Bestest. Ramadan. Ever.

by Medeia Sharif

With ninjalike moves I follow Peter to the other side of the school. My footfall is barely perceptible amid the hubbub of hundreds of high schoolers ranging from runtlike freshmen to sophisticated seniors. I see these two thousand people every day, and I don’t know most of them. I half-recognize faces as I stay a few feet behind Peter.

  “Hey, bro,” a boy says as he approaches Peter.

  “What’s up?” Peter gives a high five to his shaggy-haired friend. His friend has a large, black portfolio under one arm—he has to be an art-class buddy. Peter takes his bookbag off and tosses it onto a bench.

  “Finished your assignment?” the friend asks.

  “Yup. I’ll show it to you. An easy A.”

  “For you. You must be the best artist in the class.”

  “No, I think Eric is much better than me.”

  “Nah, Eric has nothing on you,” the friend says.

  “Well, see my sketchpad first and then you decide,” Peter says.

  They go on for a few minutes about who has the best artistic skill in the class. I don’t recognize the names because I’m not in that clique. They also mention techniques and artists that I have no clue about. And my eyes are glued to the bookbag, or they try to be. People walk in front of me, blocking my view, but I know where the objects of my desire are—Peter and his sketchpad. Peter and his friend walk over to a water fountain a few feet away. They leave their bookbags behind. First Peter’s friend dips his head down for water, and then Peter.

  I’m fast. I scamper from behind the bushes, grab Peter’s bookbag, and then return to the bushes. It happens like lightening—flashes of the blue sky, the greenery of the courtyard, people’s jumbled faces—and now I have one of his possessions, even though it’s the owner I’m really after. I flatten my body against a building and go inside of it, to a bathroom. I have it. I have his bookbag. I actually stole someone’s bookbag! I have never stolen anything in my entire life.

  It isn’t stealing, because I’ll make sure he gets it back.

  Yeah. Anything to make me feel less bad.

  Inside the girl’s bathroom, I hold the bookbag to my chest. It smells like him: cologne, sweat, and the graphite of pencils. It’s a heady combination. I imagine this is what boyfriends smell like—a mixture of the things that they love. So if I were to date a baseball player, then he’d smell like the outdoors and the leather of his mitt. One of those hippie-wannabes who listens to Hendrix and Joplin would smell like incense and whatever it is he smokes. But it’s Peter’s smell that I’ve been after. And if any boy got to know me really well, then my perfume would become mingled with his scent so that we could become one. That’s so romantic.

  I look at my watch. The bell will ring soon. So much time has passed, from stalking Peter to making away with his bag.

  It feels so wrong … I slowly unzip his bookbag. I never noticed before that he has several patches and pins on it. He has a Greenpeace pin, a patch with Vincent Van Gogh’s face on it, and a Humane Society pin. He’s so sensitive! He loves animals and art and the environment. I get even more excited as I stick my hand into his bag.

  Math book, pencils, a scientific calculator. The bookbag is heavy, but I didn’t realize that so much junk would be in it. Then again, my bookbag has plenty of stuff in it, too. I assumed that boys would carry fewer things, but I’m wrong.

  I want the sketchpad!

  There’s an assortment of notebooks and folders with his slanted writing all over them, but no sketchpad. Where is it?

  Well, see my sketchpad first and then you decide.

  Oh no! Peter must have taken his sketchpad out during a moment when people were blocking my view. He probably had his sketchpad either in his hand when he drank water or he left it on the bench so that his friend could look at it. I’ve stolen his bookbag for nothing. I search through the whole thing and there are no drawings. How I wanted to see the contents of that pad! I’m dying to know what’s inside of it.

  The bell rings. I don’t want to be late to class. But how am I going to get rid of the bookbag?

  I stick my head out of the bathroom to take a peek at what’s going on. People are walking to their lockers and to class. I have my own bag slung on my back, so it’ll definitely look weird to come out with another bag. And I still don’t know how I’m going to get it back to Peter. I leave the bathroom, thinking about how I should approach him with his bookbag. I’ll tell him that I found it and knew it was his. Some pranksters must have taken it from him.

