Amina's Voice

by Hena Khan

  “Seriously, Amina? You’re really guessing Bradley?” Soojin scoffs.

  “No! He was just the first blond boy I could think of. We’ve been spending way too much time with him lately.”

  “It’s . . . Justin,” Emily says in a whisper. And then she buries her face in her arm, like the Bollywood actresses always do when they are overreacting to a marriage proposal.

  “I can see that,” Soojin says. “He’s kind of cute.”

  There’s that word again. Puppies are cute. Babies are cute. But sixth-grade boys? Yuck. I’ve known Justin since the first grade and will never forget the first time he spoke to me. We were sitting together along the wall, with our legs sticking out in front of us. My white sandals were decorated with flowers and had little lights in them that glowed whenever I walked or banged my feet together.

  “Look at that,” Justin said, pointing toward my sandals.

  I thought he was appreciating the special light-up quality of my shoes, until he added, “You have grass growing on your legs.”

  I was stunned.

  “No I don’t,” I retorted in a small voice.

  “Yeah, you do. Look!” Justin pointed to the fine dark hairs on my shins.

  My eyes welled up, and I didn’t know what to say. So I sat in silence against the wall, swallowed up in my shame, waiting to go home. Since that day, I’ve always felt a bit gorilla-like around Justin and make it a habit to avoid him. Thankfully he has never mentioned my hair or really talked to me again, but I have never forgotten it.

  Five years later, Justin has a forest of his own growing on his legs and some fuzz on his upper lip. I picture his tousled dirty-blond hair, dark blue eyes, and very long neck. Justin is the kind of boy who is always in a jersey and gets picked first for every team during gym class. I don’t understand what is cute about him at all.

  “So . . . do you think he likes me, too?” Emily asks Soojin.

  “Maybe,” Soojin answers. “Have you ever even talked to him?” I don’t wonder if Soojin is pretending to be interested anymore. She is totally into the conversation. I lean in closer to look at her.

  Is she wearing lip gloss?

  “We ride the same bus, and yesterday he asked me if I dropped my book. I didn’t even have that book, so maybe he was trying to talk to me.”

  “Or maybe he really didn’t know if you dropped the book,” I point out. I want to talk about something else, anything else. Soojin and I haven’t even had the chance to talk about the big-haired girl with the southern accent getting voted off The Voice. It was a huge shock, but I don’t feel like talking about it in front of Emily.

  “Then what happened?” Soojin leans in closer to Emily as if she hadn’t heard what I said. The two of them continue to chatter about what Justin said or didn’t say to Emily, when he looked or didn’t look at her, and what all of that could mean. I shred dried leaves and listen, watching the pile of brown bits grow in front of me, feeling invisible. The wind slowly picks up the leaf bits and carries them away. And I wonder, if I slowly drifted off like them, would Soojin even notice?

  12

  “And . . . drumroll please . . .” Imam Malik pops into my Sunday school classroom.

  “What is it?” Sami shouts, as he beats his fingers on his desk.

  “We’re adding a carnival on the day of the Quran competition!” Imam Malik smiles broadly while everyone cheers.

  “There will be rides and games like last year, but we’ll also have a dunk tank this time. It’ll be a big fund-raiser for the Islamic Center, so be sure to tell your parents and register for the Quran competition if you haven’t already.”

  “Who’s going to be in the dunk tank?” Sami asks. Sami’s the loudest kid in class.

  “It’s called Dunk-the-Imam, so yours truly will be inside.”

  “Will there be a bounce house?”

  “And cotton candy?”

  “Can I be in the dunk tank?”

  Imam Malik looks helpless as our class bombards him with questions.

  “That’s enough, children,” Sister Naima orders. “I’m sure you will get all the details later. Thank you, Imam Malik, for stopping by.”

  “Yes, of course. There will be a flyer with all the information, and the details will be on our website. Get back to work, and remember to practice hard for the competition!” Imam Malik dashes away. But Sister Naima has already lost control of the room. No one wants to do anything but talk about the carnival.

  “Remember those awesome moon bounces with the big slides from last year? I hope they get those again,” Mamadou says.

