Bestest. Ramadan. Ever.

by Medeia Sharif

  “Your P looks like an upside down 6,” I tell her truthfully.

  Lisa adds more ink to the artwork, but botches the job even more. She then puts some Fierce Pout on her lips, even though I told her the stuff is poison. She’s now Jolie-like enough to enter school, with her fake tattoo and temporarily full lips. The morning is uneventful, unlike yesterday’s debacle with Peter’s bookbag. Mornings are like that: you can start the day off all wrong or all right. The meeting with Mr. Lopez is starting to fade away. He walks by me and doesn’t even look at me because he’s eyeing one of the football players who threw a milk carton at a bench, missing his goal of the garbage can.

  In English class, Ms. Odige tells us to write in our journals about our thoughts on Parent Night since all of us were there. Ms. Odige tolerates all ink colors in journals, so I take out my pink pen and write my entry.

  Parent Night was cool. My parents heard teachers say good and bad things about me, but mostly good. Anyway, I had a mishap with my contact lenses and this lame lip-gloss that I borrowed from a friend, but I quickly bounced back. That experience taught me that I have a very resilient spirit. I think Parent Night went well, considering that I was bothered by my eyes, my lips, and the empty sockets in my mouth from all the teeth Dad pulled out of me … four wisdom teeth. I can put my tongue in these sockets. It’s so weird walking around with my tongue finding these holes in my mouth. And I think I’m in love, but I’m not sure the boy is into me as much as I’m into him, which sucks.

  Ms. Odige’s comments are typical, written in red ink at the bottom of the page when she hands our journals back to us at the end of class. You stray from the topic. Be careful about starting sentences with “and.”

  Blah, blah, blah. I put my journal in my bookbag and head out to my next class. Maria is back in school and she eyeballs Shakira. Shakira looks unfazed, giving Maria a cool glance before walking away.

  “Shakira,” people mumble. “Go back to Orlando.”

  “She got Maria suspended.”

  Shakira holds her head high as these comments are hurled at her. I almost feel sorry for her. To have people say such bold things to her in an attempt to drive her out and make her uncomfortable must hurt, but then again, she has hurt others. It’s tit for tat. It’s karma returning to her with a slap on the cheek. Karma can be good that way.

  “So how are your driving lessons going?” Maria asks.

  “You’re so lucky!” Lisa brays. “My mom just started teaching me.”

  “My lessons are going okay,” I say. “I’m getting the hang of it. Maybe I’ll pass my test right after my sixteenth birthday.”

  “Which is in two weeks!”

  I’m going to turn sixteen soon. Many of my Latin friends had quinceañera parties to celebrate their fifteenth birthday, dressing in beautiful gowns and having lavish parties in rented ballrooms. The American version, sweet sixteen, is something I can’t wait for. I’m about to become a real adult on that landmark birthday, but I’ll still be boyfriendless.

  Peter is behind us, getting things in and out of his locker. He opens his sketchpad, the one that he takes so much effort to hide from me when I sit down next to him in science class. He flips it open and there is Shakira’s gorgeous face. I lose my breath. Even Lisa gasps. Maria narrows her eyes at the image of enemy number one.

  It was her that he was sketching so painstakingly, so lovingly. Tears prick the corners of my eyes. Lisa grimly turns to us and says, “I’m going to make Peter forget about her, and he’ll sketch me next.”

  “Fat chance,” Maria says.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Lisa asks.

  “She’s bewitched him. She’s the person all the girls are going to hate and all the boys are going to love, just like in the movies.”

  “We’re not living in a movie,” Lisa says.

