That Thing We Call a Heart

by Sheba Karim

  “Fuck them and their bigoted rhetoric. You don’t hear me asking Ashish why he didn’t stop right wing Hindus from burning Muslims alive in Gujarat!”

  “Wasn’t that a long time ago?”

  “It’s still happening—God, Qureshi, whose side are you on? You know what, forget it.” Farah shook her head. “I gotta go home.”

  “I thought you were sleeping over,” I said.

  “Nah, not today.”

  “But how will you get home?”

  “I’ll take the bus.”

  “You mean two buses.”

  “Well, not all of us gets to have their own car,” Farah said.

  “My car is a piece of crap!” I protested.

  She shook her head. “You’re so clueless sometimes.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know how I told you since I started wearing hijab people stand farther away from me, especially guys? Well, guess what? So do you.”

  “I do not,” I protested.

  “Really? Look at where you are right now.”

  She was right; I used to walk around practically linking arms with her and now I was standing a good three feet away. I quickly closed the gap between us. A few crumbs of the chocolate chip cookie she’d had at lunch were caught in the neck folds of her scarf, but now was definitely not a good time to point this out.

  “If I was doing it, it wasn’t consciously,” I said.

  “Jesus Christ,” she said.

  “Don’t you mean Prophet Isa?”

  It was a lame joke, and Farah didn’t laugh.

  “I’ll stand closer to you now,” I promised.

  “When I was in San Francisco, thinking about how it would be to come back to this bastion of white privilege in hijab, you know what gave me comfort?” Farah said. “That my best friend Shabnam Qureshi would be there for me.”

  “Farah . . . I want to be there for you. But it doesn’t even seem like this hijab thing is making you happy. I mean, sure, maybe people aren’t objectifying your body or whatever, but aren’t they objectifying you as a Muslim?”

  “But I am a Muslim. I’m proud to be Muslim.” She threw her hands up. “And I’m done defending myself.”

  “Wait,” I pleaded.

  “What?”

  There was one cure for everything. “Ye Olde donuts?”

  “Not today,” she said.

  I was going to call out to her, but then I thought, fuck her and her holier-than-thou attitude. I survived before her, I could do it again.

  That was the beginning of the end.

  Each year the seniors held a big charity drive, and the next afternoon we had a senior class meeting to vote on which charity to support. A list of the charities left in the anonymous suggestion box had been printed out and posted on the senior lounge bulletin board. One of them was Playgrounds for Palestine. It was easy to guess whose that was.

  The senior lounge seating consisted of three couches and one long table with chairs. It was an unspoken rule that the popular kids had first dibs at the couches, the rest of us sitting on the chairs or on the windowsill or on top of the pool table. The nicest couch, a soft burgundy leather one that some alum had gifted last year, was considered the best seat in the house, reserved for people like Natasha and Amelia and Ryan.

  When I walked into the lounge for the meeting, I saw Farah sitting in the center of the burgundy couch, headphones on, arms folded over her backpack, looking determined. What was she trying to prove? I thought. Both spaces on either side of her were empty, but I didn’t dare trod on the territory of the popular kids. Plus, the couch was in the center of the room, so if I sat next to her everyone would be staring at us the whole time.

  As I walked over to the pool table, I avoided eye contact with Farah. People kept arriving, the popular kids becoming pissed that she’d taken their spot. I heard Natasha say, “Who does she think she is?” I was glad she had her headphones on so she couldn’t hear. No one sat next to her.

  Enter Ryan D’Ambrosio III.

  “Out of my way, turds,” he said, gesturing with his lacrosse stick and surveying his seating options. He shrugged, plopped down on the couch next to Farah, and spread his legs wide.

  “Hey,” he said, lifting one of Farah’s headphones and speaking loud enough for everyone to hear, “you don’t have a bomb in that backpack, do you?” Then he nudged her like she was in on the joke, cried, “Allahu Akbar!” and pretended to machine gun the rest of the room, a few people keeling over backward in fake death.

