“Ha. I regret it right now. I don’t have a license or a car fund-matching deal, and I’m wearing man pants, thanks to my last foray into forgeryland, if you’ll recall.” I scribbled down Mr. Thibodoux’s signature, which was firmly implanted in my brain files. “But I’ll do anything to bring you back from the brink of Bobby Slade psychosis. Plus I’m going to deny ever having done this if it comes down to it.”
“That’s okay. I’ll back you up.”
I finished, checked my work—which was perfect as always—then handed the letter over. “There. Now drive me home. I’ve got to get out of this repulsive outfit before I freak out.”
Caressa giggled. She slipped the letter carefully back into the envelope, set it aside, then put her car into drive and pulled away from the curb. As we drove off, she flicked me a mischievous glance. “So. Dylan was looking hot back there.”
God, not again. I rolled my eyes. I SO didn’t want to get into this beating-a-dead-horse conversation. “And I’m sure Jennifer Hamilton cares,” I snarked. “Good thing I don’t.”
I turned toward the window and focused on a little herd of elk—who were getting superfuzzy for the winter—grazing by the road. I had to. If I’d looked directly at Caressa, she’d have seen the lie in my expression.
Okay, okay, I was warm for Dylan’s form.
That DIDN’T mean I planned on doing anything aboutit!!
nine
meryl
There were good aspects and bad aspects to my post-dumb supper life. On the good side: Ismet and I had sort of become friends since the big flat tire/epiphany night. On the bad side: every time I started to think that maybe he liked me, too—in THAT way—he’d do something to remind me, in no uncertain terms, that I was fooling myself. Ismet Hadziahmetovic didn’t have any romantic interest in me whatsoever. When I said we were friends, I meant it literally.
Buddies, pals, school friends. It really was depressing.
I mean, I suppose he simply wasn’t attracted to skinny, pale, tragically unhip, blue-eyed redheads with freckles. But I was really, REALLY attracted to him, and I just wanted it to be reciprocal. Was that too much to ask? I couldn’t help my genetic make up. Redheads need love, too.
Despite the depressing lack of romantic action on the Ismet front, however, I’d still managed to become a frequent guest at the Hadziahmetovics’ house. Not as Ismet’s girlfriend (bad part) but because I’d begun to tutor Shefka in Spanish (a good part, despite the no-Ismet deal). Initially, I’d agreed to the tutoring thinking it would be a foot in the door, literally. But soon I counted Shefka as one of my friends, and our friendship didn’t hinge on her brother at all. The more I visited, the more I came to enjoy hanging around the whole Hadziahmetovic family, especially their little sister, Jenita, who was seven and adorable. Plus, tutoring Shefka was a breeze, and it was keeping my Spanish skills fresh.
Shefka already spoke the Bosnian dialect of Serbo-Croatian, English, and Russian, and she could hold her own in Turkish. If our study sessions were any indication, she would soon be fluent in Spanish as well. To say she had a real knack for foreign languages was a gross understatement. The best part of our budding friendship, though, was the long, interesting conversations we shared about what it was like living in Sarajevo and how it felt to leave permanently.
After every tutoring session, Shefka and I would sit around and talk about her homeland while little Jenita stood behind me putting sparkly butterfly clips and various ponytail holders in my hair. (She was absolutely enthralled with my stick-straight, bright red locks, and I was happy to let her style it.)
I’d been doing my own studying about Bosnian life, but hearing details from someone who’d actually lived there was invaluable. Shefka explained how there are actually three languages spoken in Bosnia—Bosnian, Serbian, and Croatian—but that most people could get by speaking any of them. We also discussed the ongoing political arguments surrounding the languages: what they should be called and so forth. I was totally intrigued by it all.
I learned that many Bosnians spoke either Russian or Turkish or both, in addition to their native languages. That blew my mind. I was glad my parents had pressed me to learn other languages, because I was happily fluent in Spanish and getting better in German every day. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t think I’m better than anyone because I speak foreign languages, I’m just glad I do.
