Love, Hate and Other Filters

by Samira Ahmed

  “You’re carrying me?” Normally, I would be irritated, but I’m so out-of-my-brain ecstatic, it amuses me.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t drop you. I got your bag, too.”

  Phil shuts the car door with his knee and walks with me in his arms. I rest my head against his shoulder. The familiar smell of woods and grass and the silence, broken only by birds chirping and tiny twigs breaking underfoot, reveals the spot even before my blindfold is off. A door creaks, and then Phil puts me down and unties the blindfold. I blink a few times. The cabin was high on my list of possibilities, but it doesn’t look anything like the cabin I’d holed myself up in.

  The entire room is lit up with candles and little white fairy lights. A huge vase of fuchsia peonies are set into the fireplace. A table in the corner has two place settings and a bouquet of white gerbera daisies. Drapes hang from the windows, covering the empty panes. Area rugs hide the uneven floor. Music wafts from speakers in the corners. I turn to Phil, my mouth agape. “It’s magical. How did you—?”

  “I borrowed a generator from my dad for the lights and the stereo, and my brother helped me set up.”

  “No one’s ever done anything like this for me before.” I step closer to him.

  “I wanted it to be perfect.” Phil takes my chin in his hand and gently lifts my face to his. There aren’t just sparks between us, there’s a giant flame leaping back and forth, engulfing us.

  I step out of the kiss and take in the room again. “Best. Prom. Ever,” I say, sliding my hand into his.

  He smiles. “I’m so glad. Now let’s eat.” He gestures to the table.

  Phil helps me into my seat, then wanders into the back and reappears with two heaping plates of food and places them on the table. Cold pasta salad tossed with sun-dried tomatoes. Thick slabs of roast beef with mustard. Skewers of roasted vegetables. We eat, avoiding any conversation about the situation with my parents, or going off to school in the fall, or definitions of what we are. Instead, we laugh, recalling awkward moments and embarrassing attempts at flirtation and our earliest memories of each other. Phil brings out chocolate cupcakes and a bowl of fresh strawberries for dessert.

  When we finish eating, Phil switches the playlist on his iPod. Our prom theme song fills the room: Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight.” Which is a million years old, because you can think classic rock was left in the last century, but it sneakily took up residence in Batavia. But like everything tonight, it’s gorgeous.

  Phil puts his hand out. “May I have this dance?”

  I slip my hand in his and let myself be pulled into the center of the room. Melodious tones warm the cabin. For all I know, the song is on repeat, because this moment is liquid amber. I’m keeping it forever. A part of me wishes I could capture this moment on film, a memory of something good and true in my life.

  Phil holds me tight. I rest my cheek on his chest. He twirls me out of his arms and brings me back, his green eyes smile as he looks into mine. We continue to dance without words, clutching each other, spinning around the room, while time slides lightly by.

  Phil sneaks us into the Fabyan Visitor Center, and by sneak, I mean entering through an unlocked back door. Apparently, they’re not concerned about thieves stealing all the visitor maps at night.

  I take my bag and dash into the restroom. It’s heaven to slip into a pair of jeans, T-shirt, and cardigan, and out of my uncomfortable heels. I rifle through the pack and find a toothbrush and a little bouquet of new lip glosses tied together by a silver ribbon. Violet thought of everything. I also find a note with a condom attached: In case of emergency, rip open. Have fun! XOXO. I shake my head, then comb my hair back into a ponytail and layer on lip gloss.

  Phil’s changed into a pair of jeans and a fitted thermal Henley that perfectly follows the curve of his biceps. He looks like his everyday self. His best self.

  We drop our bags at the cabin and head directly to the pond. The last time I’d walked this path, it felt like the setting of a horror movie. But in the warm night air and with Phil’s hand around mine, it’s a gorgeous romance. As the woods give way to the clearing, I see paper lanterns hanging from tree branches, illuminating the pond. A red flannel blanket covers our little square of sand.

  There’s no scenario I could’ve imagined that would have ended in this moment of perfection. I blink back a couple tears. I don’t want to cry, not tonight, not even if it’s from joy. I pause and take in the entire scene. I’m not filming, but I’m etching this into my mind forever.