  “Yeah! And that giant game of tug-of-war with adults versus kids? That was so fun,” Sophia adds.

  I can still feel the burn in my arms from pulling on the tug-of-war rope at the last carnival. The pain was worth it, though, because all the kids won and toppled the grown-ups. It was hilarious to watch the aunties and uncles, lying on the ground, laughing until they cried and blaming each other for letting go of the rope.

  If I want to go to the carnival, there’s no way I’m getting out of the Quran competition. The thought of it still makes my stomach turn, even though I’ve been sitting with Thaya Jaan every night after dinner, practicing my pronunciation and memorizing passages of the Quran. I don’t feel like I’m getting any better. And it doesn’t help that Thaya Jaan only speaks to me in Urdu during our lessons. Since I know he didn’t want to hear me speak in English, I don’t bother to ask the questions I want to, like how to pronounce the sounds like him and when to elongate certain words. I just don’t have the Urdu vocabulary. Instead, I finish with him as quickly as possible and then go to my room and sing my heart out. After struggling with the Arabic, it helps me calm down to sing, even if it’s kind of strange to go from Quran to Motown. I even made a video of myself singing a cover one time. But I deleted it before anyone, especially Rabiya, got ahold of it.

  “Okay, okay! Enough about the carnival.” Sister Naima hushes the room. “Whose turn is it to recite? Let’s start with you, Sophia.”

  Luckily, by the time half the class has gotten through their turns, it’s time for break, and I haven’t been called on yet. When we’re dismissed, I hurry out to find my friends. My stomach growls in anticipation of the jumbo samosas I saw someone carry into the school earlier. But as I walk through the bright hallway with colorful posters that read “Arabic Alphabet” and “The 99 Attributes of Allah,” I spot Imam Malik and Mustafa standing in an empty alcove near the bookshelves. Imam Malik’s back is to me, but he is waving his arms around. Mustafa is facing me, wearing jogging pants and high-top sneakers, with a sweatshirt. His face is red and stricken. Forgetting the samosa, I stand in the shadow of the bookshelves and listen unnoticed.

  “I can’t believe you, Mustafa! What were you thinking? I’m so disappointed in you,” Imam Malik is saying, his voice distressed.

  “But I didn’t do it . . . I swear,” Mustafa sputters.

  “You were there, weren’t you?”

  A long, tense pause follows as Mustafa’s face tightens. “Yes,” he mumbles. “I was there.”

  “And there was smoking going on, right?”

  I gulp. Smoking? Mustafa? How could he!

  “No! I mean, yes. I mean, I just wanted to play basketball. I wasn’t smoking!”

  “I saw the cigarettes with my own eyes, Mustafa.” Imam Malik is firm.

  “I know—they were smoking, but I wasn’t. My class is so boring, and I just wanted to shoot the ball around. That’s it, I promise.”

  “Even still, cutting class is a serious offense, Mustafa, boring or not. You shouldn’t have been with those kids in the first place.”

  “I know,” Mustafa hangs his head.

  “Your parents trust you to make good decisions. This is hardly the place they expect you to fool around or get in trouble. Just think about how disappointed they are going to be.”

  “Imam Malik, please, please don’t tell them.” Mustafa’s eyes are pleading. “My dad will flip out
. I’ll be in so much trouble, and . . . he’ll make me quit the team at school.” His words rush out in a stream.

  Imam Malik shakes his head.

  “I have to tell them, Mustafa. It’s my responsibility.”

  Mustafa closes his eyes and rests his head against the wall for a second. Then he opens them again and speaks.

  “I’m so sorry, Imam Malik. Really, I am. I should have known better. I shouldn’t have done what I did. It was really stupid.” Mustafa’s voice is sincere, without a shred of the defensiveness that creeps in when he apologizes to our parents.

  “Yes, it was. I expect more from you, Mustafa.”

  “I didn’t mean to disappoint you, and I don’t want to hurt my parents. Is there any way you won’t tell them? Please? I’ll make it up to you.”

  “I don’t know, Mustafa. You know I respect your father like a brother. . . .” Imam Malik clears his throat.

