Amina's Voice

by Hena Khan

  “Nothing. You don’t have to do anything.” Soojin puts a protective arm around Emily. And then she turns her back on me.

  “What do you mean?” Emily whimpers.

  “You were totally cool at lunch, and no one knows if anything Luke said is true or not. Just ignore everyone like you did and act like it was all a big lie.”

  “I’ll try. But now I know . . . Justin doesn’t like me.” Emily wilts even further.

  “You don’t know that.” Soojin strokes Emily’s back. “Maybe he was just embarrassed. Who would want to admit anything in front of those jerks?”

  “Yeah, maybe now he’ll even realize that he does like you,” I add. I inch toward them with a hopeful expression.

  “Or maybe he’ll never talk to me again!” Emily retorts harshly. Soojin whips her head around and gives me a look that warns me to step back.

  So I step back. Soojin is really angry, and she has a right to be. I watch as she continues to comfort Emily, feeling unwelcome, but unsure whether it would look worse if I just walked away. So I stand there awkwardly until the bell rings to signal the end of lunch and fidget with the straps on my bag. The whole time, Soojin doesn’t turn around to look at me. But as the bell rings, with her encouragement, Emily dries her tears, takes deep breaths, and prepares to walk back into the school as if nothing happened.

  Now I feel like crying, but I don’t let myself.

  “Soojin, listen,” I try to say as my best friend just walks right by me. After a few steps Soojin stops and turns around.

  “I don’t want to talk to you right now.” She sounds more sad than angry.

  And then she continues walking, leaving me there. I eventually trail behind them toward the doors to the school and turn in the opposite direction to go my locker. My insides are churning, and I want to throw up. Instead of going to class, I decide to go to the nurse’s office and lie down until it is time to go home. Even though I know it’s cowardly, I can’t bear to face Soojin or Emily again.

  18

  “Amina! Where are you?” Mama calls from the kitchen. “I need your help.”

  “In here,” I reply from where I’m sitting at the dining room table and give my uncle a weak smile. “I’m practicing with Thaya Jaan.”

  “Okay. But when you’re done I need you to set the plates out for me. And where in the world have your father and brother gone?”

  Baba has a way of disappearing for hours whenever Mama throws a dinner party. He usually finds some kind of urgent business to take him to the electronics or hardware store, like a missing speaker wire or special kind of lightbulb that needs replacing. This Saturday morning, he’s taken Mustafa with him, while Mama prepares for the dinner party they are holding in honor of Thaya Jaan’s visit. She’s already done a lot of cooking over the past few nights, and the kitchen counters are covered with piles of onions, garlic bulbs, and chili peppers, along with jars of spices and gleaming serving dishes.

  “We are almost finished,” Thaya Jaan volunteers. “Let’s review this surah one more time.”

  I read through the page, paying extra attention to the flow and rhythm of the verses. The repetition of sounds in this particular passage, a surah called Humazah, makes it easy to memorize.

  “Very good!” Thaya Jaan says. “You are improving.”

  “What does it mean?” The rhymes sound so pretty, I’m sure the meaning is too.

  “This surah is a harsh warning from Allah to those who do backbiting of their brothers. God tells us that nothing, not even all of a person’s wealth, will save them from his wrath.”

  “Backbiting?” I don’t know this word. And even though Thaya Jaan is speaking in English for a change, it isn’t helping much.

  “When you speak ill of people behind their backs, or say things about them that you should not,” Thaya Jaan explains.

  A shiver runs down my spine.

  “Shall we review it one last time?”

  I shake my head, too upset to speak.

  Is there a special punishment for me?

  Thaya Jaan keeps going. “This surah is just a reminder for all of us to watch what we say and not to be arrogant.”

  “But what if you did it by accident? What if you didn’t know what you were saying?” I’m ashamed to say the words.

  “I don’t understand. How do you say something by accident?”

  Mama walks out of the kitchen and stops when she sees my face.

  “What happened?” she asks Thaya Jaan.

  “Nothing. I just told her the meaning of the surah.”

  “It’s my fault, Mama. I did a really mean thing to Emily, and I’m a backbiter, and I’m going to be punished . . .” I trail off.