  “Miss!”

  The adult female voice cuts through the air.

  “Miss!”

  The voice is getting closer to me.

  “Miss!”

  A hand is on my shoulder, and I spin around to see a short, burly woman in my face. It’s one of the security guards. “Come with me,” she says.

  “But, why?” I ask.

  “Come.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” I say

  “I saw you take that bookbag,” she says.

  I gasp at the accusation. Okay, she really must have seen me steal the thing, but she doesn’t know why. I’m after Peter for platonic and romantic reasons. I meant no harm by taking the bag, other than to look through someone else’s possessions and rob him of his privacy. I did nothing wrong.

  I gulp. I’m seeing stars. This is the first time security has ever had to talk to me about anything other than moving it along to clear the hallway before the bell rings. The chongas with a bad attitude—rolling their eyes and talking back to adults—are the ones who are always led away. Not me. Not Almira Abdul, honor-roll student with no boyfriend.

  I follow her, feeling surreal, as if this isn’t really happening to me. This is what it must be like to be handcuffed and booked (I hope that will never ever happen to me, but with the way things are going, maybe it will). I’m doing crazy things in the name of love. I’ve become a bona fide stalker. She takes me to the waiting room outside the principal’s office. The principal’s office! The only time I go in there is when the principal wants to talk to the high achievers about how great we’re doing and to tell us in advance that we’ll have luncheons and breakfasts in celebration of all our outstanding outcomes. I’m always invited to any honor roll or perfect-attendance function. Now I’m in the office for stealing.

  I feel so ashamed. Shame is a big emotion with Muslims. Shame on me, shame on you, shame on everyone. How dare you shame the family name! The family name, such a precious commodity. My parents will be so embarrassed by my actions, because they think that I’m a direct reflection of them. I imagine Grandpa’s face if he were to hear the news … a dark cloud falls over me. The Abdul name will be tarnished forever unless I get out of this muck and mire.

  “The principal is ready to see you,” a secretary says.

  I get up and walk inside the office. I see a lot of brown and red furniture, which almost obscures the people inside it. Behind the massive wooden desk is the principal, Mr. Lopez, and framed by a large red-leather chair is Peter with his sketchpad in his lap. He indeed had taken it out of his bag, and I wasn’t able to see it at all during those few minutes in the girl’s bathroom.

  Mr. Lopez is in his fifties with bushy white hair and a wispy mustache. “Almira, have a seat,” he says in his deep voice.

  I swallow a lump in my throat and sit down.

  “Peter, you approached me in the hallway before class saying that your bookbag was missing, and a security guard saw Almira in action as she took it,” Mr. Lopez says.

  “Almira isn’t the type to steal,” Peter says. He wrinkles his brow because no one associates me with thieving, even though I have sort of done that.

  “Well, that appears to be what happened. Unless Almira has another explanation.”

  “I do,” I say. I clear my throat to strengthen my voice. I have to bluff my way out of this. Th
ere’s no way I’m getting suspended for this, for following my heart. I had been nosy and wrong, but love makes people do foolish things.

  “Well, Almira, I’d like to hear this,” Mr. Lopez says. “You’re a wonderful student and I can’t believe that you’re sitting here for something like this. On prior occasions you’ve come here for your accomplishments, but now it’s for this offense. I rely on you and other students like you to raise the school’s name. Look at the certificate behind me; it’s from when you and your classmates raised money for the community. Look at the trophy outside of my door from the math bowl that you helped us win. You’ve helped make the school successful, and now you want to bring it down by stealing. Trust me, I deal with issues like this all day—petty theft, fights, vandalism, things that go on in every school—but when I have someone like you doing these things, then it’s a cause for great concern.”

  I gulp. Mr. Lopez is just as good as my parents at making me feel guilty.

  “Okay, but I have a really, really good explanation,” I manage to chirp out.

  Mr. Lopez and Peter continue to look at me. And I still have nothing to say.

  “It was really quite simple—”

  Both males wait for me, and then the lies pour out of me.

