Not the Girls You're Looking For

by Aminah Mae Safi

  “And give thanks.”

  “Yes, and that,” said Lulu.

  “Profusely,” said her mother.

  Lulu took a deep breath. “Profusely. I will make centerpieces and thank Sheikh Fadi and Baba profusely. I promise.”

  “Excellent. I’m sending you over during winter break. She’s got about fifty of them. Plus five hundred gift bags to fill up with Jordan almonds.”

  “Fifty centerpieces? Five hundred bags?! That’s practically child abuse, Mom.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, is that going to be a problem for you? Do you have something more pressing that you needed to be doing?”

  “No, ma’am,” said Lulu at a low grumble.

  “Good. When I tell you to jump on this one, you’ll say ‘how high?’ Is that understood?”

  “Loud and clear.” Lulu fought the urge to salute.

  “Excellent. Now finish your homework. I’m going to call the school and say you weren’t feeling well and you forgot to sign out. You put a toe out of line again, and I’ll make you work so many weddings you won’t want to go to your own.”

  Lulu didn’t bother to tell her mother that she’d already faked her own sick day. That would only make everything worse. Besides, Sealy Hall thought of working mothers as frazzled. It was a holdover from the days when only the right kinds of families attended and none of the upstarts could wriggle through the admissions system. Two calls wouldn’t strike them as particularly odd.

  She went for the retort of, “Then you wouldn’t have any legitimate grandchildren, would you?”

  “Don’t test me on this, Leila, so help me God.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” Lulu turned back to her French. Some things weren’t worth finding out the hard way.

  * * *

  Squinting, Lulu walked out of her last exam into the overly bright sunlight. She pulled down the sleeves of her thick knit pullover. The light in December looked colder, somehow sharper than it did when compared to the sunshine of a few months previous. Physics might have been able to explain this to her. But, right now, Lulu didn’t care about Science or Explanations. She didn’t care about English or history or French. She breathed the free air. A stretch of next to nothing lay ahead of her. She wasn’t sorry to have lost the distraction of her studies. Reza and Ben would be home soon. True, Reza was avoiding her, and Ben was still sending odd, cryptic encouragement about adhesive materials. He was trying, at least. Even if Reza wasn’t. Having them home ought to be comforting, though. She wouldn’t have to be quite so alone. Better than when she’d gone into her English exam and Lo had glared at her briefly, then sat three rows away.

  But the house was empty when Lulu got home. And the only smell was the lingering astringent of fake lemons from the bathroom cleaning solution that had been used that weekend. Lulu sat on the couch, trying to enjoy being the master of the remote, when her phone rang. It was her mother. Lulu didn’t dare screen the call.

  “Leila.” So she was still mad, then.

  “Yes, Mama?”

  “Are you back home?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “How was your last exam?”

  “Went fine.”

  “Good, good. You’re expected at Dina’s house at two o’clock. Be on time. Not Arab on time. Not inshallah time. On time, on time.”

  “They won’t expect me to be on time, on time, Mom.”

  “I don’t care what they expect. This is what I expect. This is your mess. You’re cleaning it up. Be on time. Keep your mouth shut. Mrs. Salwa will be there. It’s her daughter’s wedding, after all. For once, please do as you’re told.”

  “I do as I’m told all the time,” said Lulu, though she couldn’t even convince herself of that.

  “I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll hear if you’re given anything other than a glowing report. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  “Please don’t be difficult about this.”

  “I’m not being difficult!” said Lulu.

  “Leila.”

  “I promise not to be difficult. Am I dismissed?”

  Her mother sighed. “Dismissed. Please drive safe. I love you.”

  Lulu hung up the phone. She knew it was the petty thing to do, and yet, she had done it regardless. She needed that pettiness. It gave her a sense of control. She lumbered up the stairs to change out of her uniform.

  Dina Alkati lived in a home with more understated elegance than her aunt Salwa and her cousin Tamra did. Her family’s residence was a one-story affair, with the original dark wood paneling across the walls. And while its furnishings were not necessarily in current fashion, they had clearly all been imported. It was the sort of furniture you wouldn’t notice, unless you could spot the craftsmanship. Lulu wished there was more light in this room, to watch the damascene inlays shimmer across the chairs, the way they did on the small precious boxes in her own home.