  “Hold on now. Come with me.” Mama drags me away by the hand and flashes Thaya Jaan a warning look as we go up the stairs. When we get to her room, Mama sits me on the bed next to her.

  “Okay, tell me what happened. Did Thaya Jaan say something again?”

  I pour out the entire story about Emily and Soojin, starting with the school project and ending with what happened in the lunchroom. Mama listens intently, interrupting a few times to ask questions or to slow me down.

  “So did you tell Emily’s secret on purpose, to get back at her for becoming Soojin’s friend?” she asks finally.

  I think about it for a moment. “No, I was just annoyed with Bradley.”

  “Did you want Bradley or the others to tease her?”

  “No.”

  “Well then, why did you tell him?”

  “It just popped out of my mouth, I promise. I just wasn’t thinking. I know I don’t like Emily . . . well, I didn’t like Emily before, and I guess I was kind of jealous of her becoming friends with Soojin. But I would never try to hurt her on purpose. And I’m starting to think that maybe she’s not that bad. I actually think she might be . . . pretty nice.”

  “I believe you.” Mama brushes the hair out of my face and fixes the collar of my shirt like she did when I was a little girl. “You’re not a mean person, Amina, and you never have been. You just made a mistake. Everyone does sometimes.”

  “Yeah, but what about what the surah says?”

  “What surah?”

  “Humazah.”

  Mama laughs. “Is that what got you so upset? It is a strong surah, but it’s not describing you, silly girl. You weren’t being evil or trying to spread rumors about Emily.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” I agree, feeling a little better. “But what do I do now? Everyone’s so mad at me.”

  “Just ask for forgiveness—from God, and from your friends.” Mama is solemn as she gives me the simple advice.

  “I did. I said sorry right away. But they were both still really angry at me. Soojin was furious.”

  Mama shrugs. “Well, it makes sense that they’re upset with you. Wouldn’t you feel the same way if someone told one of your secrets? What happened when you saw them in school yesterday?”

  “Emily ignored me. I tried to say hi, but she acted like she didn’t hear me. So then I wrote her a long note and left it in her cubby. Soojin wasn’t in school because her family was at their ceremony to become citizens.”

  “Oh, did that happen already? That’s wonderful. I’ll have to congratulate them the next time I see them.”

  “Yeah.” I don’t mention the part about Soojin changing her name. Mama wouldn’t be crazy about that idea. But I feel awful that Soojin’s family is having this big moment after waiting for so long, and I’m not even talking to my best friend. That is, if Soojin even considers me her best friend any more.

  “Why don’t you invite Soojin and her family to come to the carnival next week? Their church participated last year, right? That could be a nice gesture,” Mama suggests. “Besides, Imam Malik and Baba want it to be an interfaith event again.”

  “I don’t know. I guess I’ll see her at school on Monday.” It makes me nervous to think about facing Soojin, or Susan, for the first time after our fight. And since my mother reminded m
e of the carnival, it means the Quran competition is fast approaching. Even though I feel a little better about the way my lessons with Thaya Jaan are going, I certainly don’t feel prepared enough to get up in front of hundreds of people to recite a surah. And now that I know what it means, there’s no way I’m choosing surah Humazah. I wouldn’t be able to get through it.

  Mama looks at me with sympathy. “If Soojin is truly your best friend, she’ll forgive you. You’ll just have to wait and see. And you have to trust that just because she makes new friends doesn’t mean she stops caring about you. Now come downstairs and give me a hand. Everyone will be here in a couple hours.”

  19

  “Everything looks delicious.” Salma Auntie carries the last steaming dish to the dining table, and then stands back to admire the elaborate feast. Her family was the first to arrive for the party, and she immediately got to work. She threw on one of Mama’s aprons, rolled up her sleeves, and tied her hair back into a bun. That also meant that she felt like she could give me orders like my own mother.

  “I hope it tastes good too,” Mama says. “Amina, can you tell everyone to come and eat?”

  Rabiya helped me stack napkins between the fancy china plates earlier, and we now pass them out as everyone comes into the dining room. Mustafa pours an assortment of sodas and water into plastic cups and sets them out on the counter.

