I take it from her, and inhale the steam. It smells of herbs and warmth and mint. I don’t know if I can burn my tongue in a dream but I hate when I do that so I very carefully take a sip. It’s hot, but quite delicious. Sweet and minty like a peppermint candy, and I love it.
“I wouldn’t miss my fairy godmother’s wedding,” I gush, and take another long sip.
Fairy G looks puzzled. “Fairy godmother? Why are you calling me ‘fairy godmother?’”
“Cause that’s who you are.”
“Who I am?”
I nod. “Yes, aren’t you my fairy godmother?”
Fairy G tilts her head back and laughs. “Oh, Aicha, you have such a wonderful imagination. You know I’m not your fairy godmother, silly. I’m just your sister.”
“My what?” I sputter, and almost drop my glass. My hands start to sweat, and I start to panic. I don’t have a sister. I have a brother, Berg. And he’s awesome.
Fairy G (although I guess I can’t call her that anymore because she’s no longer my fairy godmother and is now my sister -whaaat?) is staring at me, mouth open, clearly thinking that I’m a lunatic. I worry she might be right.
Wait a minute…
This is a dream! This woman is not my dream fairy godmother, she’s my dream sister. And Berg is still my brother. He will still be there when I wake up. My heart rate slows, and I lounge back into my pillow.
“You looked so gorgeous in your kaftan that I thought you looked like a fairy godmother,” I explain, congratulating myself on my clever cover-up. Kaftan. That’s what her dress is called. How did I know that?
My sister gives me a funny look, but a voice in the hall distracts her from asking me more about it.
“Girls?”
“We’re in our bedroom, Mum!” my sister calls out.
I guess our Mum is here. I take another sip of tea. My dream sister is model-gorgeous. I can’t wait to see what my dream mum looks like. Don’t get me wrong. I love my real mama, but she could use some tune-ups in the beauty department.
My dream mum saunters through the arched doorway, and I’m not disappointed. My real mama is pretty in an average, this-is-my-mom way. My dream mum is an exquisite beauty. Her dark eyes are almost navy, and lined with black kohl; her glistening, black hair is styled in a chic bob, with not a gray hair in sight; and a silver embroidered belt cinches her rose-colored kaftan tight around her tiny waist.
Wow.
My dream mum pursues her glossy red lips into a charming frown. “My lovely daughters, I thought you would be ready.” Her words drip like honey, sweet and thick, coating me in relaxing warmth. She waves a red manicured hand. “No mind, we shall just be late.”
Late? Really?! My mama would never allow us to be late. Mostly because she knows I hate to be late and might freak out. Being late makes me super anxious. I’m usually the first person anywhere I go.
But this is a dream. I can do anything, and be anything, so I think I’m going to be a person who will just be late.
I exhale a freeing breath. I like this.
My dream mum gracefully seats herself on a pillow between us. She smiles at my dream sister. “Malika, please pour me some tea.”
Malika. My dream sister’s name is very pretty, just like her.
I hold out my glass and grin. “Malika, may I please have some more, too?”
My dream sister stares at me for a split second before she starts laughing. Then my dream mum joins her. I notice they both laugh the same way- with barely any sound, but with crinkles of happiness around their eyes.
“What?” I grin, wondering what I did that was so funny.
My dream mum pats my leg. “Oh, silly Aicha. I have not heard you call your sister by her name in so long. You always do make us laugh.”
I smile. I like the sound of that. I want to make them laugh. Laughing makes people happy. And I love making people happy. It’s a crap ton better than making people sad.
I want to sit here forever drinking delicious mint tea and making them happy, but Malika has other ideas.
“We must really get dressed,” she says, and sets down her tea glass. “Mum’s ready, but we’re not.”
She stands and walks over to a towering wardrobe painted pale pink with white scrolling. When she opens the doors, I see that it’s crammed full of what look like long tunics in every color imaginable.
I stand up and cross the room to join her. The tunics are exquisite. I caress all the silken fabrics, marveling at the beautiful colors. Burnt orange. Pale yellow. Vivid red. Deep purple. It’s like the most exquisite dress department at the mall is all in this one wardrobe.