  “I saw Peter’s bookbag by itself on a bench and I figured that his first period is right next to mine and that I’d give it to him.”

  “But I didn’t leave my bookbag alone,” Peter said. “I mean, I was at the water fountain. Maybe you didn’t see me.”

  “Peter, I swear you weren’t around. I know where you go for first period, so I thought I’d give you the bookbag.”

  “The security guard said that you were watching him until the coast was clear for you to take it,” Mr. Lopez said.

  I gulp again. All this gulping and not a drop to drink. “I don’t know what she’s talking about,” I say. “I was going to the bathroom and saw Peter’s bookbag lying there. I recognized it because of his pins and patches. Sir, I really meant no harm.”

  Peter has a strange look on his face, as if he might believe that I’m some crazy stalker chick.

  “Almira, you have an excellent record with us,” Mr. Lopez says. “I’m sure this was some harmless prank. I don’t feel like doing anything except letting you go with a warning. But next time this happens, we’ll have to bring your parents in and you’ll get a few days of indoor suspension. We don’t have time to be chasing stolen bookbags. Students need to get to work and so do we.”

  “Mr. Lopez, this is just a big misunderstanding,” I say.

  “I hope so,” Mr. Lopez says.

  Peter’s face relaxes. Yes, I’m normal, there’s nothing wrong with me, there’s no reason to take a bookbag. He shifts his sketchpad in his lap. All because of that thing! And I never got a chance to see it.

  Ten minutes have passed since the bell rang, so Mr. Lopez issues us hall passes. This is the first time I’ve ever been late to first period. And for what? But at least I can say that I tried to go after something, somebody I wanted. I’m not standing in the sidelines. I’m an active participant, even if I fail miserably.

  Peter walks alongside me. I steal—there I go stealing again—glances at his gleaming hair and broad shoulders. I want him to put his arm around me absentmindedly, but we aren’t there yet. We aren’t anywhere yet. A big idea starts forming in my head: He will be mine.

  “That was pretty stupid,” Peter says. “I know you don’t steal things.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “That security guard must be seeing things.”

  We walk slowly, taking our time to get to class since the principal has excused us on the hall passes he wrote. Kids skipping class for real are ducking into bathrooms and stairwells. I’d like to do that too, so I can have more time with Peter.

  “I’m glad he didn’t call my parents,” I say. “They’d flip out.”

  “You were only trying to help,” he says.

  “I know.” I was also trying to look through your things without your permission because I want you.

  He looks so calm. I must look calm too, but there are all these turbulent emotions inside of me. He has no idea. Well, I tried. His sketchpad is under his arm. Now I don’t know who he’s drawing, if by chance he has a sketch of me. Maybe he stays up late at night picturing my face in his head. Let me remember what Almira’s cheekbones look like. Ah, her eyes. I need to add more definition to her chin. Yet I doubt it, because he isn’t acting any special way toward me. He’s just his usual friendly self.

  We stop in front of Peter’s first-period history class. “Well, thanks for trying to help,” he says. He puts a hand on my shoulder and gently squeezes. I want him to reach down and squeeze my hand, so that we can be seen in the hallway as a couple. A couple walks past us, hand in hand, smiles on their faces, laughing about something. A couple. Two people become one.

  Peter gets closer to me. His skin has a moist sheen to it (okay, it’s oily). His lashes look super long, up close. I think this is it. I hold my breath. I close my eyes.

  “Almira, did you notice what we had between each other in there?” he asks.

  I open my eyes. He’s half-whispering into my ear, his breath strong enough to make my hair flutter. Okay, he doesn’t kiss me—yet—but at least he notices the chemistry between us.

  “Of course,” I say. My eyes start to feel heavy as tears collect, but I blink them away. This moment is so sweet that I’ll cherish it forever.

  “The way we interacted was amazing.”

  “I agree.”

  “I mean, we really got together and backed you up so that you wouldn’t get into trouble,” he says.

  “Huh?” I say.