  Phil kneels next to a cooler and a small grill and starts building a little fire. He turns to me and smiles, then motions for me to join him. He reaches into the cooler and hands me a skewered marshmallow and produces a Tupperware full of dark chocolate and graham crackers. He nestles into the spot next to me as we roast our marshmallows. The gooey alchemy of s’mores draws us closer together. We devour them, trying not to burn our tongues. Chocolate dribbles down the side of my chin. Before I can be mortified, Phil swipes it up with his finger and puts it in his mouth. The darkness is a relief; it cloaks my face that blooms half a dozen shades of red. After a few more s’mores, we lie next to each other on the blanket, holding hands, gazing up beyond the fluttering leaves into the canopy of stars.

  Phil kisses me on the forehead.

  I huddle closer to him; he wraps his arms around me. The warm spring night has given way to a slight chill, but the heat radiates from Phil’s body into mine. I inhale deeply, tracing the hard lines of his jaw with the tips of my fingers, pondering the winding paths that life presents—ends leading to beginnings and back again.

  Some love stories are tragedies—epics, spanning years, and built on dramatic irony, wars, Russian winters, and hours of film. Others are romantic comedies, a meet-cute ruined by mishaps and bad timing, finally leading to a kiss atop a tall building—the metropolis glimmering in the background, moon rising, love song playing over the credits.

  But other romances, like this one, are simply short-subject documentaries—lacking traditional narratives and quippy dialogue. Everyday people lying next to each other on a makeshift beach, the mottled spring light passing through the dense trees before softly surrendering to dusk.

  O Me! O Life!

  Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,

  Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,

  Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)

  Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,

  Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,

  Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,

  The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

  Answer.

  That you are here—that life exists and identity,

  That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

  Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, 1892.

  Epilogue

  “Chapter thirty for next time. And don’t forget there’s a screening of Meet the Patels tonight at the Cantor Film Center,” the professor calls as my fellow students and I gather our notebooks and backpacks.

  I loop a green silk scarf around my neck and lift my bag onto my shoulder.

  “Are you walking back to the dorm?” Rajiv, another film major in my class, asks in a British accent so lovely and warm it could star in its own rom-com.

  “Actually, errands. Also I’m headed to the campus store to get my parents some school gear before I head home for Thanksgiving.”

  “Ahh, yes. The American holiday celebrating colonialism with a bland, dry bird.” He grins at me as we walk out of the building together. Rajiv lifts the collar of his jacket to block the wind.

  “And the British are such strangers to colonialism and bland food?”

  “I can at least take up the food issue with the queen.”

/>   “Yes, please do.” I nudge Rajiv as we reach the corner.

  “So are you thinking of going to the film this evening?”

  “Planning on it.”

  “Would you like to attend … with me, perhaps? Together?”

  I look at the curly-haired young man in front of me, sporting the exact right amount of stubble and charm. “A documentary about desi matchmaking with a desi. That’s not awkward at all.” I grin at him and nod.

  “Well, I’m Hindu, and you’re Muslim; obviously we’re star-crossed. I’ll pick you up at your dorm tonight, say seven? We can grab falafel at Mamoun’s first.”

  “Perfect. See you.” I’m smiling wide, like the American I am, showing off every tooth.

  “Cheers,” he says, then gives me a quick kiss on the cheek before heading off.

  I suck in my breath. It was just a peck, but no one’s kissed me since Phil and I said goodbye. Though it wasn’t a goodbye, exactly, since we refused to say that word. I’m still not quite sure what it was. The greatest “see-you-later” kiss of all time?

  We’d just gone for our last swim at the pond, the summer sun warm through the canopy of leaves. Unlike before, it dried our wet bodies as we walked back to the cabin, silently, hand in hand. We didn’t go in.

  Phil gently drew me into his arms and bent down to kiss me. I was crying before I knew it. I pulled away to wipe tears from my cheeks, but he took my face in his hands, smiled and said, “We’ll always have the pond.”

  I laughed. “You actually watched Casablanca? I thought you said you hated sappy, black-and-white movies.”