  Lulu had not precisely expected a warm reception at the Alkati home. But she had not been quite prepared for the icy level of greeting she had received. Dina, with her least-most civility, had led Lulu into the parlor room of the home. The room had gone still in an instant. Tamra wouldn’t even look at Lulu.

  But this was all for Tanya, the bride. And the sheikh had spoken. So Lulu would be ignored but not shunned.

  Lulu sat down at the seat offered her. She watched the other women—some hijabi, some with big roller-curled hair, some with sleek, ironed strands—as they were putting together Tanya’s centerpieces. Lulu copied the movements. If she’d learned one thing in her time at Sealy Hall, it was how to keep her mouth shut and follow the motions of others. Not knowing wasn’t necessarily wrong, but admitting to a lack of knowledge was greeted with merciless silence. Better to fake what she didn’t know than to admit to such a defeat.

  Eventually, the conversation picked back up. The elder women spoke mostly Arabic and the younger women spoke mostly English. All their speech was peppered with foreign words, regardless of the base language. Lulu spied a table with trays of spices, a small dish of salt, a mirror, white lace—good luck for the bride. Too bad there wasn’t a traditional table full of good luck for calling the bride a whore and ruining one’s life in the process.

  Lulu could dare to dream.

  “Hal anti jo’ana?”

  Lulu looked up from her work. It was the third sister—Auntie Salwa and Auntie Farrah’s.

  “La, shukran, Khala.” Lulu shook her head. As if she could eat in a situation like this.

  “Jo’ana, habibti?” The third sister wasn’t accepting Lulu’s answer as possibly true.

  “La jo’ana, shukran, Khala.” Lulu was starting to feel legitimately bad she couldn’t remember the woman’s name. As though she needed to add to her list of sins.

  The third sister didn’t seem fazed in the slightest, as happy to be called Auntie as to be called by her given name. “Bidik tishrabee shi?”

  “La shukran, Khala,” Lulu said. Even liquids didn’t seem like they’d settle well on her uneasy stomach. Lulu was too tense. “Thank you, thank you, Auntie.”

  The third sister patted Lulu on the knee. She got up from her chair. Lulu went back to work on the centerpiece in front of her. A demitasse of tea rattled in front of Lulu.

  “Work makes thirsty. You drink,” said the third sister. “Tishreeb. Tishreeb.”

  “Thank you, Khala.” Lulu added three sugar cubes to the tiny glass and drank. No sense in fighting it.

  The third sister sat beside Lulu. She watched and waited till Lulu had finished a good third of the piping-hot glass. Satisfied, she turned back to her work. The atmosphere of the room was less hostile after that. Lulu was unsure whether she had simply gotten a stamp of female approval of her presence or whether the room seemed better after a warm, sugary cup of tea. Lulu was midsip when Dina finally deigned to speak with her again.

  “You’re lucky Khala is so forgiving,” she hissed. “You shouldn’t be here ruining my cousin’s day.”

  Wide-eyed, L
ulu swallowed her last mouthful of tea. Her hand rattled as she set the demitasse down. Her cup was instantly refilled; Lulu looked up to see Tamra’s older sister—Tanya the Bride.

  “Piss off, Dina,” said Tanya the Bride. “My mom is a bitch and you know it.”

  Lulu stared. Dina’s eyes went wide.

  “What? Mama’s a survivor. You don’t make it through what she has without sharpening your claws. And don’t forget to add sugar, hayati. Mama made it so strong this time. She always makes it too strong. She likes it bitter.” Tanya the Bride hoisted the teapot up. It looked heavy, the precarious way she balanced it. “Khala Zeena likes you.”

  “Khala Zeena doesn’t know what’s going on,” said Dina, still hissing.

  “Bad English doesn’t mean a bad mind, Dina,” said Tanya.

  “I didn’t mean that—” started Dina.

  Tanya raised an eyebrow at her cousin. “Khala Zeena knows exactly what’s going on. She’s forgiving. War does that, I think. Makes you harder or makes you more understanding. No middle ground with war.”

