Bestest. Ramadan. Ever.

by Medeia Sharif

  In between bells, I sneak off to the bathroom to look at my teeth. I’m now obsessed. I open wide and see the opaque ovals of wisdom teeth trying to break through my gums. Gross. They’re really trying to burst through and become a part of my regular teeth, like weeds sprouting out of the ground. I even feel a tinge of pain. Maybe it’s real or imaginary, but those suckers are really trying to break the surface.

  Everyone hears that I’m having surgery after school today and I make it out to be a big deal. “They’re going to cut through my gums,” I say. “I’m going to be really out of it tomorrow.” The gentle touch of sympathy and kind words is nice, even though I’m not undergoing a huge procedure. It’s just my mouth, not my pancreas or lungs or something like that.

  My friends rally around me during this time of uncertainty. Surgery is surgery, and I can die from any misstep. Dad told me he has his patients sign a consent form before dental surgery, something saying that they’re aware of the complications from anesthesia. I wonder if he’ll make his own daughter sign that paper.

  People ask questions and hug me all day long. I have all types of friends, because I don’t discriminate. I feel that if someone has a big heart and good intentions, then that person can be my friend. Lisa is slow (ergo the Anne Frank question). My friend Raul is snide and sarcastic, but he likes to fix things and fixed my computer once. Jillian gossips a lot, and I’m sure she has gossiped about me behind my back, but she’s super nice. Then there’s Maria. She’s a chonga, an impertinent Miami Latina. She has the fast mouth, lip liner, and stiff hair. She also has a quick temper, but she’s still lovable. I once tripped her by accident because my foot was extended out and I thought she was going to beat me up, but she didn’t. She can be aggressive, but never toward me.

  At lunchtime, I join my friends for the company. It’s not like I’m going to hide in the library during my entire fast, even though my stomach is doing backflips and cartwheels as I watch my friends eat. Maria is eating a Twinkie. She offers me one. I shake my head.

  “Come on,” Maria says.

  “Maria, I can’t,” I say.

  “You know you want to.” Maria licks the crème filling, her red lipstick becoming fainter as she licks her lips. Twinkies … I really don’t like packaged desserts that much. They can be made out of anything: cow ears, cardboard, you just don’t know what you’re eating. I prefer Mom’s cooking or things from an actual bakery, but Twinkies sure look good to me during my fast. I take the Twinkie from Maria and stare at it through the wrapper. It’s golden yellow and so delicate looking. I’m sure it would melt in my mouth. I sniff it.

  “You’re weird,” Maria says.

  “I’m just smelling it,” I say.

  “You know she’s fasting and that’s very important to her religion,” Lisa says, tapping her foot in irritation. She grabs the Twinkie from me and hands it back to Maria.

  “Forget the both of you then,” Maria says. She’s in one of her moods. Not only did she fail to tempt me, but she’s also failing shop class because she didn’t finish making a lamp, so she’s upset about that. “That man never wants to give me a break!” she says about her teacher. This morning she also had a freshman chip one of her toenails by accidentally dropping a heavy book on it.

  “Look at this,” she tells me, lifting one of her sandaled feet up in the air. The nail of her big toe is cleaved in half, with a line through the middle. “I should have busted that girl’s skull for what she did. It hurts so much.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t mean to do it,” I say.

  “Yeah, and you can get nail-repair gel,” Lisa says.

  “Okay, I’ll try that.”

  We’re hanging out in the halls after lunch, waiting for the bell to ring. Then Shakira walks by, looking at us up and down, inspecting us. The very sight of her is unnerving. She shakes her head and pushes her thick hair across her shoulders.

  “I heard you broke your toenail,” Shakira says.

  “That’s right,” Maria says neutrally.

  “It looks painful.”

  “It is.”

  “We’re not allowed to wear open-toed shoes. It’s against school policy.”

  If looks could kill. Maria shoots an irate look at Shakira and says, “Mind your own damn business.”

  Shakira raises her eyebrow. “I’m just stating a fact. If you were wearing close-toed shoes, then your toenail wouldn’t be cracked.”

  “Look, I’m in pain and I don’t need you to lecture me with your bull.”