  Thaya Jaan walks into the kitchen, and I hand him a plate.

  “No, not yet. Let the others take their food first. I can wait,” he says, standing aside.

  “No, Bhai Jaan, you are the guest of honor. Please take your food,” Mama insists. I heard her come downstairs after our talk and explain to Thaya Jaan why I had freaked out. Even though she didn’t actually apologize to him, I know Mama felt bad for assuming Thaya Jaan had said something to upset me.

  When it’s my turn, I fill my plate with rice, shami kabob, lentils, and butter chicken, skipping the cauliflower and salad, and pile the naan high before carefully carrying it downstairs to the basement. Rabiya, Yusuf, and the other kids are already camped in front of the TV with their food.

  Mustafa joins a few minutes later, plopping down on our beat-up leather sofa next to Yusuf.

  “There’s nothing good on,” Yusuf announces after flipping through all the channels.

  “Isn’t there a basketball game?” Mustafa asks.

  “Nooo!” Rabiya whines.

  “I want SpongeBob,” a little boy named Jamal says, chewing on a piece of naan.

  “How about we tell scary stories?” Yusuf suggests.

  “No way,” Rabiya refuses. “Last time I had nightmares for days.”

  I agree. Yusuf tells the scariest stories ever. The worst one was about severed hands of bodies that were dug up from graves. The hands came to life and would tickle people to death. I still think about that whenever we pass a graveyard.

  “What are you going to be for Halloween this year, Amina?” Rabiya asks. “I’m going to be a peacock. My mom is making me a huge feathered tail.”

  I sigh as I remember my big plans for Halloween with Soojin. Will she still want to go trick-or-treating with me, or someone else now?

  “I said, what are you going to be?” Rabiya repeats.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Really? Why not? I thought you and Soojin always came up with great costumes?”

  “Yeah, well, we might be ketchup and mustard bottles this year,” I mumble.

  “If you don’t, we can do something together . . . like the peacock and the . . . What would go well with a peacock?” Rabiya’s face scrunches up in thought.

  “How about a chicken?” Yusuf volunteers.

  “Or a pirate?” Mustafa adds.

  Everyone takes turns coming up with ridiculous costume partner ideas for me.

  “A toothbrush!” Jamal offers.

  I laugh and look around the room, feeling lighter for the first time since lunch last week. Maybe I should just forget about Soojin and Emily. I try to imagine myself in school without them, concentrating on my work, eating lunch with Allison or Margot. Maybe I’d manage to get through my school week, and then I could enjoy my free time with Rabiya, Dahlia, and my other weekend friends. That could work.

  But then I think about how Soojin has been the best part of school ever since she moved to Greendale. I’d be miserable if we weren’t good friends and don’t know how I’d survive middle school without her. I’ll apologize again and see what happens. Mama said if Soojin is really my best friend, she’ll forgive me. I’m not sure it’s that simple. But I hope she’s right.

  20

  I stir, hearing hushed voices outside my bedroom door.

  “It’ll be okay. I’ll be back soon,” Baba is saying.

  I flop onto my other side, pulling my comforter up over me. It’s still dark outside and doesn’t feel like morning.

  “The police are there already. Malik is frantic—he wants Hamid and me to come right away. Don’t worry; I’ll call you when I know more.”

  Police? I’m wide awake now. The alarm clock next to my bed glows red with the time: 4:47 a.m.

  “Be careful, please.” Mama’s voice is still thick with sleep.

  “I will.” Baba’s footsteps descend the stairs, muffled by the carpet. I hear the garage door open and his car engine roar to life.

  “Mama?” I get up and tiptoe into my parents’ room. Mama sits in her checkered fleece robe, tense on the edge of her bed.

  “Why are you awake? Go back to sleep.” Mama tries to sound like everything is okay, but I know it isn’t.

  “What happened?” I lean close against her like I used to when I was little.

  Mama’s face is gray. She looks at me, starts to say something, and then lets out a deep sigh instead.

  “What?” I ask again, scared.

  “Someone broke into the Islamic Center and did some damage. Imam Malik called and asked Baba to come right away.”

