that bit of news—not yet anyway.

  * * *

  I vowed that I would be able to write an “emotion-invoking” piece for the practice essay Zayed announced we would do in class the day before Halloween. I was determined to not give him another chance to comment on the lack of feeling in my essay.

  “A little inaccuracy saves a world of explanation.” Is it always essential to tell the truth, or are there circumstances in which it is better to lie?

  I reread the prompt. This was going to be interesting. I grabbed my pencil, and as soon as Zayed gave the cue to start, I started scribbling. A lie is never the best answer to any question. How genuine can any relationship be if the truth can’t be shared? Lying to protect children from the realities of the real world is a common practice among all parents, including my own, but what they don’t understand is that they are teaching us that deception is more important than setting a good example . . .

  I wrote about how my parents had always put up a big show of happiness and togetherness throughout the past few years, but I knew they had been drifting apart. Their lies were more painful than the reality that they might be separating. I wrote about how I felt that the only reason they stayed together was because of me, and now that Dad wasn’t around much, it was my responsibility to keep them together.

  I wrote about how when I looked for a partner for myself, the one thing I expected from him was full and complete honesty.

  The twenty-five minutes passed in seconds, and I was practically breathless when I was finished.

  The following class session, Zayed gave me a rueful smile when I came in. “Miss Alexander,” he said cordially, as he always did in front of other people.

  Uh-oh. Had he hated my essay? Was it that bad? Was I really not improving?

  I was too scared to look at the result for a full thirty seconds but finally peeked. An eight. I was getting there. Definitely making progress. I was more excited to see the note at the bottom of the page from Zayed, “Congrats, Mars . . . lovely writing on this one. I would like to celebrate this occasion. Can I claim you for next Sunday?”

  CHAPTER 11

  The Storm

  “I’ll give you anything you want today.” Zayed called from across the street. “But only if you reach me safely. Please be careful!”

  I kept an eye on the speeding cars and raced across Roosevelt Street, splashing through puddles, staining my over-the-knee suede boots and not caring. “I lived. I’m here to collect.”

  Almost a week had passed since Zayed had sent me the note about meeting on the weekend, and I had literally counted down the hours. By hour forty-seven, I was ready to have myself sedated to pass the time. He and I had exchanged half a dozen emails during that time, each one growing more daring than the last. We said things to each other we would never think to say in real life. These were definitely not the communications of people who were just friends.

  Zayed: We are definitely on for Saturday. Looking forward to it. Be prepared to be mine for the whole day.

  I have plans.

  Mars

  I’d gotten one back from him almost instantly:

  Mars: I’m prepared to be with you the whole day, as always. (You looked beautiful in class tonight. I almost said something, but thought it would be inappropriate, given the other people.)

  Zayed

  I was happy he’d noticed since I’d spent over an hour trying on outfits before finally settling on a red sheath dress with asymmetrical, diagonally placed zippers all over the front. I responded without thinking:

  I wouldn’t have minded if you had said something. I think everyone knows anyway what’s going on.

  Damn! I realized as soon as I hit SEND. I’d just come right out with my assumption that we were in a relationship. I could always claim I’d meant our out-of-class friendship, I reasoned with myself. Mortified, I hit REFRESH constantly on my email waiting for a response.

  It came an hour later.

  I make my feelings fairly obvious, I suppose. I can’t stop looking at you. Can you blame me? (What do you want to do with me on Saturday?)

  I replied with a lot more bravado than I felt:

  I can’t say in email what I plan to do with you, unfortunately. All I will say is that we will need some privacy.

  My heart pounded loudly as I waited for a response, which came moments later. I still couldn’t believe I was really going out with Zayed Anwar. The gorgeous, untouchable SAT teacher. I kept feeling like I was dreaming the whole thing. I wished more than anything that I’d taken a picture of him so I didn’t need to keep visualizing every detail. Those shoulders, wonderfully broad shoulders, perfectly filling out his shirts. I could fit my whole body between his neck and shoulder.

  I won’t sleep tonight if I think about that much more. (I’m even more excited now to see you again.) Good-night, sweet Mars. Yours, Zayed.

  I was acting crazy and not giving a damn about it. This was a completely different feeling for me—like every time I saw him, I could barely contain myself in my skin. He surprised me constantly by being extremely shy one minute and then outlandishly daring the next.

  When I spotted Zayed waiting for me, hands in his pockets, inhaling the fall air, my breath slowed down, my footsteps stopped, and I just wanted to stare at him. I wanted time to stop so I could remember that moment, that first glimpse, for days to come.

  What was happening to me?

  Both of us stared at the sidewalk as I approached him. I felt suddenly shy. We’d said so much in our email love letters. Suggestive, passionate words. I didn’t know how to greet him now, in the light of day, with him knowing how I felt about him.

  “You look beautiful,” Zayed said finally, gently touching my shoulder, both of us avoiding eye contact. He shoved his hands into his pockets again. “Where would my lady like to go first?”

  His lady. A few weeks ago, I would have laughed if someone had called me that. Who did they think they were, Sir Galahad? Coming from him, it didn’t sound ridiculous at all.

  “We’re here.” I gestured to the structure I’d asked him to meet me in front of, just a few blocks north of the central University District. The Seven Gables Theatre, named after its gabled roof and handsome with its dark-shingled exterior. Dad and I had loved spending rainy Sunday afternoons here watching foreign and independent movies. It was one of the few movie theaters I’d never been to with anyone else.

  “This place was built in 1925 as a dance hall. Also, it’s supposed to be haunted,” I said with a gleam in my eye. The history of the place was one of the things I loved about it.

  Zayed’s eyes widened. “I’m terrified of ghosts.”

  “I�
��m just kidding.” I assured him, though I was not. “I’ll hold your hand, don’t worry.”

  He looked visibly relieved, but I grabbed his hand anyway.

  “That’s the other theater in Capital Hill that’s haunted. That one has a ghost who lives there permanently.”

  “Please don’t take me there.” He actually looked frightened this time, which amused me even more.

  “Only if you do everything I say. Come on now.” I touched the corner of his elbow and led him up the steps into the theater.

  “Paris, je t’aime?” Zayed saw the name of the movie I had bought tickets for. “Mars, you are not paying for anything.”

  “Try and stop me.” I waved the tickets in his face. “I assumed you might be homesick. This movie is one of my favorites. Did they not release it in Paris?”

  Zayed didn’t answer as he took in the movie poster. Paris, je t’aime was a collection of love stories set in Paris. They ranged from casual encounters to extraordinary paranormal events. I loved each one and knew Zayed would too. I had been so excited that they were having a special showing at my favorite theater.

  I led him into the parlor in the theater where we were to wait for the movie to start. The comfortably decorated room hosted constellations of sofas around coffee tables piled with newspapers and catalogs of local events.

  “This is charming.” Zayed was contemplating the series of historical photographs of the Seattle area cascading along the walls of the parlor. I’d read them all many times, so instead I sat back on a couch and watched him. The smooth line of his back, his long lean legs. Just staring at him made my pulse start pounding. Just a few weeks ago we’d been strangers. Now when we were apart, I silently accumulated stories that I would tell him when we were together. He was a part of my life now, a very big part.