“That was Amy,” he tells me. I reach over to grab the telephone from him but he pulls it back. “I told her you’ll call her back.”
“Why?”
He silences me with his eyes and asks me to make him a cup of tea.
“Make it yourself,” I say.
“Just make it, please,” he says through gritted teeth. There’s a lot of funny eyeball action going on and I don’t have the faintest clue what messages he’s trying to send me so I get up in a huff and go into the kitchen.
I can only assume that he’s got something private to discuss with my dad and Miss Sajda so I naturally press my ear to the kitchen door and try my best to decipher what they’re saying.
“Her formal is this Friday, Dad,” Bilal says.
My heart stops.
“Is it?” my dad asks, not sounding particularly interested.
“Her whole class is going.”
I’m pretty sure I hear my dad sigh. He smokes a pack of cigarettes a day, so any lung activity is usually shared with the entire street.
“We’ve been through this before.”
“I’ll take her,” Bilal says.
AGH!
Double AGH!
“Nothing can happen if she’s with me. I’ll be with her all night and I’ll bring her home. OK, Dad?”
“It sounds fair, Hakim,” Miss Sajda says. “I don’t want to interfere with how you raise your children—”
No, please do!
“—but if Bilal takes her you should have nothing to worry about.”
I positively love my stepmother-to-be.
“Did she set this up?” my dad asks.
“I swear to God she didn’t, Dad,” Bilal says. “It’s my idea.”
“Since when are you so kind to your sister?”
I hear Bilal laugh. “I just feel sorry for her. Her friend was on the phone now. She wanted to know if we’d be home on Friday night because she planned on getting flowers delivered to Jamilah.”
“Flowers?”
“Yeah, because she feels bad that Jamilah’s not going.”
My dad lets out a snort of laughter. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah! And I thought how unbelievably sad and pathetic. Jamilah’s not some sick kid.”
“What a sweet friend,” my dad says. “How do I know I can trust you, Bilal? You won’t drop her off and go out? You will stay with her the whole night?”
“I promise I’ll stay with her, Dad. You have my word.”
Inhale. Exhale. Exhale. Exhale. No, inhale more. You need an inhale!
There is a long, excruciating pause. Like somebody slowly peeling a Band-Aid off a wound.
And then it finally comes off.
“OK.”
There are miracles and there are MIRACLES.
Lower-case miracles are things like green traffic lights all the way to the airport when you’re running late for a flight. Getting an A+ on an exam you haven’t studied for. Finding a one hundred dollar bill in a box of bran flakes (that’s never happened to me but it fits the category).
Upper-case miracles are things like car crash survival stories. The successful separation of Siamese twins.
And my dad granting me permission to go to the formal.
“AGHHHHH!” I cry, unceremoniously falling through the kitchen door and into the living room. I jump onto my dad and smother him in kisses. Then I leap onto Bilal and smother him in kisses. And then Miss Sajda. And then back to my dad.
Miss Sajda and my dad are doubled over in laughter and Bilal wipes his sleeve across his face.
“Sheesh, save it for Dad, will you?” he says, a disgusted look on his face.
“You’re the best!” I cry.
“Yeah, well, nothing comes for free. You’re ironing my shirts for a month.”
“A month!”
“I can always be at Cave nightclub on Friday night instead, you know.”
“No nightclubs!” my dad cries.
“But a month?”
“It’s funk night too.” He starts singing one of his favorite songs.
“Bilal! Do not swear in this house!” my dad yells.
Miss Sajda, Bilal, and I look at one another and burst into a fit of giggles.
“F–U–N–K,” Bilal says slowly and clearly.
My dad looks at Miss Sajda, shakes his head, and lifts his hands in the air as if to say “kids nowadays.” They fall into that lovey-dovey “we’re so in love and share the same sense of humor” laughter. That’s my cue to bounce off to my bedroom and spend the rest of the evening on the telephone with Amy, discussing how I’m to find a dress, hairdresser, and makeup stylist in four days.