  Everyone laughed, not because it was funny, but because it was Ryan’s role to make dumb jokes, and ours to laugh at them.

  I didn’t laugh for very long, though, and I was hoping Farah hadn’t noticed. I thought she might respond to Ryan with sarcasm, like she had with Ashish, but Farah said nothing the entire meeting, sat there frozen, eyes wide, jaw clenched, the kind of face you make when you’re trying hard not to cry.

  I voted for Playgrounds for Palestine, as if that could make everything all right.

  Thirteen

  FARAH’S LITTLE BROTHER MOHI, short for Mohammed, answered the door, holding up the brim of his adult-sized NY Mets cap with one finger so he could see. Mohi had a cute bowl cut and an adorable, innocent face. You’d never guess he was the one who’d snuck into Farah’s bedroom and spread peanut butter inside her underwear.

  “Salaam alaikum,” he greeted me.

  “Nice hat,” I told him.

  “I’m going to be a pitcher for the Mets one day,” he announced. “Inshallah.”

  “That’s awesome,” I said. “Is Farah home?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “Summer camp.”

  “What summer camp?”

  “At the masjid. You want to try my hat on?”

  “Maybe next time. Can you tell me how to get there?”

  “You don’t know how to get to the masjid?”

  “I don’t go to the masjid, and even if I did, it wouldn’t be this one.”

  “It’s that way,” Mohi replied, pointing left.

  “Thanks, that’s very helpful,” I said.

  “You’re welcome!” he said.

  I smiled. “I was being sarcastic.”

  “What’s sarcastic?”

  “Your sister Farah, most of the time. All right, wish me luck.”

  “Luck!” Mohi called out, waving from the door.

  I thought of Jamie as I opened Google Maps, wondering what he would do if he were ever in a foreign suburbia and needed to find the nearest masjid. Not that he’d ever be in that position, but still.

  The masjid was a nondescript, boxy, two-story white building, the only Muslim architectural elements a portico of three rounded arches and the Quranic calligraphy over the entrance. I was dressed in a short-sleeve V-neck shirt, but luckily I didn’t have to go inside; the campers were all behind the masjid, playing in the large, fenced-in field.

  I walked through the gate that led to the field. A boys’ soccer match was in progress, the pinnies of the opposing teams lighter and darker shades of green. A young man with a neatly trimmed beard and hip-hop baggy jeans was yelling orders at them from one corner. His team must have scored the point, because he cried out, “Subanallah!” and did a little shimmy.

  The girls were at the farther end. I walked along the edge of the metal fence, stepping over several cigarette butts along the way. A dozen or so girls were holding bows and arrows, standing across from a line of round plastic targets set upon metal tripods. They looked around middle school age, and three were wearing their hijab turban style, which I guessed was in emulation of Farah, who’d started wearing her hijab that way right before we graduated. Today she was wearing a peacock blue turban, a black, high-neck, long-sleeve linen dress with black leggings, and black boots with blue laces.

  The girls were listening intently to Farah, who was pacing between them and their targets, her hands clasped behind her back.

  �
�Maybe it’s that old lady who gave you a pitying look at the grocery store because she thinks you’re some oppressed woman, maybe it’s that kid in school who asked you if there was a bomb in your backpack, maybe it’s the neighbor’s pit bull that always tries to sniff your crotch when you have your period! Whatever, whoever, that bull’s-eye is it! Remember, you are strong! You are brave! You are riot grrrls!” Farah got out of the way and lifted her arms. “All right, my Katnisses, ready, aim, fire!”

  The arrows started flying in every direction, including one that whizzed by Farah’s head, but she didn’t flinch, because she was too busy staring at me.

  “How did you know I was here?” she asked.

  “Mohi told me. They aren’t worried you’ll be a bad influence on the girls? Half of them are already in turbans.”

  “My dress may be controversial, but I’m still going to Harvard. Anyway, I’m only subbing for the week.”

  “Sister Farah?” One of the girls, whose mustache reminded me I should pick up some more bleach cream on the way home, called out. “Do you think you can show us how we actually shoot a bow and arrow?”