  “If I do anything else wrong again . . . anything at all, then you can tell them everything. Please. My uncle is here from Pakistan and . . . ,” Mustafa pleads. I imagine how upset Baba would be if his brother learned of this. And he and Mama have always made it clear that smoking is completely off limits. They would completely freak out.

  “Okay.” Imam Malik exhales slowly. “Just this once. I won’t say anything, but I trust you not to do anything like this again. I’m serious. I’m going to talk to the other boys, and I don’t want to see you around them anymore.”

  “Thank you! And I’m really sorry!” Mustafa starts to smile with relief, and then quickly regains his seriousness.

  “Not so fast. I expect you to help out with this carnival, and to participate in this Quran competition, okay?”

  “Yes, Imam Malik. Of course I will.” Mustafa nods earnestly.

  “And Mustafa—are you okay? Is everything all right at home? Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” Mustafa shifts on his feet. “Everything is good.”

  “You know that if you ever need to talk about anything, I’m here. This place is your home, Mustafa, and everyone here is like your family.”

  “I know,” Mustafa looks ashamed and grateful at once.

  Imam Malik turns and puts his hand on Mustafa’s back to lead him outside when he notices me.

  “Oh! Have you been standing there for long?” He looks alarmed, and then tries to relax his face. “Mustafa and I were just having a chat. Why don’t you two run outside and get a snack. Break is almost over.”

  And then he rushes away, muttering something about checking on the announcements. I stand in place and stare at my brother. Then without warning, I burst into tears.

  “What are you doing?” Mustafa barks. He glances around to make sure no one is watching us. “Why the heck are you crying?”

  The tears roll down my face, and my breath comes out in spurts.

  “I . . . you . . . smoking kills!” I sob. I know I look like a big baby for crying but can’t help it as I think of him leaning against a building, a cigarette dangling from his lips. What will be next? Drugs?

  “What? Didn’t you hear me tell Imam Malik I wasn’t smoking?” Mustafa sounds like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or yell at me.

  “Is it true?” I manage to stop crying, but now my nose is running, and I wipe it with the end of my sleeve.

  “Yes, Amina.”

  “Well, do you want to smoke?” I sniff.

  “No, Amina. It’s disgusting. Come on, let’s go.” He pulls on my arm, leading me to the door.

  “Listen.” He stops suddenly. “You’re not going to tell on me, are you?”

  “No.” The last thing I want is to say anything about this to our parents.

  “Promise?” Mustafa stares into my eyes.

  “If you promise you won’t smoke.”

  “Deal.” Mustafa puts his arm around my shoulders. “Come on, crybaby, let’s go get some food before they run out.”

  I’ve lost my appetite, but I wipe my eyes and nose again, try to hide that I’ve been crying, and walk outside with him.

  13

  After dinner, as I sit on my piano bench and start to practice, my mind wanders back to the ride home from the Islamic Center. Baba was filling Thaya Jaan in on plans for the carnival and how he was inviting local churches, synagogues, temples, and interfaith organizations to attend. I wondered if Soojin’s Korean church would participate again this year and made a mental note to ask her about it. But then I thought about her and Emily, and whether Soojin was starting to think the two of them had more in common than we did. Emily goes to church too.

  Mustafa sat in the backseat beside me, lost in thought, and stared out the window. At dinner, when Mama asked how Sunday school was, he said “fine” in his usual monosyllabic way but gave me a warning look that I knew meant I should keep my mouth shut.

  Now, sitting alone, I’m drained from the day’s events. I glance over at Mustafa sitting on the sofa, finishing up his chemistry homework. Hunched over his books in his sweatshirt and cap, he looks younger, like the old Mustafa I’ve always known.

  I open up the piano cabinet and start to play a compilation of pop songs from the 1960s that Ms. Holly gave me to practice on Friday during music class.

  “I know you don’t want to sing in the concert, but it would be wonderful if you could play piano and accompany the singers,” she asked with a hopeful expression.