Malika pulls out a lavender tunic and hands it to me.
“This is so beautiful!” I gush.
Malika leans close to my ear and snorts. “That’s not what you said yesterday.” She glances back at our Mum, but she’s sipping her tea and not paying any attention to us. “I know you didn’t want to wear this jilbab, but I know you’ll look so beautiful in it,” she whispers.
Jilbab. That’s what these tunics are called. A jilbab. And this one is gorgeous! It’s a soft lavender with dark purple piping lining the long sleeves. I’m about to ask why in the world I wouldn’t want to wear this one when she pulls out another jilbab. That one is a soft, pale blue silk with a row of delicate, silver pearls cascading all the way from the neckline to the bottom hem. My jilbab is the ugly duckling compared to what she’s holding.
I drop mine on the floor. “I’ll wear that one,” I say, and reach for it. When Malika doesn’t let it go, I try to pull it from her fingers.
“Aicha, what are you doing?” she cries, holding tighter to the blue jilbab.
I tug harder, but she won’t let go. This is my dream. I should get to wear what I want. Blue is my favorite color. Why won’t she give it to me? I feel my muscles tense and my heart race. I’m getting angry and this is supposed to be a happy dream.
I swallow my anger and stick out my bottom lip. “But I love the blue one, and I think you should let me wear it because it will look much better on me than on you.”
“Aicha!”
Mum’s thundering voice startles me so much that I drop my hold on the jilbab. Malika squashes it protectively to her chest.
Mum frowns. “What is wrong with you? This is your sister’s wedding. This is not about you.”
“But blue is my favorite color, and I want to wear it.”
“This is not about what you want!” Mum screeches in a voice more nails on a chalkboard than sweet honey.
I drop my eyes. I didn’t want to make anyone angry. I want this to be a happy dream.
Mum takes a deep breath, smoothes her skirt, and stands. “This is Malika’s wedding. I don’t want to remind you again. Do you understand me?”
I nod, hoping it will make the happy Mum return.
She replaces her frown with a forced smile. “That’s better. Please get dressed. I’ll meet you at the front door.” She blows us both a kiss, and then waltzes out the door as if her impression of a pissed-off monster didn’t just happen.
Malika is still clutching the blue jilbab to her chest, her long eyelashes glistening with tears. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean to get you into trouble.” She shoves the blue jilbab into my hands. “Here, you wear it. Please.”
I should take it. I mean, this is my dream and I should get to do whatever I want. But instead, I just sigh and let her keep it. “Obviously, this dream is not totally under my control,” I mumble.
She must hear me because a look of confusion crosses her face. “I don’t know what you are saying about a dream, but please wear it, Aicha.” More tears form in the corners of her big eyes as she whimpers. “I don’t want anyone to be angry. I want everyone to be happy. I want this day to be perfect.”
I totally get ya, sister.
I pick the lavender jilbab up off the floor and paste on a smile. “I really want to wear this one, and you should wear the blue one.”
“Are
you sure?”
I nod. “Positive.” I lean closer and arch my eyebrow. “And I’m pretty sure that will make Mum happy, and I really think we should keep her happy.”
Laugh wrinkles form near Malika’s dark eyes, and she nods in agreement.
After I watch Malika put on her jilbab, I put mine on in the same way. It covers everything from my neck to my ankles like a long shirt. It kind of reminds me of my grandmother’s fancy nightgown with the buttons down the front, except it’s more fitted and a million times more beautiful.
Malika squeals when she sees me. “Aicha, you look gorgeous! We must take a picture.” She grabs her cell phone off the table, presses her cheek against mine, and quickly snaps a few selfies, coaching me when to smile and pout, just like my besties do with me.
“Ok, let’s make sure we have a good one.” She scrolls through the pictures. “Ooo! I love this one!” she squeals and shows me.
Malika looks gorgeous in the picture. She has glossy, dark-brown hair, chocolaty brown eyes, and dewy smooth skin. She’s the most beautiful Moroccan woman I have ever seen.