  “If you’re going to lose your temper about this, that’s just fine,” Shakira says evenly, shrugging her shoulders. “You should know better. But I guess you don’t.”

  It all happens so fast. Maria rushes forward and pushes Shakira, who catapults a few feet backwards but doesn’t fall. Shock transforms her face into someone I don’t recognize. It’s like when you’ve known someone for so long and he or she looks different when showing that rare expression of devastation. I once saw Lisa trip over a step (she turned out to be okay and in one piece at the bottom of the stairwell), and Shakira has that same expression: alarm, hurt, what’s going on, what’s happening to me.

  Students start gathering around us. People our age are horrible. We always want to see a fight. I’m ashamed to say that I’m the same way. I enjoy seeing hair pulling and punching between classmates. “Punch her!” a girl in the crowd eggs on.

  “Kick the new girl’s ass!”

  I start to feel the press of the mob against my back. I look behind me and elbow some guy who’s breathing down my neck. There’s a nucleus of Shakira and Maria, surrounded by a thickening mass as more and more people join this human circle. Maria and Shakira both have their feet apart, in a fighting stance, with eyes narrowed in pure rage. I wonder who’ll make the next move. Maria could shove her again and topple her down. She’s sturdy and has twenty pounds over Shakira.

  Mr. Gregory just happened to be in the hallway when the push occurred and he cuts through the crowd. He saw everything. “Maria!” he barks out. “What are you doing?”

  “She started it!” Maria screams.

  Shakira straightens herself out and brushes her clothes with her hands. She no longer looks angry. She has a wide-eyed expression, yet she still manages to look lovely and unaffected. I wanted her to fall, but with her long legs she managed to keep her balance. I probably would have been knocked down on my clumsy butt if Maria had pushed me. Maria is strong. She sometimes punches me in the arm in play, and it really hurts.

  A security guard shows up and tells Maria to come with him. Maria wears a grimace on her face, and her eyes are glassy with unfallen tears. Shakira follows behind Mr. Gregory, who is a witness. They’re going to the principal’s office.

  Lisa grabs my hand. “Do you know what’s going to happen?” she asks.

  I nod, gulping nervously. “Maria’s going to get suspended,” I say. A part of me wants her to be suspended since she’s so insistent that I eat during Ramadan, and it seems like she really wants me to fail at fasting, but another part of me feels sorry for her. I don’t want to see her get hurt, not over Shakira.

  The crowd dissipates. There’s no longer anything to see, except the nervous breakdown washing over me. I feel horrible that Maria’s going to get suspended, from defending me as well as herself. Her anger stemmed from Shakira’s criticism of her shoes, but she was also angry about what Shakira said to me at the mall. Maria looks out for me and is a fierce friend. I remember how in middle school Maria had an elective class with us and this boy made fun of Lisa’s boniness. He made Lisa cry. Lisa’s always been skinny, but in her younger years she was all bones and knobby angles. She even had to drink weight-gain shakes. I can’t believe some people purposefully try to gain weight. Anyway, Maria beat him up after school in a park and got into trouble with the boy’s parents. But this time, the fight happe
ned on school grounds. There’s no way for her to get out of this.

  “I hate Shakira,” Lisa says.

  “We all hate Shakira!” our friend Jillian bellows in the hallway.

  “Let’s start a petition!”

  “Maria cares about us! What has the new girl done? Nothing but cause trouble!”

  There are grumblings of agreement, because Maria has many friends and Shakira is the new girl who gets on everyone’s nerves. I take the Dove chocolate out of my bookbag and stare at it. It’s mighty tempting. I used to eat chocolate to calm down, but now I have to turn inwards to calm myself down.

  Lisa watches me tear apart the foil. I tear it quickly, the same way I unwrap gifts. I look at it. Such a square piece of wonder. Such joy.

  “You’re not going to eat that, are you?” Lisa asks, her eyes bugging out.

  I bring the chocolate to my lips.

  “No, don’t!”

  I bring it under my nose.

  “Almira, please, you’ve gone this far and you can do it!”