  Seeing those pencil marks, so congruously put together to create Shakira’s face, feels like a stab in the heart. It does something to me. I can’t even explain it, but I want to be sketched and fussed over. I want Peter to love me. “I’ll be right back,” I mutter. I run to the bathroom and lock myself in a stall. He isn’t drawing me … but her. I took his bookbag for nothing. I was escorted by a security guard to the principal’s office for nothing. I had to listen to Mr. Lopez’s guilt-inducing words for nothing. A few tears slide down my cheeks, but I wipe them off as soon as they fall. My breathing is out of control, but then it steadies. I shove my hair across my face to distract people from the redness of my eyes. I come into computer class a few seconds before the bell rings, sit down, and avert my gaze from everyone. I sluggishly start the daily assignment, typing slower than I normally do since I’m so sad. Peter can never be my boyfriend when he’s smitten with Shakira.

  He even has the nerve to bring her up during lunch—he leaves the cafeteria early and he finds me sitting alone in the library. I’m at a round table behind the biography section and he sits down next to me. On the back of my notebook, on one of the end pages, I’ve been drawing graffiti pronouncing my love for Peter. Almira and Peter 4ever. ALMIRA LOVES PETER. I close my notebook and look at him as if he’s an alien from another planet. We’ve never sat with each other during lunch. It would be a treat, if Shakira didn’t have his heart.

  “Have you seen Shakira?” he asks. “I didn’t finish sketching her for my art project.”

  “No,” I say.

  “You look upset,” he says.

  “I’m just studying,” I lie.

  “It’s Maria, isn’t it? Are you still upset about what happened?”

  “Yeah,” I say, even though I’ve gotten over it.

  “Shakira—how should I put this—isn’t the warmest person,” Peter says. “But she’s nice when you get to know her. She does have a sharp tongue, and she’s opinionated.”

  “No kidding?”

  “But she’s very patient. She can sit for an hour while I sketch her, and she doesn’t move like other people do.”

  Great, she’s patient and a true model. I don’t want to hear anything good about her. “Are you here to study?” I ask.

  “I’m going to check out a book to read over the weekend,” he says. “I love mysteries, especially the old ones.”

  “Me, too. I have all the old Agatha Christie paperbacks. Every book she’s ever written is at my house. They’re really my dad’s, but I’m hooked on them.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. I even watch the Agatha Christie movies on public television, even though that sounds dorky and I’m probably the only one who watches them.”

  “I sometimes watch them.” He looks at me, mesmerizing me with his green eyes. My heart skips a beat, but I have to extinguish my love for him. He belongs to another.

  “You’ve lost a lot of weight,” he says. “You’re not sick or anything?”

  “No,” I say. “You know I’m fasting.”

  “You look good, but be careful.”

  “Why?”

  “You won’t know who’s real or not if you look too good. I remember a year ago, how I was chunky and had a lot of zits, and now people treat me differently, better. I don’t like that.”

  “You mean, why didn’t they appreciate you when you looked less glamorous?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  I nod at this deep thought he’s having (it’s so hot that he’s capable of deep thoughts when so many good-looking guys are really dumb). “You didn’t look that bad, so don’t be so hard on yourself,” I say. “You were still cute then. And I always thought you were smart, and a good artist.”

  “I know,” he says. “You always talked to me, but other girls are, like, hanging all over me now, as if they didn’t notice me before. I really hate that.”

  “I can imagine.” Setting aside my jealousy toward the beautiful people, I think that perhaps it isn’t a
lways so wonderful to be beautiful—that beauty has setbacks and people have unrealistic expectations of those who have it.

  “Even with you, I see guys looking at you as if you’re someone else now,” Peter says.

  Boys are definitely giving me more attention. For every three pounds I lose, there are three new boys who say “hi” to me and stop me to strike up small talk. What a shallow world we live in. Maybe everyone’s a little shallow, since I fell for Peter after his transformation and he’s all gaga over modelesque Shakira. We don’t notice someone’s brains across a room. We don’t place someone’s eloquent words into a picture frame.

  “Be careful and you won’t get your heart broken,” he says.

  It’s too late for his cautious words. My heart is broken into irreparable pieces now that I know he’s been drawing Shakira. But as always, when despair hits me, hope shines through.