  Lulu startled. Tanya was guilting Dina on Lulu’s behalf. And nobody could guilt half so well as a bride and an older cousin to boot. The relief of having these tactics used on her behalf rather than against her was a new and wonderful feeling for Lulu. She inhaled it like a person starved of air. Nobody had ever done that for her.

  Except for Lo.

  Lulu jumped into this tenuous conversation rather than think about Lo. “I thought Dina meant Auntie Salwa hadn’t told Khala Zeena what I’d done out of forgiveness for me.”

  Here Tanya laughed. “No, hayati. But she wouldn’t dare go against Amu. Mama will remember what you said for the rest of your days. Or her days. Whichever comes first. You’ve got to respect her for that.”

  “And what about you?” Lulu asked on pure impulse.

  Tanya leaned in close. Her voice was at a whisper. “I think it’s hilarious. I’ve never seen anyone snap so spectacularly. You should win an Oscar for the best public scene made at a cultural affair. But if you tell anyone I said that I’ll call you a liar and deny it until my dying day. I’m happy to be a bitch, too, if required.”

  “Are you in the majority on that one?” asked Lulu, almost hopeful.

  Tanya laughed. She had a good, friendly kind of lilt when she laughed. “God, no. But who wants to be in the majority?”

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” Lulu asked.

  “Getting married makes one quite magnanimous, I’ve found. But mostly, I felt sorry for you. You normally look so tough. I knew you must have been really beaten if you didn’t look tough. If you couldn’t keep it together.”

  Lulu didn’t know what to say to that. Then Tanya became Tanya the Bride again, and went back to letting all the aunties and young cousins touch her hair and pinch her cheeks and kiss her forehead. Lulu watched. And thought it was a stellar performance, there was an air of real happiness under the veneer of Tanya the Bride that made Lulu smile.

  After a couple of hours, about a quarter of the centerpieces were done and none of the bags of almonds were filled. Lulu promised to return at the same time tomorrow.

  Lulu checked her phone as she left Dina’s house. Zero notifications. She wasn’t sure what she expected: for Audrey to apologize or for Emma to message or Lo to at least stop untagging Lulu from group photos. It was unreasonable. But she had hoped for it all the same. Lulu’s hopes inflated again when she saw she had a new message in her in-box. However, disappointment was to be hers this evening. The e-mail was from her cousin Rana.

  Hello dear, How are you? We miss you very much. How are Auntie Aimee and your brothers? My studies are going well inshallah. I am glad the fasting is over. We had holiday for Ramadan, then eid, and we can sleep instead of studying. Kisses for you.

  Love,

  Rana

  Lulu put away her phone. She got in her car, cracked her knuckles, and told herself to drive home. But she looped down the big boulevard around the park, the way she would drive to Lo’s house. Lulu didn’t slow as she passed the home, but a zinging sensation, suspiciously reminiscent of longing, surged through her chest as she drove by.

  22

  The Legend of Billie Jean

  Christmas was a layered smell. First, the tree would come in, bringing a deep pine note to the house. Then there were the cookies—gingersnaps and chocolate chip with pecans. There was a mild tang of dust, from when the box full of ornaments was eventually gotten down and unpacked. Then, come Christmas morning, the whole house would smell like a gumbo, two pots cooking low and slow on the burner. Reza and Ben had arrived home after the ornaments but before the gumbo.

  “Hey,” had been all Reza could say. He’d just stared at her for a long while after that.

  Ben had taken Lulu into a headlock, as though nothing had changed. “How’s the glue holding up?”

  After that, Lulu had avoided them. She wanted no more advice from Ben and no more censure from Reza. She’d settled into a new pattern over the winter holidays. One she begrudgingly enjoyed, strange as it was. But Lulu was used to shuttling between her house and Audrey’s, Lo’s, or Emma’s. Lulu couldn’t have said when those girls had become integral to the rhythm of her life. The switch in routine—to Dina’s home—gave Lulu the impression that she either got one or the other, never both. Lulu’s visits to the Alkatis were an orchestration of her father’s making, which only made Lulu wish she could orchestrate her own way to bring her friends back together again.