  I sniff the chocolate and all the memories it contains: Whoppers when I was a kid, chocolate ice cream during summer vacation, and fun-size Snickers that Mom puts into my lunch bag occasionally. It smells like all the good things of the world. It reminds me of comfort, a toasty bed on a cold night, a bubble bath after a bad day, a good book that I can escape into … it even reminds me of non-food things, just because it has that power. I get a good whiff. It smells heavenly. Then I throw the chocolate in the nearest trash bin. I can’t eat it, but the smell of it made me feel better.

  “Someone’s been leaving chocolates for me,” I say.

  “Who would do that?”

  “Someone trying to sabotage me.”

  “Or someone who likes you,” Lisa says.

  I don’t know. Is someone trying to purposefully make me eat or trying to give me a message of love? At the moment I want the chocolate game to end … and for Maria to have her suspension cancelled.

  • • •

  The whole afternoon goes downhill after the brawl. One push and all hell breaks loose, it seems. One shove, one hand moving against another person’s body, and there’s so much misery. Shakira comes to biology late, probably from taking her sweet time giving all the dirt about Maria to the principal. She spends the rest of the day with her head down, avoiding people, while everyone stares daggers at her. Who does she think she is? Seriously. She acts like some princess, walking around telling people exactly what she thinks of them, as if her opinion counts for something. No it doesn’t, Shakira. You’re just another shallow, pretty, empty thing. So there.

  Maria leaves a voicemail message on my cell phone. Many of us leave our phones on vibrate or silent when we’re in class, but Maria calls anyway, leaving tear-filled messages on our phones. “I’m sus-suspended,” she sobs. “My parents are so, so angry at me. Call me when you get home.”

  Poor Maria. Despite her temper, she has never been suspended before. Sometimes teachers have to take her aside and give her a lecture on anger management, but never this. The bad kids get suspended, not people like Maria, who is an above-average student and genial when she wants to be. This is the first time one of my friends has gotten into trouble with authority. I finally know someone who is a badass. It’s kind of cool, yet tragic.

  After school Mom picks me up to take me to Dad’s office. Two tanned, blonde women with massive chests and a man with sparkling highlights in his hair leave as we enter. Dad caters to the pretty people, after all. He will make me pretty, too.

  None of it is pleasant. There’s the needle of Novocain, first off. I wonder what will happen if I have an allergic reaction. I can die. Mom and Dad will have another child to replace me because they’re in their thirties, which is old, but not too old. Maybe they’ll enjoy this new child, who will be less whiny and insecure than me. She’ll be slim and popular. Shakira flashes through my mind. Tears sting my eyes at the thought of my parents raising another person, someone better. I’m so used to being the only child.

  “Da,” I mumble, my jaw lax after he shoots me up.

  “Almira, try not to talk,” Dad says. “You’ll drool.”

  “Da.”

  “What is it?”

  “Nuh-in.” Dad loves me. He gives me a lovey-dovey look, but he can’t kiss my forehead or hug me since he’s wearing a mask and gloves. Mom’s less emotional. She sits on a swivel chair, busily reading about Jessica Alba’s fashion sense in InStyle magazine. Jessica Alba’s hair is windblown on the cover. She reminds me of Shakira. I moan.

  “She’s upset that one of her friends got suspended,” Mom tells Dad.

  “Oh? Tell me about it when I get home.”

  The surgery begins and the experience is horrendous. The instruments coming in and out of my mouth, the crunch of bone as Dad loosens and pulls out the teeth, the suction pipe hosing out my disgusting drool and blood. At the end, my face is puffed out. Dad says he’ll give me painkillers to take at home. Mom puts down her magazine and swabs Vaseline on my dry lips, which feel like they’re peeling from all the chafing of hands and instruments in my mouth.

  I look in the rearview mirror of Mom’s car and I’m horrified. The lower portion of my face is huge. I look like the boy in the movie Mask. “Ma, I look horibew for Paren Nigh.”

  “The swelling will go down,” Mom says tersely. She looks tired, probably from exercising all day, when I did real work by going to school and having my teeth pulled out. I don’t want to voice my thoughts, because then I’ll be accused of whining. Maybe I do whine a lot. It’s okay to have whiney thoughts, but I shouldn’t reveal them all the time. Well, maybe I should, because I think it’s totally unfair that I look dreadful and that Shakira has ruined my friend’s life.

  AlmiraRules: i can’t call you becuz i’m in pain

  MamiMaria: was there a lot of blood?

