Saints and Misfits

by S. K. Ali

  I have to wait until lunch to talk to Tats. We have a “temporary” cell phone ban currently at school due to some infringement of the rules by the regular ruffians, so now we all pay by being denied our civil right to text in the hallways. It’s supposedly temporary, but it lasts until school lets out next week. Collective punishment, anyone?

  Ms. Keaton stops me as I’m leaving English to let me know that my final timed essay has to be on The Tempest. I asked her earlier if I could do any of the literary works we’d studied this year. “You can do Flannery O’Conner next year for your independent project.”

  “Ms. Keaton, do you think Shakespeare demonized dark men by depicting Caliban in that way? A friend of mine thinks so.”

  “There are diverse ways of reading texts, depending on who you are. We all access books differently.” She zips up her laptop case. “But it’s true: Sycorax, his mother, was of North African background.”

  Mr. Ram must be concentrating on that part, while the only thing I see is that Caliban tried to assault Miranda.

  • • •

  In history, Mr. Pape does an interesting exam review period, where he puts the desks in a rectangular formation with one historical war image on each desk. We have to discuss among ourselves and put the images in an agreed timeline order. Then we’re to stand behind an image of our choice and talk briefly about the topics the picture triggers in us. I stand behind the image of the woman in the war effort poster, raising her fist. We Can Do It! I’m sure I can talk about the way things changed for women during both world wars.

  Lauren Bristol is beside me, behind the image of the mushroom cloud after the bombing of Hiroshima. She’s been in my classes since I moved here but never says anything more than hi to me. She travels in the upper echelons of Fenway High, and getting a hi from up there is good enough.

  “Discuss with the person next to you what you’re going to say,” Mr. Pape says. “Take three minutes.”

  Lauren looks to her left side and then at me and turns to choose me. I glance at who she gave up as a partner. Sandra, Ms. Kolbinsky’s granddaughter, who people call Mustache because of a port-wine stain birthmark under her nose. I was friends with her in middle school, but then she changed, and by the end of freshman year, she turned quiet, almost mute.

  The guy at my right has already chosen his friend next to him, so I turn to Lauren. Sandra leans against the wall, partnerless. Mr. Pape heads our way.

  “Janna, Lauren, make a group of three with Sandra.” He motions for Sandra to join us.

  After he leaves, Lauren turns her back on Sandra again and faces me. “So, what are you going to say?”

  “That the Second World War, like the First, resulted in a lot of changes for women,” I say, leaning out to address Sandra, too, who is slumped on the wall once more. “Because women were seen as being valuable to war efforts, and they kept things going with the industries back home.”

  “Okay, and my picture reminds me that no one thinks about the tragedy that results when places are bombed,” Lauren says. “This image reminds me of the human costs of war and why no one has ever used nuclear weapons again. We’re done.”

  I look at Sandra, who’s standing by the picture of the naked girl running after being burned by napalm in the Vietnam War.

  “Sandra? Your turn,” I say.

  Lauren stares at me and excuses herself. She stops to talk to Mr. Pape and heads out of the classroom.

  “This picture reminds me of why war sucks,” Sandra says, watching Lauren leave.

  “I heard the girl in this picture lives in Canada,” I say. “Well, she’s a woman now.”

  “She’s okay?” Sandra asks. “I thought she’d died.”

  “She’s a spokesperson for peace or something.”

  “That’s cool,” Sandra says. “Okay, so this picture reminds me of why it’s important to work for peace.”

  I smile at her just as Lauren rejoins us. “Sorry, had to take a bathroom break. My hair.”

  Her hair looks exactly the same as when she left: straight, dark and shiny, parted perfectly to showcase her profile.

  Mr. Pape calls us to attention and starts the timeline presentations from my far right.

  Lauren leans over to me. “She feels herself. In class.”

  “Who?”

  “Mustache. I’ve seen it.”