  I wanted to say, “But I do want to sing. More than anything.” But I didn’t. Instead, I agreed to do it, took the sheet music, and shoved it into my bag. As much as I love playing piano, it stinks to be stuck in the background while other people shine onstage, a soundtrack no one pays attention to, like the music piped into The Voice. My only consolation is that at least I don’t get nervous playing the piano in front of an audience. I’ve done plenty of piano recitals over the years, where Mrs. Kuckleman showcases all her students one by one, from the little ones who slowly pick out “Happy Birthday” to the most advanced players who master Mozart. And since I’m sitting on the bench and focusing on the notes on a page and not the faces in the crowd, I can forget that there are even people there.

  “Is that Elvis?” Baba asks as I press the keys.

  “Yeah. We’re doing music from the sixties through the eighties for our concert.”

  “Uh huh uh . . . I’m all shook up . . . ,” Baba sings in a fake deep voice as he passes through the family room, making me laugh for the first time since that afternoon. The combination of playing and his goofy singing makes me feel better.

  But later that night, as I brush my teeth in the bathroom, I overhear Baba and Thaya Jaan talking in the guest room next door.

  “All this music all the time. You shouldn’t let Amina do so much singing and piano,” Thaya Jaan says.

  I stop brushing and strain to hear every word, trying to follow.

  “But, Bhai Jaan, she is so talented. Her music teachers say she is really quite gifted.”

  “Yes, but music is forbidden in Islam. It’s a waste of time and has no benefit. Instead of filling her head with music, she should focus on memorizing Quran.”

  The toothpaste suddenly tastes bitter. I spit it out and wait to hear what Baba will say. Surely he’ll say the things he’s always told me, like how music makes him feel closer to God and that my talent is a gift from Allah.

  But all Baba says is, “Yes, Bhai Jaan,” and then he stays quiet. I am numb.

  Is Thaya Jaan right? Am I doing something wrong?

  As leftover tears from earlier in the day mix with the water I splash on my face, I regret hearing a word of their conversation. I crawl into bed, pull my quilt over my head, and try to slow the pounding of my heart.

  14

  “Amina! Where are you? Come down here!” Mama calls from the kitchen.

  I slide off my bed and go down the stairs. Mama is wiping the counters down with a rag, even though they are already gleaming.

  “What have you been doing since you came home?
Why are you hiding up in your room?”

  “Cleaning it.”

  “On a Friday afternoon?” Mama’s eyes narrow. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Yeah.” I stare at my socks.

  “Are you sure? What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine.” I see Mama’s concerned expression and try to smile. I don’t know how to explain how I’m feeling. It’s not exactly sick, but not exactly normal, either. I just feel . . . tired.

  “Okay, well we’re taking Thaya Jaan out to dinner tonight. Go run up and get ready. Put on that nice yellow shirt.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “There’s a new Thai restaurant that Baba wants to try.”

  Yum! Thai food is one of my favorites. I love getting noodles with peanut sauce and shrimp and spicy chicken skewers.

  “What about Mustafa? He isn’t home yet.” I’ve hardly seen him all week, since he’s been at practice every afternoon until pretty late. Plus I’ve been steering clear of the family room after dinner. I don’t want to run into Thaya Jaan.

  “He is going out for pizza with his team after his game tonight. They had to play in Oak Creek.”

  “Oh.” I’m suddenly less interested in dinner. I picture myself eating my noodles in silence as my parents talk to Thaya Jaan in Urdu about the proper ways to raise children or about Pakistani politics.

  I go upstairs and dig the yellow shirt out of my dresser, switching on my iPod out of habit. As the music fills the room, my spirits start to lift . . . until Thaya Jaan’s words come back to me. Music is forbidden. I quickly turn it off again and sit on my bed, staring at the music books and sheets lying scattered on the floor. I can’t shake the uneasy feeling that has settled on me like dust for days—have I been doing something wrong, or un-Islamic, by spending so much of my time singing and playing piano?

  “Let’s go, Amina!” Baba calls, jingling his car keys. He always does that when he’s in a hurry to leave.

  When I get to the garage, Thaya Jaan is standing next to Baba, wearing a white shalwar kameez with a black-band collar vest on top. He has a black furry hat propped atop his head that looks like a giant paper boat. I figure he dressed up to go to the mosque for Friday prayers and is still in the same clothes. And as mean-spirited as I feel, I wish he weren’t here.