And I look just like her.
I sink down onto the pouf. “I’m Moroccan,” I marvel.
Malika giggles. “Of course, you are.” She raises her eyebrows. “Were you hoping your fairy godmother had turned you into a happy, blonde bombshell?”
My heart sinks and I close my eyes. That’s exactly what I was trying to be in real life. When everything went wrong.
CHAPTER 8
Home, Not Sweet, Home
My stomach cramps up and my head spins. I feel like my body is rocketing around a rickety, old, roller coaster after I ate a greasy, corny dog covered in cotton candy. Ugh. This feels like the start of a panic attack, but how can that happen if I’m dreaming?
“Malika, I’m not feeling so good,” I mumble. “What exactly was in that tea?”
A large, warm hand covers my forehead.
“Lottie?”
“Daddy?!” I slowly peek open one eye because I so don’t want to blow chunks on the most amazing man in the world.
I’m back in my own bed in my own bedroom, and he’s sitting beside me. He’s still wearing his scrubs so he must have just come home. His eyebrows are drawn, and his blue eyes look tired. All I can think is that I wish I had his eyes and his crazy long eyelashes. I got boring, brown ones.
“I’m here, Lottie.” He presses his stubbly cheek against mine. It feels cool, like a refreshing breeze on a steamy day. “I think you have a fever.” He leans away and peers into my eyes. “And what’s this tea you’re mumbling about?”
I snort. He thinks I’m on something. My daddy is an internal medicine doctor and has seen too many patients strung out on whatever new fad drug is going around.
I try to laugh, but I have so little energy that I can only manage a tiny snuffle. “The tea wasn’t real. It was in this dream I was having. At first I thought it was my fairy godmother but then she turned out to be my sister. And I was so beautiful, and so happy, and I didn’t hurt anyone. Not at all like…” I stop.
Crap. I’m back in my real life. Which means I’m either in a boatload of doo-doo, or I’m going to jail. Either way sucks.
“Not at all like, what?” my daddy asks.
I shake my head.
He doesn’t push for an answer, and we just sit in silence staring at each other, waiting for the other to speak. Finally, he sighs.
“Mama said you skipped school today. And I think I know why.”
Then I think I’m going to be sick.
“It’s because of what happened to Dillon, right?”
Yep. I’m definitely going to blow chunks. I close my eyes.
He gently rubs his thumb over my hand, maybe hoping it will distract me from the fact that he’s about to tell me something I really, REALLY don’t want to hear. Surprisingly, it does settle my stomach a little.
“I was in the ER when they brought him in,” he murmurs.
I keep my eyes closed. I wish I could close off my ears, too.
“He was unconscious by that point, but the paramedics told me he was awake on the ride over and kept saying Lottie over and over again. I think he was worried about you. That you wouldn’t know where he was.” He squeezes my hand. “This was a big day, I know. You two were supposed to meet for the prom announcements this morning, right?”
I don’t say anything. I’m so afraid to open my mouth. I don’t know what will come out.
“I’m sorry,” he continues, “but he’s in really bad shape. I won’t elaborate unless you want to know more, but just know that he’s in a medically-induced coma and we’re doing all we can.” He leans over and embraces me in a hug. He smells like breath mints and bandages and coffee.
Crazy emotions billow up from my deep, dark depths and I want to puke them all up and tell my dad exactly what happened and how I freaked out and hurt Dillon, and how I am so ashamed and furious at myself.
But I don’t. I can’t. He’s so proud of me, of all that he thinks I am, and I can’t let him know that the real me, the freak me, is back.
So, I swallow all my emotional puke, bury it back inside me, and release his hand. “I love you, Daddy,” I murmur as I close my eyes, and wish myself far, far away.
CHAPTER 9
A white kitten and a colorful souk
“Aicha, are you okay?”
What?
“You look really pale. Are you going to be sick?”