  I’m quiet for a minute, pretending I’m listening to Mike talk about the development of cannons. “In this class? Because I haven’t seen it.”

  Lauren straightens up. She doesn’t say anything again.

  • • •

  Sandra follows me out to the cafeteria after history. It’s sophomore lunch, and the halls are mostly empty.

  “You know, your grandma wants to go to the games club at the community center really badly,” I tell her.

  “Yeah, but my mom’s too tired to look into it. She works two jobs.”

  “Can you get your grandma to sign the forms? You can fill out the rest yourself.”

  “You have them?”

  “I’ll get them to you tomorrow.” I make a mental note to add it to my agenda. “She’s hilarious, your grandma. She likes Mr. Ram and doesn’t hide it.”

  Sandra laughs as we enter the cafeteria. Tats waves me over.

  I walk to our table in the corner, beside the entrance to the serving line. When I look back, Sandra is not behind me but sitting on the steps leading into the cafeteria pit, unwrapping a sandwich. Something tugs at me.

  “Mind if Sandra sits with us?” I ask before I can stop my mouth that has a direct line to my heart.

  “Why?” Tats says. “I thought we were going to talk.”

  Jeremy and Janna, my brain says.

  The way Sandra slumped on the wall in history, like it was normal to be ignored, that’s what gets me.

  “I don’t know. Maybe because today’s the first time I heard her say something since ninth grade?”

  “All righty then. We’ll talk in gym I guess.”

  I catch Sandra’s eye and point to the spot next to me. She shakes her head.

  I shrug and pull my lunch out of my backpack. “Are we allowed to check our e-mail? Or is that part of the ban?”

  “I checked mine.” Tats chews on a carrot stick.

  I read Dad’s message: Take your reward when you see it within reach. Don’t question your luck. Success belongs to you.

  A bag is placed on the table next to my Tupperware of rice. Sandra slumps into the chair beside me.

  I talk about the woes of living at Fairchild Towers for the rest of lunch period with Tats acting out the more colorful neighbors. Sandra sits and watches us, laughing once in a while.

  • • •

  Ms. Eisen informs us that we’re going to continue our weights unit until Tuesday, after which point whoever shows up for the last classes will play softball in the field. “Tomorrow we’ll be recording our abilities. I’ll use the results as an evaluation for your final grade.”

  Tats raises her hand. “Can we have new partners?”

  “No, everyone back to your assigned partners.”

  Tats and I say good-bye to each other, and I head to where Simone is waiting for me, soccer legs planted firm, mat spread out.

  The only thing to do now is to meet Tats on the roof after school.

  Only seventeen people, seventeen untouchable people, know about the roof. Even Lauren isn’t in that high of an echelon.

  Since Tats’s brother was a member of the untouchable crew during his time at Fenway High, and since she heard him in his senior year bragging about it one day to his girlfriend, when Tats was hiding in his room, back when she was in the eighth grade, to see what her brother did there with his GF, and since she wrote the exact method of getting up on the roof in her diary to preserve it until we got to Fenway, we became the sixteenth and seventeenth people to make it to the top of the school. When he graduated, her brother handed over the key, dangling on an España key chain, to the old teacher’s storage room, thro
ugh which you could access the roof hatch.

  It’s apparent we’re the only ones who hang out there just to talk, judging by the paraphernalia cluttered around the place. Some of the items, I have no idea what use they had. But if it’s on the roof, it’s probably illegal in some way.

  By being there simply to talk, peacefully talk, we’re almost blessing the place, you know?

  “First,” Tats says, settling against the itty-bitty vent, the safest place not to be seen from below, “did you know Matt sort of waved at me today? Like this.”

  She stands up, gets a guy swagger on, and then picks up a hand for a second, up to her hips, and drops it.

  “And it was from across the hallway,” she says proudly. “The two girls with him even looked me over. All because our families ate at Wishbone’s at the same exact time. That is what is called cosmic.”