  Lulu went up to her room with the intention of binge watching Murder, She Wrote on her laptop and feeling sorry for herself. Strictly speaking, Lulu wasn’t supposed to have a television in her room. But it was an old rule, a holdover from her mother’s childhood on what good parenting used to entail. Lulu had a laptop and Wi-Fi. There was no stopping television in Lulu’s room any more than there was stopping time.

  She flipped open her computer. She didn’t want to watch anything on her queue, so she began scrolling through genres. Then subgenres. She was about to close out of the window, when her perseverance was rewarded: The Legend of Billie Jean.

  There was only one person for it and that person was Emma. And that was the problem. There were things where only Emma would do. But there wasn’t an easy, understood solution here. There wasn’t a sheikh to issue a fatwa for their friendship. There was just Lulu, alone and with good reason.

  The Legend of Billie Jean with a giant play button hovering over it lit Lulu’s screen. She’d have to take the plunge and live with the consequences. She couldn’t wait around for anyone else to save her from her own problems. She’d fix them or die trying, socially. Lulu dialed. The phone rang twice. Three times. Four times. Then the other end, mercifully, clicked. Lulu held her breath.

  “Hello,” said Emma.

  Lulu detected a note of hesitation. That wouldn’t do. “The Legend of Billie Jean is available. And we should watch it.”

  For a long beat, Emma said nothing.

  “I fucked up. I know I did the wrong thing with Brian. I don’t know what else I did wrong, but I know I fucked up. I wish I could fix it,” said Lulu. “I wish I knew what I did.”

  She had to make things right. She had to ensure that restitution would be paid. Except Lulu also owed Lo restitution. And Audrey owed Lulu. And they all seemed to owe Emma. And Dane, he had been taking pieces from the people around him since Lulu had noticed him. It was too many problems, too many overcomplicated threads to untangle all at once. Lulu held her breath, hoping she could at least fix this thing between her and Emma.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t know it was on streaming before you did.” The sound of Emma fumbling with her computer, trying to queue up the movie, sounded through the phone.

  Lulu felt relief all the way down to her pinkie toes. “Ready?”

  “Ready,” said Emma.

  They clicked play at the same time.

  Billie Jean’s epic runaway road trip began. Emma cheered as Christian Slater pul
led a gun on that old creepy dude who tried to assault Billie Jean in his office. That was where all of Billie’s troubles started, and Lulu could feel her heart in her throat as she watched. Eventually the scene was over and Lulu could breathe again. She and Emma could gasp as Billie Jean cut off her glory of golden hair. They awed at her desire for justice. They laughed excitedly at all the glorious eighties’ fashions. They had found their easy way with each other again, both wanting to relish this moment together. Their peace was tenuous, but it was not gone.

  “You know,” said Lulu, “this movie is pretty terrible.”

  “No. It’s incredible,” said Emma. “I mean, what other heroine chops off all her hair and wears a scuba suit as evidence of her total righteousness? Or takes a stand at the beach because a creepy old dude was being creepy as shit?”

  Lulu’s breath caught. Her heart rate kicked up, like she was running, fleeing. But she sat on the phone, watching the credits roll. Emma would find the heart of a matter. The same way that Audrey reminded Lulu how to find her backbone, how to stand ramrod straight, no matter what. Or the way Lo wouldn’t let Lulu get away with anything.

  Emma filled the silence. “Did you know that for years you couldn’t buy this movie because Pat Benatar hated it?” Emma was a force of pop-culture knowledge to be reckoned with.

  Lulu took a deep breath. In and out. That helped. “How do you know that?”

  “She totally wouldn’t sign over the rights to her songs so whatever studio it is, like, couldn’t distribute the movie. Like years. Decades.” Emma sounded as though she couldn’t believe that one of her favorite eighties’ music icons would deprive her from owning this movie in all its glory.

  “Wow, Emma. You take bad-movie watching to a new low. Or high.”

  “I know. I mean, I can’t believe she wouldn’t release her music, all because she doesn’t like the movie. I mean, you don’t see Britney doing that with Crossroads, do you?” Emma’s voice rose as she worked herself up to the point of righteous indignation.

  “Emma?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you. Never change.”