46
THE DRESS CAN’T be sleeveless, short, transparent, slinky, low-cut, or too revealing.
“So basically I’ve got two options!” I tell my dad, my hands on my hips, my nostrils flaring. “A pair of pajamas or a full-length leotard!”
“Just as long as the leotard isn’t too figure-hugging,” he says, grinning.
I let out a frustrated wail and throw myself onto the couch. I frown. I glare. I pout. My father is unmoved.
“You are only achieving premature aging, darling,” he says.
“Oh, Hakim, don’t be such a tease,” Miss Sajda scolds. She’s at our house for dinner tonight.
It’s seven-twenty on Wednesday evening. I have twenty-eight hours and forty minutes until the formal. That’s not a lot of time. Especially when all I have planned is a home appointment with a hairdresser (one of Shereen’s university friends who used to work in a salon but quit to study political science) and a makeup artist (me).
Tomorrow night is my only hope. It will be late-night shopping and if I don’t find a dress I will have no choice but to show up in my school uniform with a flower stuck on the collar for special effect.
I search the Internet for all the latest catalogs at my favorite stores. It is impossible to find anything that fits Dad’s description of modest. I storm back into the living room.
“Does a potato sack attached to a king-size quilt satisfy your criteria?”
“Maybe,” he says. He doesn’t bother looking up from his newspaper.
“Dad!”
“You can get away with a sleeveless dress if you can find a nice shawl to drape over your shoulders.”
I turn around, startled by Miss Sajda’s voice. My father slowly looks up from his newspaper. “I don’t want her wearing sleeveless.”
“Hakim, nothing will show. A shawl solves the problem with most of the formal dresses out there. In fact, a lot of the stores sell shawls on the side, so it would just be a matter of finding a color and fabric to match. If we can’t, we can always buy some fabric and I can hem the edges.”
I look at my dad hopefully. He clears his throat. Tugs at his collar. He doesn’t respond but sits quietly, listening to Miss Sajda.
“If the dress is too low-cut, we can always pin the shawl in such a way that it covers Jamilah’s chest. We’ll just need to get a double layer of the material.”
“So her shoulders will be covered?”
“Oh yes, definitely. Don’t worry, Hakim!” she says in a reassuring voice when she notices the worried look on his face. “Leave female fashion to me.”
He pauses. My neck prickles in anticipation. Finally he responds. “Fine,” he says gruffly.
“Yippee!” I squeal in delight.
“Can you…take Jamilah to the stores tomorrow and help her?”
I give Miss Sajda an imploring smile.
“I’d be happy to. Is that OK with you, Jamilah?”
“Of course!”
She beams happily at me. “How about I find a new pair of shoes for you too, Hakim? Maybe without masseur soles?”
He leans back in his chair and stretches his legs out, his tan-colored slippers poking out. “Stick with shawls,” he says, a grin on his face. “The masseur soles are staying.”
Miss Sajda turns to me and winks. “That’s what he thinks,” she
whispers, and we burst out laughing.
47
THE DRESS IS different shades of lime and turquoise and teal. It’s long and elegant. It’s sleeveless but it isn’t low-cut and snuggles comfortably against my body. I found a matching shawl and Miss Sajda has draped it over my shoulders and around my arms, just above my elbows. She’s pinned it to the edges of my dress so that it won’t slip.
I’m sitting stiff and rigid in my dress on a chair in front of my bedroom mirror, careful to avoid any sudden or violent movements in case the pins come undone. Shereen’s friend, Talia, is styling my hair.
When Talia walked into the house I nearly dropped dead. Her hair is dyed pink; the sides are shaved with only a short ponytail left dangling from the back. I took one look at her and dragged Shereen to another room, demanding to know if this was her idea of a sick joke.
She was unaffected by my hyperventilating state. A cool and calm “Trust me” was all she could offer.
Because I only had one hour until Bilal picked me up in his friend’s silver BMW, I had no choice but to take her advice.
