Invisible Girl

by Mary Hanlon Stone

  She’s pointing to a picture of a mosque in Egypt. The Muhammad Ali Mosque is big and white with lots of rounded roofs.

  We enter the women’s bathroom, which has a sign that says, WHILE PERFORMING WADU, PLEASE DO NOT WASH YOUR FEET IN THE SINK. USE FAUCET IN NEXT ROOM.

  Amal directs me into another room. She is excited for me to share a part of her life no one else knows about. We walk over to a marble bench with four jets low on the wall. Two women with lined faces wearing long dark cloaks are washing their feet. These women look impressive, as if they could have known Moses.

  “Before praying,” Amal says in a low voice, “you have to wash your face, mouth, nose, hands and feet. It’s okay since we just washed at home.”

  I nod. The way Amal acts makes me want to share a Christmas with her. I wish I had a nice family with cozy traditions so I could invite her to see our ways.

  Amal and I settle in on the carpet of the women’s prayer room. Lots of people sit on the floor by us. Some of the older women sit on chairs. I never knew there were so many different kinds of Muslims. Amal told me on the way over that not all Arabs are Muslim and not all Muslims are Arab. That’s certainly true here. Some of the ladies are black, or I guess I should say “African American,” like Aunt Sarah does. Some of them look Chinese but I don’t know if they actually are Chinese or what Aunt Sarah calls “Asian.”

  The older women look the most like what I’d expected, with saggy skin under their eyes, lots of gold bangles and long smocks of yellow, purple and gray stripes. One girl definitely looks like a princess. She’s covered in white silk and has delicate features and soft small hands.

  Along one wall is a bin that contains scarves and long skirts. Two college girls in blue jeans and T-shirts grab clothes out of there and throw them on. I’m shocked they are Muslim since they look so un-Muslimy.

  A man starts speaking over a microphone and it’s in English. I listen and it’s kind of like church except the man’s voice is heavily accented. He uses v’s for w’s and says vellfare and vell-being. He also accents some words on the wrong syllables. Beyond the interesting way he speaks, nothing he says is any different from what priests say, like about being good and helping your neighbor.

  After he finishes his speech in English he does it in Arabic. After that everyone stands, then bows and bends, then stands, then kneels and touches their heads to the floor, then gets back on their knees, then touches their foreheads to the floor, then stands. They do this four times. Then it’s over.

  Amal looks at me shyly. Her eyes tell me that this is what she has to give me after I gave her my secrets about my family and the ugliness of my breakup with Andrew last Saturday at Annie’s. “Thank you,” I whisper to her. “Thank you for letting me come.”

  Her smile spreads softly all over her face. She reaches out a hand and gently touches the necklace. “You know, we’re supposed to switch every week.”

  My hands rush to the back of the necklace to unhook it. I hope she doesn’t think I intended to keep it. If anyone’s going to keep it, it should be her. They were her gems after all.

  “Here,” I say quickly.

  She stops me. “I was actually thinking that a perfect time to exchange would be over winter break.” She pauses, then says with a squeal, “When you come to visit me! My mom promised she’d work it out with your dad.”

  I have someone to visit. Someone who will miss me.

  I throw my head back and blink away tears. I’m too full to speak as we catch up to her parents and the four of us walk out into the light.