  “I’m here for moral support,” Farah answered. “If you have technical questions, ask Siri. Now keep practicing!” She turned back to me, arching one eyebrow, her silver eye shadow shimmering in the sun. “Why are you here?”

  “I have to tell you something, and I wanted to say it in person.”

  “Oh.” Farah unfolded her arms. “Go ahead.”

  “I’m in love, Farah!” I burst out. “I’m totally, madly in love!”

  I was hoping for a show of enthusiasm, but instead she looked a little hurt. “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” she said. “So you’re in love. Al-hamdz.” That was short for al-hamdulillah, praise be to Allah. “Who’s the lucky man?”

  “His name is Jamie.” I summed up our glorious history in a few sentences, Victoria’s Secret, farmers’ market, pie shack, kiss. “God, I was so happy when he kissed me, it’s torture to like someone and worry they won’t like you back. Whenever he touches me, I feel this ecstatic shiver. When I kiss him it’s like my whole body is on fire. It literally leaves me breathless. I always thought that was some cheesy romance novel thing but it actually happens! I’m like a moth about to enter the flame—”

  “Shut up, Qureshi.”

  “What?” I said, stung.

  “We can’t talk about this here. You’re standing on masjid property, close to a bunch of twelve-year-olds.”

  “So let’s meet up somewhere where we can talk about this. Plus, I want you to meet him.”

  “We’ve been on radio silence since graduation, and now you want me to meet your new boyfriend?” Farah said. “Why?”

  It gave me a thrill to hear her refer to Jamie as my boyfriend.

  “Because he’s important to me, and so are you. I miss you. Ever since I met Jamie, I’ve been dying to talk to you about it, and it’s been really hard,” I said.

  “Sister Farah! Does sharting break wudu?” one of the turbaned girls called out, and the others burst out laughing.

  “Sassy,” I said.

  Farah sighed. “I gotta get back to these pimple factories.”

  She clearly had no interest in meeting the love of my life. Why would she, when she refused to open herself up to even the possibility of love.

  “Okay. See you soon, I guess.”

  As I walked away, she yelled, “Fine.”

  I turned back. “Fine what?”

  “Fine, I’ll meet him. Text me later.”

  I had to restrain myself from shimmying back to the car.

  Fourteen

  NOW THAT JAMIE AND I were an item, we’d forsaken Mrs. Joan Milton’s bench for the shack, talking and laughing and making out in our private cocoon that smelled of flour and butter and fruit and sugar, of all the sweet, good things in life.

  Lovely though it was, the shack wasn’t very comfortable for hooking up. We couldn’t both lie down without being half on top of each other, which sounds great except the floor was hard and had nails poking out of it. When we sat up against the wall, we had to keep our knees bent. Plus it was hot, and at some point even Jamie started sweating, though his sweat smelled like pie. Before opening up for business, I’d have to sanitize my face, my neck, and my pits with baby wipes.

  But we managed pretty well with the space we had. Yesterday, he’d lain down lengthwise and placed his head in my lap. At first, I’d been nervous I might fart, or that maybe my crotch smelled weird, or that there were boogers in my nose. But then I saw Jamie smiling up at me so casually, as if he’d been lying in my lap for years, that I quickly relaxed, enjoying the weight of his head, playing with his awesome hair, which had so much body it practically had a life of its own.

  The next day, when he put his head on my lap, the nightingale didn’t tremble once.

  I smiled down at him, brushing the hair from his forehead. “I got another poem from my father.”

  “A ghazal?” he asked.

  “No, another free form by Faiz.”

  He reached up, wound a curl around his finger. “Where’s my ghazal?”

  “It’s coming,” I promised. “Now do you want to hear the poem or not?”

  “I’m all ears.”

  This time, I had it memorized.

  “So this is an excerpt from ‘The Desert of Loneliness,’ another poem by Faiz Ahmed Faiz, translated, of course, by my father.”