In a mere twenty-five minutes Talia demolishes my stereotypes about the hairdressing abilities of someone with a pink-ponytailed shaved head and produces a hairstyle that belongs on a Paris catwalk.
“Wow! Thanks,” I gush, admiring her handiwork in the mirror.
“Do you need help with your makeup?” she asks.
I guess I haven’t matured that much because I take one look at her blue eyeshadow on one eye and green eyeshadow on the other and decline her offer.
I go into the bathroom, spread my makeup supplies across the counter, throw a towel across my chest like a bib to prevent any makeup from getting onto my dress, and start applying. I’m so nervous about getting my makeup just right that my hands aren’t very steady and I’m in danger of making a complete mess of my face. I’m negotiating a mascara wand when Miss Sajda knocks on the door and offers to lend me a helping hand.
Because I’m nervous, and because I have to admit that as out of touch with her birth certificate as she may be, Miss Sajda can do wicked things with an eye-shadow brush, I accept.
And so here I am standing in my bathroom on a Friday night. I’m getting ready for my tenth grade formal. I’m taking my older brother as my personal bodyguard. I’m being made up by my dad’s new fiancée, who just happens to be my madrasa teacher. And to top it all off, there will be no sunset rule tonight and there isn’t an “I’m studying at Amy’s” excuse in sight.
If you’d told me to predict this scene several months ago I would have laughed in your face. It sure is starting to feel a little surreal.
Miss Sajda does an amazing job. Sure, she subjects me to a long story about the history of black eyeliner (kohl powder in Arabic) in the Middle East but I can’t complain. She’s given me extra-volume lashes that curl. Knowing that kohl was once believed to have value as a protection against eye disease is a small price to pay.
After being made up and blow-dried and pinned and hair-sprayed and perfumed and lipstick-on-my-teeth-checked, I walk out into the living room, where my dad and Bilal are sitting. I’m carrying my darabuka with me.
My dad looks closely at my outfit, scrutinizing it as I move about the living room.
“Well? Does it meet your approval, caveman?” I say to him, standing over him with my hands folded across my chest.
“Caveman?”
“Yep!”
He looks over at Miss Sajda and rolls his eyes, trying to disguise a grin. “See how she treats her father?” he asks in a mock mortified tone. “This is the gratitude I get for letting her go to a place where they will dance to shameless music and she will return corrupted—”
“Yeah, OK, Dad,” Bilal interrupts impatiently, “we get it. We’re running late because Jamilah thinks she’s going to meet royalty and has taken hours to get ready!”
I ignore the quip (he’s just saved me from a lecture) and we all walk outside to the BMW. Shereen has her camera and is taking photos of me as though I were a bride leaving home on her wedding day.
My dad sees the license plate and nearly passes out on the driveway.
SEXY4U.
“Eh! Bilal! What is the meaning?”
Bilal grits his teeth. “It’s my friend’s car, Dad. Relax.”
Miss Sajda is in the background, stifling a laugh.
“I don’t like it! How can Jamilah go in a car with that kind of immoral license plate?”
“Dad!” I groan. “No one’s going to think anything.”
“What if somebody we know sees you?”
I burst out laughing. “Ha! They’ll think Bilal’s sexy for them!”
My dad isn’t amused and I see his eyes dart over to his taxi and a familiar expression of contemplation shadows his face.
Anticipating his thoughts I lash out. “No way! Absolutely not! I am NOT going to my formal in your TAXI!”
Bilal throws his head in his hands. Shereen cries out to Dad to lighten up. Miss Sajda steps close to Dad and talks to him. I can’t hear what she’s saying but whatever it is I want her to keep going because the “I’m about to go into cardiac arrest” expression on his face is slowly subsiding.
He waves his hand and we know that we’ve won.
Who needs a cardiovascular workout when you live with my dad? My heart gets more pumped up in an hour with him than it would in a high-impact aerobics class.
I kiss him good-bye and I notice that he is almost teary. “You look beautiful, Jamilah,” he says.