  “I didn’t believe any of his accusations, and you were so cool, calm, and collected. I remember the first time Mr. Lopez spoke to me, when I was outside of science class with a water balloon when Mr. Gregory was teaching us about water pressure, and he thought I was going to throw it at someone. My legs turned to jelly and I was stammering. But you were so confident.”

  “I was?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says.

  “Oh.” He isn’t going to kiss me. He isn’t talking about any emotional connection I have with him. He’s straight up talking about Mr. Lopez and how he bore down on me and my excuses when I in fact had taken the bookbag. Not to steal it forever, but just to see that sketchpad, to see if he likes me. But it doesn’t seem like he does.

  Peter squeezes my arm again and his hand lingers below my sleeve. Maybe he does like me. He’s perplexing. It’s like chasing the cookie chunks in a Burger King Oreo Shake with my straw. They’re elusive, but I manage to get them. But I usually have to wait until they’re all at the bottom to scoop them out with a straw or spoon. Peter is my cookie chunk. How I want to bite into him and have him for myself. My stomach growls. I could really use a BK shake. Images of creaminess, coldness, and cookies float in my head. Focus! I tell myself. Peter is still in front of me. We’re alone in the hallway, not a soul in sight.

  “We really have to get to class,” Peter says. “The time on these hall passes is five minutes old.”

  That’s true; our teachers will think we’re skipping. But I don’t care. I don’t want the moment to end. I wish for the school halls to disappear and a beach to appear, and then Peter and I can run off into the sunset. Instead, it’s early in the morning and we’re at school. Blech.

  “I’ll see you later,” he says, ruffling my hair casually.

  “Okay,” I say. I raise my hand to pat him on the shoulder, but he turns around and all I hit is air. How awkward. I don’t know how to touch a boy, even in a friendly way (and I imagine that if it were in a perverted way, I’d somehow mess up).

  I get to English class, hand the teacher my pass, and sit down. People stare at me. There’s some whisperin
g behind me. People know I’ve been in the principal’s office. It’s ridiculous how exciting that is to some people. They will ask me after class what happened. Nothing happened. What I wanted to happen didn’t: to see Peter’s sketchpad and for him to kiss me.

  Even though I feel down-and-out, I’m not going to give up. I console myself that next time, if I want something badly enough, then whatever I want to happen will happen.

  “He’s going to be my boyfriend,” Lisa says.

  “How can you tell?” I ask.

  “Because of our chemistry. We’re like oil and water.”

  “Oil and water don’t mix,” I say.

  “Okay, then we’re like oil and oil or water and water,” she says.

  I sigh. No wonder Lisa always needs help with science homework. She still doesn’t know that mushrooms are fungi (she insists they’re vegetables) and that brown isn’t in the color spectrum. She has so much to learn, but I don’t have the patience to teach her things.

  “Has Peter asked you out?” I ask.

  “No, but in time he will.”

  “He acts friendly toward the both of us.”

  “But he’s into me. We really connected during Parent Night.”

  Yes, and she had a piece of basil stuck in her teeth half the night from eating pizza, but I didn’t tell her. She was seated far from me. Anyway, I wanted her to fail at our group date. I ache for Peter, but I’m not sure if he likes me in any other way than as a friend. This is what unrequited love is. This is what Ms. Odige talks about when she makes us read those boring poems in Middle English, which is English, but old and incomprehensible. I want to cry every minute of every day that I can’t have Peter.

  We sit in front of the school before the first bell rings. It’s another day. Yesterday morning started out horribly with my theft and sitting in Mr. Lopez’s office, but today is a new day, hopefully a better day. Mornings are like almost-clean slates. I say almost-clean because the residue of yesterdays is sometimes stuck on them. Like if I had an argument with a friend or my parents, I’d wake up the next day feeling crummy. Today I still feel weird about stealing Peter’s bookbag. With time, I hope all that entirely washes over. Maybe by this afternoon Peter will think absolutely nothing of it, even though he assured me yesterday that he didn’t think I was capable of stealing. I watch Lisa make another Bic tattoo on her wrist: L and P. Lisa and Peter.