  In the desert of loneliness, beneath the dust and weeds of distance,

  Blossom the roses and jasmine of being by your side

  From somewhere very close rises the heat of your breath

  Slowly smoldering in its own fragrance

  Far across the horizon the shining dew of

  Your beloved gaze falls, drop by drop

  With such love, o life of the world, has your memory

  Placed its hand on the face of my heart

  Though it’s still just the dawn of our separation

  It feels that the day of exile has passed, and the night of union is already here

  “With such love, o life of the world, has your memory / Placed its hand on the face of my heart,” he repeated. “If it’s so beautiful in English, what’s it like in Urdu?”

  “Must be pretty darn good,” I said, tracing the scar between his collarbones. The one on his hand was the most visible, but if you looked carefully, you’d find the others. He’d told me an art major he’d dated at U. Wisconsin Madison had drawn red lines on his naked self, connecting all of his scars, and taken a photo for her senior art thesis, calling it “Map of Old Wounds.” I wished I was artsy and cool like her. I wished Jamie and I had more time together. I wished this summer would never end.

  But, unless Jamie decided to stay after the shack closed, we had ten days left.

  “So when do I get to eat some Pakistani food?” he asked.

  “What do you want to eat?”

  “Whatever the lady brings me.”

  “Well, what do you like?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, I’ve never tried it.”

  “Have you had Indian food? It’s a lot like North Indian.”

  “I’ve hit the lunch buffet at Mirch Masala in Madison a few times, it’s pretty good. I really dig their lamb biryani.”

  “That’s a little complicated to make, I think.”

  “My other favorite is chicken tikka . . .”

  “Chicken tikka masala. My mother doesn’t make that. She says it’s not even Indian.”

  “So my favorite Indian dish isn’t really Indian? Figures.” He sat up, and kissed the tips of my fingers. “I’ve got a lot to learn, huh? I’m lucky I have such a beautiful teacher.”

  I died of happiness every time he looked at me with those honey hazel eyes and called me beautiful. He could do so every day of my life and I was certain it would never get old.

  He kissed me and I kissed him back harder. His hand slipped under my shirt, his fingers searing my ski
n. I sucked in my stomach fiercely, and as his hand moved up to my chest, I regretted my choice of cotton bra, old and saggy and stretched out. I needed underwear that could actually be called lingerie.

  “Is this okay?” Jamie asked, his hand still cupping my breast.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “I should check the time,” he said.

  “Noooo.”

  “I don’t want to stop either, MD, but I made a promise to Aunt Marianne that we’d always open on time.”

  It was almost four, as always. As Jamie helped me up, he said, “Listen, I know you’re from a different culture, so you can tell me to stop whenever.”

  It struck me as a weird thing to say, because yes, my parents were Pakistani, but I thought it was pretty obvious that, despite my occasional self-deprecating inner monologue, I was as eager to hook up as he was. I’d already decided I’d have sex with him, if we got that far, because I loved him and he was the sweetest, coolest guy I’d ever met and I’d be lucky to lose my virginity to him. Plus I wouldn’t have to start college a virgin.

  “Thanks. But you should know I really love kissing you,” I said.

  “And I love kissing you,” Jamie replied, his lips traveling across my cheek to meet mine.

  I moaned, quietly but decisively, to indicate how into it I was.

  “Goodbye, Morning Dew,” he whispered, the warmth of his breath tingling in my ear.

  In the desert of loneliness, beneath the dust and weeds of distance,

  Blossom the roses and jasmine of being by your side

  My rose, my jasmine, my Jamie.

  Bliss.

  Fifteen

  FARAH WAS EASY TO spot; she was the sole hijabi in the mall food court, dressed in black from head to toe, except for her boots’ turquoise laces. As I came closer, I noticed her scarf was subtly patterned with raised fists.

  “Greetings,” I said. “Sorry I’m late, my mom dropped me off and you know how slow she drives.” I didn’t bother explaining that I had my mom drive me so I could have Jamie give me a ride home. “Plus, we made a pit stop.”

  Farah pointed to the white paper bag dangling from my hand. “Please tell me that’s Ye Olde donuts.”