The widely accepted American belief that we didn’t need to speak anything except English in the U.S. was embarrassing to me, especially around people from other countries who came here to study. I felt like I needed to explain the American reluctance to learn other languages, and yet I could think of no good reason for it.
Ethnocentricity? Ignorance?
I mean, most of my peers barely spoke proper English, and if they were bilingual, their second language was something like Pig Latin. That was a generalization, of course. We do have quite a few Spanish speakers at WPHS. But, still. They take all kinds of flak for wanting to speak both English and Spanish, which frustrates me. It’s dumb!
But, I digress.
In addition to language stuff, Shefka shared a lot with me about how it was living in a war zone. Snipers Alley, for example, is a street riddled with craters from the shells that rained down on it when Sarajevo was under attack. Shefka told me they paint some of the craters red, always to mark the exact spot where a passing civilian was struck down. These memorial craters are called “roses.”
It made me sad for her and all the Bosnians, but it also put things into perspective for me. You never think of regular old teenagers like Ismet and Shefka living in war-torn regions, but they do. And little kids like Jenita, too. She probably didn’t remember much, but even so. Sometimes, we Americans don’t have a clue how lucky we are. Myself included. We take everything for granted. Safety, privileges, wealth, food, shelter—even HOPE.
Get this: Apparently the famous eternal flame in Sarajevo wasn’t as eternal as it could’ve been. Sometimes the government had to turn it off because they couldn’t afford to keep it running. They turned OFF an eternal flame. I can’t imagine how that made the people feel, especially in the midst of war and instability.
Anyway, I loved talking to Shefka about Bosnia, and I loved the attention little Jenita showed me. I always tried to draw Ismet into our discussions, but he wasn’t nearly as forthcoming about his past. At first I put his reluctance down to guy-versus-girl communication-style differences, but the longer it went on, the less sure I became. Maybe it wasn’t talking about Bosnia that spurred his aversion, maybe it was talking about Bosnia to me. Maybe it was talking to me, period.
Depressing thought.
In fact, the whole Ismet deal started to really get me down after a while. I decided I needed a break from the constant rejection, so I made up an excuse about having to write a research paper and told Shefka we’d resume tutoring in two weeks or so. Jenita cried when she heard I’d be away for a while, which was sweet. But I had to do it. I needed time to clear my head and come to terms with the fact that Ismet wasn’t the least bit interested in me. I wanted to be okay just being ME again. I suppose I’d been expecting things to happen with Ismet on my terms, within my time frame, and so on. That was my downfall. I was learning quickly, you just couldn’t force fate. I decided to let go and see if my luck would turn around.
The first few days of avoiding him went well, but then I got the Ismet email that weakened my resolve and made me rethink my evasiveness:
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Wednesday afternoon
TIME: 4:45:03 P.M., MST
Hi Meryl,
How’s the paper going? I know you’re busy but do you want to come over tomorrow after school and check out some old TRLs with me, Shefka, and Jenita? My friend gave them to me. We have not seen you for a while, so we thought it would be fun.
Ismet
I was so thrilled by the invitation to go hiking, I barely noted
how strange it was to see Ismet use an abbreviation—TRLs—instead of writing out trails. I gave it a brief “huh” kind of thought and then blew it off as a quirk. I quickly wrote back and accepted.
It wasn’t technically a date considering it would be all four of us, but I didn’t mind. Shefka was as much a friend as Ismet, if not more, and we all liked hanging around Jenita, who was the happiest, most optimistic kid I’d ever met. The fact that Ismet had reached out was the important point. It showed me that letting go had worked. He and I would be spending time together—that’s all that mattered!
I didn’t really understand the part about his friend giving him the trails, but I figured he meant that his friend TOLD HIM about the trails. He did have some idiomatic challenges with English now and then (which was SO adorable).
I didn’t mention the invitation to Lila and Caressa, because I didn’t want to jinx myself. I decided to just believe that things were looking up in the Ismet department, and I went on my happy-go-lucky way. DUH.