  My fists clench. “Did anyone get hurt?”

  “No. Thank God no one was there when it happened.”

  “Will we still have Sunday school?” I don’t know why that is my first thought, but I planned on giving Rabiya back the book she was reading for a book report. She left it on the floor of the basement during the party last night.

  “No, no Sunday school today.” Mama touches the bed next to her. “Why don’t you lie down with me?”

  I crawl into my dad’s side of the bed, which smells faintly of his cologne, and drift into a light sleep. Mama rises shortly after for the dawn prayers, and I also hear Thaya Jaan running the water in the hall bathroom. Finally I fall into a deep sleep until the shrill ringing of the phone next to my head wakes me up again a few hours later.

  “Hello?” I ask, after fumbling to pick up the receiver.

  “Amina, this is Salma Auntie. Where is your mother?”

  I hand Mama the phone and listen to their conversation.

  “He said the main hall is badly damaged.” Mama’s voice, a low whisper, quavers. I picture the Islamic Center—the two-story community building holds the main hall, where lectures, weddings, and all the parties take place. The first floor also has a small kitchen, office, and library, but Mama says she doesn’t know what shape they are in. I spend most of my time upstairs in the Sunday school classrooms, which Mama tells Auntie are covered with graffiti. I try to process what I’m hearing but can’t believe it is true. Why would anyone want to ruin our beautiful center? What would they get out of that?

  “The mosque is the worst part,” Mama says, trembling.

  I imagine the beautiful gold-domed mosque and minarets that stand beside the community building.

  “The fire department got there in time before it burned down, but Saleem said it’s really bad,” Mama says. “I can’t believe it, Salma. I just can’t believe this happened. Every time I hear about things like this in other places, I think, it’ll never happen in Greendale.”

  I shiver as I hear the anguish in my mother’s tone
, even as I lie buried under the down comforter on my parents’ bed.

  “Are you going, Salma?” asks Mama. “Yes, yes, you’re right.”

  Mama hangs up the phone and reaches past me for the tissue box on the side table.

  “Get dressed and wake up Mustafa,” she says as she wipes her nose. “We’re going over there.”

  21

  Police cars line the driveway to the Islamic Center, making everything I’ve heard suddenly very real and even more terrifying. I’m certain that Mustafa, who’s on the other side of me in the backseat of our minivan, can hear my heart beating through my thick jacket. Thaya Jaan has been clicking his prayer beads the whole ride.

  “There’s Saleem.” Mama points toward the main entrance of the community hall. She parks the car in the nearly empty lot, and we all pile out and cut through the grass, still dewy in the frigid morning air, to where Baba stands on the steps. He’s typing into his phone and looks up in surprise as he sees us approaching. Without saying a word, he pulls Mustafa and me into a tight embrace for what seems like a long time before letting us go. When he speaks, his face is full of sadness.

  “It’s devastating. We poured so many years of our lives into building this place. I painted those walls for the first time with my own hands, and now it’s been . . .” His voice cracks and he stops.

  I swallow hard. I can’t remember ever seeing my father this upset. Baba seems to become aware of me and tries to smile in my direction.

  “Don’t worry, geeta. Everything will be okay.” Baba rubs my back. “You should have left the kids at home,” he adds quietly to Mama. “This is no place for them to be right now.”

  “You’re right.” Mama’s eyes are glassy. “I just wanted to keep them close to me. Mustafa, can you please take your sister and wait in the car?”

  Mustafa takes the keys without a word, and I follow him back to the car, while our parents look for Imam Malik and Hamid Uncle in the mosque.

  We sit in the front seats, the dark leather already cold through my jeans even though the car has only been off for a few minutes. Mustafa puts the key in the ignition and turns on the heat and the stereo. I can feel the warm air blowing, but it doesn’t seem to make a difference as my teeth chatter from something other than the cold. Plus the upbeat pop song playing through the speakers seems oddly disrespectful. Mustafa switches it off, and we wait without saying a word. My mind floods with a million questions about what is going on, but I know Mustafa doesn’t have the answers, and the look on his face warns me to stay quiet.