  AlmiraRules: yes, but forget about me, look at all you went through today

  MamiMaria: i have two days of outdoor suspension, so i can’t come to parent night, cuz that would be trespassing

  AlmiraRules: two days just for pushing someone. you didn’t even punch her

  MamiMaria: i know and i can do some serious damage if i want to and bust that pretty face of hers

  AlmiraRules: her beauty means nothing. she’s so rude and cruel, so cold, that she’s like a statue, only beautiful on the outside

  MamiMaria: you’re right, she’s got nothing on us and don’t let her sweat you, because you’re more beautiful than her

  AlmiraRules: get out of here

  MamiMaria: i mean it, Almira, ur so cute in your glasses and that innocent look you always have on your face, and ur funny, and u nice and helpful, ur beautiful on the inside and outside

  AlmiraRules: oh stop

  MamiMaria: no! and she had no right to put you down and i put a stop to it, cuz i wasn’t going to let her run over you, me, or anyone else

  AlmiraRules: u should have seen how many people defended you and hate her guts

  MamiMaria: i’m queen bee

  AlmiraRules: bye mami

  MamiMaria: see you soon and i’ll bring you a twinkie

  AlmiraRules: no, don’t!

  MamiMaria: i’m just kidding

  AlmiraRules: no you weren’t

  MamiMaria: yes i was

  AlmiraRules: why are you always trying to tempt me?

  MamiMaria: i’m really not

  AlmiraRules: and leaving food for me

  MamiMaria: when?

  AlmiraRules: all those little chocolates

  MamiMaria: i don’t know what u talking about, but i’ll see u later

  AlmiraRules: stop putting chocolates on my seat! i’m not stupid. your english class is across from mine the same period. your science class is next to m
y math class. i know u r the culprit

  MamiMaria: ur crazy

  AlmiraRules: maybe

  MamiMaria: bye babe

  I get off the computer after emailing and instant messaging my friends. My face feels tender and I don’t break fast with my parents. I also walk wobbly because of the Vicodin prescription pills that Dad has given me. At least I know what it’s like to be stoned. I feel dizzy and otherworldly, like the way ghosts must feel when they haunt the material world. I take an ice pack and hold it to my cheeks, switching sides every few minutes. It feels good to have my cheeks slowly deflate.

  Mom feels bad for me and goes out driving to find me something soft to eat. She ends up getting me a peanut butter and strawberry smoothie, king-size, which is surely one thousand calories. I don’t care. I slowly sip it as I do my homework. Parent Night is tomorrow and I lay out the purple dress I’m going to wear. I put on a pair of black heels and slowly walk around my room, getting used to the three inches that they add to my figure. The extra height makes me look trim. I love it. I place the dress and shoes back, wanting to smile but not being able to since my face is frozen.

  I put out my contact lenses and saline solution, because I want to be free of glasses for one night. Sometimes my eyes behave for a couple of hours and they can tolerate the sensation of contacts. I have some makeup I want to wear. Grandpa hates it when I wear makeup, especially anything pink or red on my lips or cheeks. He says that I’m trying to look older than my age. He also says that women who wear too much makeup look like prostitutes. I haven’t seen too many prostitutes, except those few times when Mom or Dad drove me up Biscayne Boulevard, and then I saw plenty of them. I haven’t studied their makeup, though. Their clothes are what grab my attention.

  The alarm clock, in blaring red digits, tells me that it’s past ten o’clock. I can hear Mom and Dad messing around in the kitchen, eating a late night snack, and I join them to get a glass of water. They’re eating tuna sandwiches. The bread, the flaky tuna, the chopped-up tomatoes. My stomach is saying yes, but my sore mouth is saying no. After Mom finishes eating, she gives me a mani and pedi, doing my fingers in pink and my toes in red. She does nails like a professional, cutting my cuticles, buffing my nails, and doing everything that a salon does, and it lasts for days and days. When I do my own nails I always create a mess and the polish chips the very next day, so I appreciate Mom for helping me get ready for Parent Night. It’s soothing to have her hands massage mine. I feel a tickle of the nail-polish brush. Mom says some things, but I don’t capture her words in my fuzzy haze. I don’t even remember falling into bed.