In typical Meryl fashion, I had been reading up on Ramadan, which I knew was the ninth month of the Muslim calendar and started on October twenty-seventh this year—in just a few days. I found the custom fascinating and decided I’d ask Shefka and Ismet more about it while we hiked. I mean, they would have to fast for a month! At least whenever the sun was up. During Ramadan, Muslims were only allowed to eat or drink after the sun went down. How did you keep from eating or drinking during daylight for a whole month? I wondered if Jenita had to participate too, and I assumed the answer was yes. It had to be even harder for a kid.
From talking to Shefka, I knew the Hadziahmetovics were very liberal in their Muslim beliefs and practices, but they did celebrate Ramadan. Discussing this most important religious holiday would show them, hopefully, how much I respected their culture and differences. Once Ismet realized that I was truly interested in him and his heritage, he’d eventually come to view me in a more romantic light. That was my theory, at least.
Who wouldn’t want that when they were in a new country?
I mean, a lot of the girls in school still referred to him as That Bosnian Guy, without any respect at all for his individuality. They even made fun of his supersexy accent, which annoyed me.
Social cliques were ridiculous, and the whole “who-is-boyfriend-material” thing struck me as rigid and idiotic. It seemed that most girls my age just wanted generic American guys who fit certain sports and popularity profiles, regardless of whether they were decent people or not. Those girls wouldn’t give Ismet—or anyone different—the time of day.
Which, come to think of it, was WAY better for me.
The last thing I needed was a bunch of competition.
The afternoon of the hike, I hurried home from school and bundled myself up against the weather. I wore my expedition-weight long underwear, fleece, outer shell, ski pants, gaiters, hat, gloves, and my winter hiking boots and YakTrax. Hiking the Rocky Mountains in winter was great fun as long as you were properly dressed for the conditions.
I got to the Hadziahmetovics’ house at about three, and knocked on the door. Ismet answered, and he looked at me in surprise. “Cold?”
I laughed. “No, but I don’t want to freeze on the trails. I’m wearing layers.” On that note, I checked his outfit. Jeans, a short-sleeved T-shirt, no shoes. Huh. And they said girls were bad about being ready on time. All I knew was, he had better get a move on, or we’d run out of daylight.
His surprise turned into bewilderment. “Trails?”
I frowned slightly. It was my turn to be confused. “Well … yeah. I thought we were going hiking.” I peered past him. “Where are Shefka and Jenita? Are they ready?”
“Ready? For … did you say hiking?”
“Um … yeah.” Why was he acting so spacey?
He hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “But what about the TRLs?”
“That’s what I mean.”
His expression relaxed. “Oh. Good. I have the VCR all set up and Shefka is making popcorn with Jenita.”
“Ismet, you’re not making sense. What about hiking on the old trails your friend told you about?”
“Huh?”
For a moment, we both stood there staring at each other, then my heart started to pound out a dull warning thud in my chest. Oh, God. Clearly we’d had some sort of communication breakdown, and I had a feeling it was all on my part and I was about to be really embarrassed.
Ismet scratched his head and sort of squinted his eyes apologetically at me. “Meryl, I am thinking we are talking about different things.”
“Yeah, I …” I shook my head. “… I may have misunderstood you, I guess.”
“Come on in.” He stepped aside.
I walked into the house, unzipping my coat and pulling off my hat and gloves. I was hot from being overdressed, but also from feeling like an idiot. I didn’t have access to a mirror, but I could bet my complexion was that hideous blotchy red.
“So, I don’t know what you are talking about with the hiking, but I have borrowed tapes of some of the best TRL episodes. You know, from MTV?” He waited. I made no acknowledgment. “So … I thought we could all watch them.” He gave me a funny smile, almost as if he were on the brink of laughing at me. “What did you think I was talking about?”
Television. I should’ve known.
TRLs wasn’t an abbreviation for trails. It was … something else about which I had NO clue.