  “Hey, some of my friends are going to an art gallery in a couple of days,” he says. “Our art teacher told us to pick a gallery and go, as an assignment. We’re supposed to take some pictures and write down our impressions in a report. We don’t know exactly what night we’re going, but you want to come?”

  “Sure,” I say. He’s asking me to go somewhere with him? OMG.

  “You already know Raul and Jillian,” he says. “You can bring some of your friends, too. It’s abstract art. I don’t know if you’ll like it.”

  “I love abstract art,” I lie. It’s just a bunch of squiggly gunk on canvas, but I want to spend some time with him.

  “I think I have your number, but give it to me again so I can text or call you when we’re ready to go.”

  I give him my number. Call me all you want, I think.

  “It’s in Coral Gables, so it’s not far,” he says. “So, if it happens, I’ll see you there.”

  “Sure,” I say.

  Peter stands up, collects his things, and walks to the mystery section to get a book for his weekend reading. His jeans hug his slender legs and his plaid shirt is tight across his muscular shoulders. I sigh. His brains and beauty are for Shakira to enjoy. I’ll have to wow him at this art gallery thing to get his mind off of her. In my head I make a list of things to do: get highlights in my hair, straighten it, do my nails, buy an outfit that’s tight but not ho-ish, get some false eyelashes, clean my contact lenses so that they don’t scrape off my corneas like last time …

  “You’re getting braces next week,” Dad tells me.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “You seem resigned to it.”

  “You already made the decision, didn’t you?”

  “Why the long face?” he asks.

  “I’m just tired.”

  It’s Saturday, and we woke up before dawn to eat our early breakfast. I’m still upset at the thought that whatever chances I have at winning Peter’s affections are diminished by the competition Shakira poses. At least he’s noticing that other guys are paying attention to me. David in first period is starting to hang all over me, smiling at me and winking at me. He isn’t bad-looking either, so maybe I’ll have a boyfriend soon enough. I’ve known him since sixth grade, but I’ve never been close to him. He hangs out almost exclusively with skaters, while I have a more varied group of friends. The chemistry isn’t there. I don’t want any boyfriend. Just because David is giving me attention doesn’t mean he’s the one for me. I want magic. I want sparks to fly. I want my first handholding moment and first kiss to be just as sweet as it appears in the movies. I want my boyfriend to be hanging upside down as I kiss him, Kirsten-Dunst-style in Spiderman. Okay, that’s farfetched, but it could happen.

  Mom is in the living room doing aerobics from a DVD. She’s wearing a midriff-baring shirt and spandex shorts. She dances, swings her arms in the air, and jumps up and down. I make sure the curtains are closed because we’ve had quite a few peeping Toms, since Mom has a fan base and all. I wish I had an audience (Peter can be the only one in it and that will be fine by me). I pat my stomach. It’s nearly flat like Mom’s. Between Ramadan, the dental surgery, and my broken heart, I’m really not eating much at all.

  I get ready to go to my next driving lesson. I wear a long skirt so that Grandpa can’t say I look like a prostitute in any way. I put on a nude shade of MAC lipstick, an undetectable color I really like and that Grandpa probably won’t notice. He comes an hour later to take me out driving. He crashes into our garbage can again and I yank it upright. Mom is still wearing her exercise gear, and he grimaces at her. She ignores him. I’m sure he thinks she looks like a prostitute showing so much skin, but she’s at home. She limberly places a foot on top of the sofa to stretch.

  “You let her dress like that?” Grandpa whispers to Dad in the kitchen.

  “Let her?” Dad whispers back. “She’s a grown woman and she doesn’t need my permission to dress that way when she’s exercising.”

  “It’s not good for Almira’s eyes to see her mother dressed like that.”