  “Casablanca? Nah. That was a reference to an old Star Trek: Next Generation episode I saw with my dad.”

  I laughed through my tears. I kissed him again, then turned to go. I wanted to leave first. I didn’t think I could bear to watch him walk away from me. But I glanced over my shoulder and saw him there, face lit by the afternoon. “Here’s looking at you, kid,” he called.

  He was smiling, but his cheeks glistened with tears, too. He knew what I knew: there was no tomorrow for us if we were going our own ways, to different places and different futures.

  That was the moment. Our final scene, unadorned.

  The fleeting warmth of Rajiv’s lips on my skin brought it all rushing back—Phil’s touch, his lips, his fingertips and a feeling that is not so fleeting after all. My body remembers what part of my mind wants to forget—because there are times when I struggle to reconcile what I gave up to be here, in this very moment, despite how much I wanted it. How much I do want it. The past may be prologue, but it’s with me, every day.

  I walk through Washington Square Park, pausing to watch a group of young acrobats perform for tourist tips. The wind kicks up, whirling leaves into little whirlpools. I shiver. The days are growing shorter.

  I wonder how my parents will react to the NYU swag. We’ve agreed to a family Thanksgiving at Hina’s house. It was all Hina’s idea. She even bought me the ticket home. I was reluctant, but I owe her. More than I can ever repay. I’m hoping it’s a good sign that my parents are coming. I guess I sort of owe them this, too. My mom even texted me asking if I wanted her to bring my favorite winter hat to Hina’s so I would have it for school. It’s not my favorite. It’s this bubblegum-pink knit beanie with a white pom-pom on top that she bought me three years ago. But her text broke my heart a little. So I replied with a shouty caps: YES! PLEASE! I’m sure that made her happy.

  I know now that I can never really understand how much I hurt them or how bewildered they must’ve been when I left, pondering what they’d done to deserve what they see as a betrayal.

  The fact is they didn’t do anything wrong. I see that now. They are my parents. I am their daughter. And the world between us cracked because of the difference in how we understand that fundamental bond. But if my mom can extend a peace offering, so can I.

  Even with uncertainties at home, I’m excited to go back, trade stories with Violet in person. And see Phil, whatever we may be to each other.

  There’s time before the movie, and I possess a strong desire to put off my errands and homework, so I set off on a long walk through the city—a habit that’s quickly become a favorite pastime since I arrived in New York, my camera always at the ready.

  Today, I walk up West Fourth Street, then turn onto West Tenth and head for the river. West Fourth is one of those odd streets that break the New York grid, at least my newbie understanding of it, where streets normally run east-west and avenues north-south. Except in New York parlance where “north” and “south” are “uptown” and “downtown.” And then there’s the funny way you give an address, always with the cross streets. Like everything else in New York, geography has its own culture.

  I head west on Tenth Street, passing trendy boutiques with only a dozen clothes displayed on the racks, a tea shop, a French café, a vintage store, a very expensive florist, bars opening for the afternoon, Federal-style townhouses with grand doors, ivy-covered brownstones, even an apothecary shop. I walk under the barren branches of trees and wonder about the generations of starving artists and writers who once pounded this same pavement, but had to flee when rents rose and heftier pocketbooks moved in. From time to time, I raise my fingers to the silver ginkgo leaf pendant Phil gave me as a goodbye gift. I wear it every day. As a reminder. As a talisman.

  Right before Tenth Street emerges onto the cacophony of the West Side Highway, I stop to get a latte, wrapping my cool hands around the cup for warmth. As soon as I cross into Hudson River Park, the traffic din dies down, giving way to the sloshing of waves against the piers that jut out into the river. I love the unruly water that gives the Hudson its personality. On chilly afternoons, the park is mostly quiet, except for a few bicyclists and people walking their dogs. As I stroll far out onto the pier, I savor the sweetness of having a corner of New York all to myself.