I stood there, suffocating on my own mortification, and realized it was the first time in more than a decade that I felt ashamed for the way my family and I lived. That, in turn, made me feel AWFUL. I was humiliated by my own cluelessness, though, and I really, really didn’t want Ismet to think I was strange. Then I felt guilty for even WORRYING that someone—anyone—would disagree with my lifestyle or make fun of me for it. That wasn’t ME. I felt like a sellout of the worst kind.
While my mind continued to race, I opened my mouth to say something, although I didn’t know what. Nothing came out.
Just then, Shefka rounded the corner. “Hola, Meryl!”
“Hi,” I said, sounding sort of dazed and out of breath. I even forgot to answer her in Spanish, which was our usual pattern in order to practice conversation skills.
Jenita bounded into the room and threw her arms around me. “Meryl, you are here!”
I didn’t even hug poor little Jenita back or reply to her. I was too stunned still.
Sheika’s smile faded as Jenita pulled away and looked up at me with big troubled eyes.
“Are you okay?” Shefka asked.
My throat tightened. To my horror, I felt dangerously close to bursting into tears. I shook my head. My voice quavered slightly when I said, “I … I just remembered something I was supposed to do for my mom.” I flipped my hand over sort of helplessly. “I’m sorry.”
“Wait. You have to leave?” Ismet asked, seeming more baffled than ever. “What about the shows?”
“Don’t go, Meryl!” Jenita cried.
I started backing toward the door, because I was afraid I might lose it right then and there. It was such a strange reaction for me. If this was what it meant to have a crush on a guy, then count me out. “I don’t know. I have to … I’m sorry.”
“Jenita, come here.” Shefka said, in a low tone. The little girl obeyed. “Don’t worry, Meryl,” Shefka added, looking like she might understand more than she was letting on. I mean, she’d been to my house once. Maybe she’d noticed the distinct lack of televisions and had put two and two together. Probably not. I didn’t know!
I think she had an idea that I had a crush on her brother, though, and surely she knew it wasn’t reciprocated. I had no way of really knowing what was going through Sheika’s mind, to be honest, and I didn’t have the stomach to stand around any longer and speculate. I couldn’t handle the prospect of seeing pity on any of their faces.
Jenita buried her face in the side of her big sister’s sweater. I hated that I might have scared or hurt her,
but it couldn’t be helped.
“I’m sorry for the mix-up about the plans,” Ismet said, his voice sort of uncertain.
“No. It’s okay. M-my fault. I’ll … see you both at school. Bye, Jenita.”
Before any of them could say anything more, I turned heel and ran like a frightened rabbit. It’s not that I was afraid that a little television watching would reach inside me and suck my brain out. I just choose to live without it, and I didn’t want to compromise my convictions. I mean, Caressa and Lila and I did fine together without ever having turned on the television. If they wanted to watch something special, it was simply understood that they didn’t invite me, and I was completely okay with that.
Somehow, though, thanks to my embarrassment, I hadn’t been able to stand up for my beliefs and choices in front of Ismet, which made me feel weak and fraudulent. Did I really care what he, or any guy, thought? And how did I even know how he would’ve reacted? Maybe it wouldn’t have even been a big deal. I bit my lip as I drove away, smearing away the tears that ran freely down my face and blurred my vision. I didn’t have answers to my own questions.
I mean, what girl in her right mind would set herself up to be rejected by her number-one crush? Then again, who wants to pretend to be someone she’s not just to snare a guy? GOD! It was all so confusing. The more I knew about this dating stuff, the more I wanted to go live in a cave with dogs.
When I got home, I raced up to my computer and emailed Lila and Caressa:
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected], [email protected]
SUBJECT: S.O.S—LIFE SUCKS!!!!!!!
TIME: 3:48:14 P.M., MST
I am having the WORST DAY IN THE WORLD!!!!!!!!! I just made a fool of myself in front of Ismet. UGH UGH! I don’t want to talk about it yet, but just tell me this: what the hell is TRL????
Meryl
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected], [email protected]
SUBJECT re: S.O.S—LIFE SUCKS!!!!!!!
Who's Your Daddy? Page 10