My stomach heaves, but my heart soars when I open my eyes and see Malika’s sweet eyes looking at me with such concern. I’m back in my dream! This is so much better than all the pain I was just trying to bury. I must have fallen asleep again. My dad did say I had a fever. I hope I don’t wake up any time soon. I love myself here! My hair is the color of shiny, dark plums. My skin is like a smooth caramel. I’m gorgeous, my sister loves me, and there’s going to be a wedding which can only mean happy, happy fun!
“I’m okay,” I reassure Malika and lift myself off the pouf.
She frowns. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “Really, I’m fine. And don’t we need to get going?”
Her eyes widen. “We do. But if you aren’t…”
I interrupt her. “I’m fine. Really!” I link my arm through hers. “Lead the way beautiful, bride-to-be.”
We walk out of our bedroom and into an indoor courtyard. Blue-and-white, diamond-shaped tiles cover the floor. A fountain bubbles in the center and green palms in silver urns sprout from every corner.
Mum is sitting on a plump, gold-and-rust striped couch. She sees us, and her red lips break into a smile.
“You both look so very beautiful.”
Malika grins. “Thanks, Mum.” Her phone buzzes. She glances down at it and frowns. “My friends are wondering where I am.”
Mum rises. “You run along and meet them. Aicha and I will meet you there.”
Malika glances at me with concern. “That okay with you?”
I nod. “Of course,” I answer, although I’m still not sure where we’re meeting her.
“Okay, great!” Malika hugs me and then Mum, and then hurries out of the courtyard typing into her phone.
Mum looks at me. Her big eyes look a bit watery. “I’m so very sorry for before, Aicha. I never should have lost my temper like that. Will you please forgive me?”
Um no. This is my dream, and I want to yell at her for yelling at me and calling me selfish and making me feel like something is wrong with me.
But I don’t.
Because I understand her regret and remorse. I was so angry with Dillon that I punched him and yelled hurtful things and physically harmed him, but I never meant to hurt him. Never.
But I’m not thinking about all that right now. I’m in this happy dream where I can make everything else disappear.
I smile at Mum. “Of course, I forgive you. It was my fault anyway.” I gesture to where Malika disappeared. “And we better go. I can’t let my sister face her friends alone. I
know how my besties would be if I was late.”
“Besties?” Mum arches her perfectly waxed eyebrow and chortles. “I love you, Aicha. You do make me laugh.”
I don’t know Mum well enough to tell her that I love her, but it feels good to have her like me again, so I allow her to give me a quick hug before following her out of the courtyard. We stop in the foyer where a row of shoes is neatly lined up by the front door. Mum slips on a pair of black, pointy-toed, open-backed slippers that are embellished with gold leaves, and I put on a simple pair of flip-flops.
I follow Mum out the front door and into what appears to be a thin alleyway barely big enough for me and my three besties to walk hand-in-hand. White-washed, concrete walls rise three stories tall on either side of the narrow street, punctuated by a few brightly colored doors and windows. The door to my dream house is painted bright green, outlined with multi-colored mosaic tiles, and surrounded by green plants in simple ceramic pots.
Mum closes the door and turns to me. Her eyes are shining with excitement.
“I have something to pick up on the way to the hammam, so I will meet you there.” She pecks me on each cheek and then hurries down the narrow street.
She has just turned the corner and disappeared out of sight when I realize I have absolutely no idea where, or even what, a hammam is. I hurry to catch up with her and almost trip over a thin, tabby cat. It meows loudly at me, probably scolding me for not watching where I’m walking.
“Sorry, kitty,” I apologize, and lean over to give it a scratch.
The tabby immediately arches up to meet my fingers and begins to purr loudly.
“That feels good, huh?” I smile.
The tabby meows again and glances over at one of the pots by the front door. I follow its gaze just in time to see four, teeny kittens tumble out from behind the pot. The tabby meows again and the kittens slip and slide across the cobblestones in a race to reach us. A soft gray kitten arrives first, and the tabby mama gives it a quick lick. Two, black-and-white kittens bound up next, and are also rewarded with their mama’s tongue. But when the last kitten approaches- a pure white cutie with brown eyes and a black spot on its forehead, the tabby mama arches her back and hisses loudly until the kitten skitters away and disappears around the corner.
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