I swear my dad is going through the male version of menopause. Hot flashes over license plates and two-second mood swings. We need pharmaceutical attention here.
“Be good, don’t take the shawl off, and stay close to Bilal.”
“Yes, Dad.”
We zoom off.
We pull up into the parking lot of the reception hall at seven-thirty. It’s a spectacularly grand building, cement rendered white, with two large pillars at the entrance and red carpet laid up the front steps that lead into the double stained-glass doors. Lining the steps are lush green hedges shaped like lollipops that jut out of tall terra-cotta vases.
We wait behind the stretch of cars lined up in search of a parking space, and I break out into a small sweat as I observe groups of students walking with their dates through the parking lot toward the entrance. Other couples and groups are hanging around a large fountain in front of the entrance steps, laughing and joking with one another.
Most of the guys are transformed beings in their crisp suits and polished shoes. There are those out to make a different kind of statement. Some wear sneakers with their suits; others wear T-shirts under their jackets (Eminem and 2Pac both make an appearance). One guy, who is dressed in a black suit, has opted for the Ronald McDonald look with a bright red wig and red shoes.
But it’s the girls who steal the show tonight, with their dresses in assorted colors and designs and their elaborate hairstyles and glittering jewelry.
“Are you going to hang out with me all night?” I ask Bilal after we’ve found a parking space and are making our way to the entrance.
“Dad’s orders,” he answers in a deadpan voice.
I grab his arm anxiously. “Really?”
His mouth twitches.
“Ha!” I cry. “You’re joking, right?”
He grins. “What do you think? Just have your fun and stop worrying.”
I nudge him in the side and smile gratefully at him.
“Anyway, you’re lucky I’m so good-looking,” he says, giving me a wink. “Trust me. Being seen with me does wonders for the rep.”
I make a retching noise and he advises me that I’m making my lipstick look lopsided, so I stop.
To my dismay, Bilal’s older-brother conceit may be justified for once. As we join a group of my classmates I notice the girls’ mouths drop in awe as they look Bilal up and down. They mill around me, whispering questions into my ear.
“Who’s the hunk?”
> “How old is he?”
“Where’d you pick him up from?!”
I feel my head swell with pride as I tell them he’s my brother. They’re impressed. Bilal has become useful and I can’t stop beaming.
I catch sight of Amy and her date, Lindsay. I rush over to her and we head to the dance floor. Lindsay makes us laugh as he clowns around to some of the songs. Bilal is at our table eating my pasta entrée. I’m having too much of a good time to even think about food. A couple of girls are sitting next to him, flirting and trying to get him to notice them. His head is expanding at an exponential rate.
“You look distracted,” Amy says.
“Have you seen Timothy?”
“No, I haven’t.”
We continue dancing until I break off to look for Timothy. I’m walking past the bar when I notice Peter, Sam, and Liz huddled together. I’m not in the mood for speaking to them but it’s too late. They’ve spotted me.
“The music sucks,” Peter sneers. “They must have hired a try-hard DJ.”
“It’s not that bad,” I say. “Actually it sounds fine to me.”
Liz is snuggled into Sam’s arms and refuses to meet my gaze.
“So where’s your date?” Peter asks.
“Around.” I look away from his prying eyes and self-consciously play with the edge of my shawl.
“Hmm…So did you borrow your outfit from a nun?” I should have known that he wouldn’t take rejection easily. “I’m just kidding. You look great. Really you do. Lots of fabric works wonders.”
I gulp hard, cutting my fingernails into the palms of my hands. I look at Liz but she turns her face away. “That’s not very nice,” I say.
“I was wrong about you. I don’t think you have a wild side. Or any secrets. I think you’re just…” He taps his finger on his chin and looks up, a contemplative expression on his face. “What’s the word…? Ah, yes. Boring. Plain old boring.”
Sam bursts out laughing and I turn on my heel and walk off, struggling to control my quivering chin. I storm up to my table and tap on Bilal’s shoulder.
Ten Things I Hate About Me Page 19