  It’s fine for my eyes, but not good for my self-esteem since I feel that I have to match Mom’s hot body. My morals aren’t affected at all by what she wears; it’s her slender legs and tiny waist that disturb me. Oh, and the entire football team at school eagerly awaiting her on days when she picks me up, so that they can ogle her. One of them even left his phone number under our windshield wiper the other day: If this is Almara’s mom’s car you don’t know me, but my name is Joshua and here’s my phone number so you can holla at me …

  I go back to my room because I forgot my purse. My computer beeps because I have new mail. Sitting down to read it, minutes fly by and I don’t realize that I’m keeping Grandpa waiting. He walks in and I turn around quickly. Knowing my computer like the back of my hand, I close the Internet browser without looking at the screen. Maria had written me a juicy email that included vivid details of a date she went on last night. It isn’t something I want Grandpa to read, what with him thinking I should only have pure, virginal thoughts. I had read the email to the point where Maria’s date’s hand was massaging her thigh, and then Grandpa intruded. Maria’s emails always read like a soap opera or romance novel (with really poor grammar and spelling) and being interrupted, all I can think about is finishing the email.

  “I’m ready, Grandpa,” I say.

  “Who is that?” Grandpa roars.

  “What?”

  “That,” he says, pointing at my computer screen.

  Uh-oh. I usually have my computer locked when I’m away for this very reason: my Robert Pattinson desktop is in full view. He has his shirt open and is giving a come-hither look to the camera. I’ve never allowed any of my relatives to see the contents of my computer before. Dad would get the wrong impression—okay, it’s the right impression since I have indecent thoughts about Robert Pattinson all the time. Mom might understand, but I don’t let her see my file of hot hunks either.

  “Who is that?” Grandpa asks again. His hands are on his hips and he wears a monstrous scowl on his face. I have to think of something quick.

  “He’s an in … inventor,” I stammer.

  “He’s no inventor! He looks familiar. Was he in a movie I saw?”

  “No, um, he probably looks familiar because he’s on all the talk shows talking about his, um, inventions.”

  “And what does he invent?”

  “His name is Michael Hufnagel and he invented, um, he invented these funny computer keys on my keyboard.”

  “What!”

  “Like, you know, the key that has the moon on it to put the computer in sleep mode, and the key with the email icon to get my email running … ”

  I’m sounding super stupid, but the lies are coming easier to me the longer I speak. Yeah, he invented stuff, lots of stuff, major stuff. Now leave me alone.

  “See,” I say, pointing to the keys I’m talking about on the keyboard. “He invented all
of them. His picture is the default for the screen. It came with the computer.”

  “What does this key do?” Grandpa asks, pressing a key that makes a help menu pop up.

  “It has a question mark on it, so you push it when you have a question.”

  “You can ask the computer questions?”

  “Yes.” Duh! He knows nothing about computers. This is a good thing, since he can’t Google Michael Hufnagel and catch me in my lie. Grandpa doesn’t have the faintest idea of what a search engine is.

  “Okay, this guy invented something good,” he says.

  “Yeah, this stuff is really, really good.”

  “He looks too young to be an inventor.” Grandpa’s voice is more sedate than before.

  “He’s in all the magazines as one of the richest millionaires under forty years old.”

  “Can’t you change the picture?” Grandpa asks. “He doesn’t even know how to button his shirt. Is that grease on his chest? Why is his skin shiny? I knew someone like that who had to go to the dermatologist.”

  “He was probably sweating,” I say. “He lives in Texas where his company is, and you know how hot it is there. I’ll change the picture right away.” Grandpa hovers over me and I have to be careful that he doesn’t see all my files, pictures, journals, saved emails … my mind reels thinking about all the things he doesn’t know about me. My fantasies and desires are something I can never divulge to him. I have this secret self, Almira II, who I can’t let my family get acquainted with.

  I go into the harmless My Pictures file and set the screen to Hello Kitty, who I outgrew years ago but still have a fondness for. Hello Kitty’s big white head dominates the computer screen. Hearts and butterflies surround her stocky body. You can’t go wrong with Hello Kitty. Whenever I fear that Mom or Dad may walk into my room without any notice, I turn my desktop over to Hello Kitty or Chococat.