  At the end of the wide dock, I gaze down the open river corridor to the Statue of Liberty far in the distance, beyond the pile field of submerged logs that once supported the old piers. I breathe in the salty air—thinking of the first deep breath thousands of immigrants once took as they sailed into New York Harbor, dreaming. Even my own parents, though they arrived by plane from India, first stepped foot on American soil in New York. They stayed with family friends in Queens for a week before their onward journey to the Midwest. An old framed photo on my mother’s bureau pops into my mind: My parents standing on a tour boat against white rails, close but not touching. The Statue of Liberty in the background. My mother is graceful and thin with a sari draped over one shoulder and pulled modestly like a shawl around her back. My father, bushy haired and smiling, squints in the sun. The hopes and ambitions they must’ve had, newly married and in love. How impossible it would’ve been for those two young people to envision where their lives would lead them. I want to walk into the picture, take their hands, and say that there will be incredible and heartbreaking changes ahead, but that their lives here will be good.

  The wind chaps my cheeks. I glance down at my watch and start toward my dorm. At the next corner, I pause, setting up a crane shot for the movie in my mind:

  The sky darkens as people brush by The Girl. Her green scarf flutters on the screen as the overcranked motion eventually slows around her. She turns to smile at the camera overhead, the vibrant resonance of New York swelling, as the edges of the frame fade to black.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I wrote this book out of hope.

  I was a New Yorker on September 11, 2001. My old apartment in New York City’s East Village once had a clear view of the World Trade Center. During the years I lived there, on the anniversary of 9/11, I would stare out of my big picture window at the two bright shafts of light beaming up to the heavens. Toward those we lost. Mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, brothers and sisters, friends, lovers, wealthy and working class, old and young. Americans. Tourists. Those who chose to make this place their home; those born here. Muslim and Jew. Christian and
Hindu. Buddhist and Atheist. Every race. Every creed.

  All of them, human beings.

  To those of us who live, who bear witness, the Tribute in Light shines as a beacon and reminder, that though we are many, we are one.

  I wrote this book out of love.

  Raghead. Terrorist. Paki. Illegal. I’ve been called lots of names that aren’t my own and it stings every time, forever burned in my memory. But my experiences of Islamophobia and bigotry are mild compared to the violence many others have faced, will face. In recent times we’ve seen hate emerge out of dark corners, torches blazing in the night. We’ve witnessed so-called leaders not merely casually accept cruelty, but engender it. Worse, we’ve seen horrific violence. But all around us, we’ve seen people rise up, not merely against the forces of hate, but for equality and justice. Bigotry may run through the American grain, but so too does resistance. We know the world we are fighting for.

  And for those who bear the brunt of hate because of the color of their skin, or the sound of their name, or the scarf on their head, or the person they love; for those who are spat upon, for those who are told to “go home” when they are home: you are known. You are loved. You are enough. Let your light shine.

  I wrote this book for you.

  Acknowledgments

  This book you are holding in your hands exists in the real world because my amazing agent, Eric Smith, liked a tweet in the virtual one. Eric, thank you for being a fierce advocate, for believing in my story, for DM’ing at all hours, and for breaking your mouse to like that tweet. I owe you a new one and so much more.

  Daniel Ehrenhaft, my brilliant, eagle-eyed editor at Soho Teen, saw the things I could not see and challenged me to make my story shine on the page. His unwavering belief in my ability to do so steadied my hand and calmed my nerves. Dan, you totally rule.

  Bronwen Hruska, publisher, champion, took a risk and embraced Maya’s story and for that I am eternally grateful. The fabulous publicity/marketing team at Soho fashioned wings for this book and made it fly. Abby Koski, Paul Oliver, Rudy Martinez, I know ice cream and stickers and 6-foot-tall Maya only touch on the brilliance of your work. Consider this an official requisition: please send cardboard Maya to me at the end of her journey. I’ll make her a star of Maya-camera hands pictures for years to come. Janine Agro designed the striking interior and worked with Cannaday Chapman to bring Maya to life and create this stunning cover, which is now permanently referred to in my home as The Precious. Rachel Kowal brought a sharp eye, kindness, and much patience to the editing process. Shveta Thakrar, my copy editor, graced every page with her love and forgave me for my tenuous grasp of English grammar rules. Juliet Grames, Steven Tran, and Monica White were always at the ready to roll up their sleeves, offer encouraging words, and help make Soho feel like home.