  I want to jump topics but I know she needs to unload, so I look impressed.

  “And my mom’s joined his mom’s book club. That’s the bad part,” she adds, sitting down again.

  “Why’s that bad?” I say, thinking Muhammad would get so excited if Mom joined something with Saint Sarah’s mom. It would get them to be friends and then pave the way for him and her to live happily ever after.

  “Um, don’t you know what those book clubs are for? They’re therapy sessions. She’ll be talking about her problems, me included, and next thing you know, Matt’s going to hear all about it. It’s at his house every two weeks.” Tats sighs. “I tried to stop my mom. That’s why she joined for real.”

  “Maybe he’ll like you more, the more he hears about you secondhand. It’s worked for others,” I say, thinking again of Muhammad and his weird claim that my talking about Saint Sarah had prodded him into falling for her.

  “Oh yeah, I’m sure he’s going to like hearing about my ‘learning’ condition,” Tats says. “Mom never lets up on that.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Want some halal gummy bears? No piggy gelatin.”

  She takes a handful, picks a green one out, and bites off its head.

  “Ugh, these aren’t real gummy bears,” she says, flinging them away. The headless one lands next to the remains of a joint. Evicted for being different.

  “So,” I say. “Jeremy?” I slowly arrange the remaining halal gummy bears in a circle on the roof in front of me, to contain myself, to bring myself down to earth. Actually, below earth, sublevel, into the depths of unfortunate occurrences.

  I have this thing I do when I’m looking forward to something, when I notice myself getting overexcited, where I don’t think of the great possibilities in detail—only the awful ones—so that when it turns out to be something amazing, I’m genuinely surprised. In an unpracticed kind of way. It may not be part of Dad’s prescription for living successfully, but it’s kind of the best thing if you have an active imagination.

  These are the possibilities I’ve been wallowing in regarding Jeremy and me:

  1) Tats told him I liked him. He said he’d walk by the sophomore hallway to give me my eyeful for the day, because he’s into charity.

  2) Tats mentioned my name as a potential photographer for end-of-year drama club pics, and he said he wanted to know how to spell such an interesting name. She told him to check with me as she had no clue.

  And the last, most terrible one:

  3) Tats mentioned my name as a potential photographer for end-of-year drama club pics, and he said he knows the right guy for me. His good friend Farooq.

  I clear my head of that possibility.

  “Oh, yeah,” Tats says. “Okay, so, we’re on a cleanup break at drama club and Jeremy’s doing inventory of the lighting equipment with Ms. Jones and I kind of stand by, pretending to wait to talk to Ms. Jones, but I’m really observing him, right?”

  I nod. I’m evening out the colors in the gummy bear circle, so it’s balanced.

  “And then he turns to me and smiles. This really nice smile.”

  I suppress the stab of jealousy that immediately makes itself known, right below my heart.

  “I wave and say, ‘Are you Jeremy?’ ” Tats continues, with this faraway smile on her face. “Because I’ve heard about what you did with the lights last year for Macbeth.”

  The knife of jealousy is reaching up. If it actually pierces my heart, I think I’ll throw the gummies at Tats.

  “He says yeah,” Tats says. “And then, get this, we get dismissed early, and as we’re leaving, he says, ‘You’re the girl who hangs around with Janna, right?’ ”

  I freeze and stare at Tats. “What?”

  And then I understand.

  “Oh, wait, I know,” I say. “It’s because he’s friends with this guy, Fizz’s cousin. That’s why.”

  Tats blinks at me.

  “So you’re going to finish my story for me?” she asks.

  “Okay, finish,” I say, settling back to continue the gummy bear collective.

  “So I say, ‘Yes, that’s me, but how do you know Janna, ’cause she never mentioned it,’ ” Tats says. “Isn’t that funny? You mention him like four times a day. But I had to move carefully, right?”

  I stay quiet because I’m about to explode. Either from the agony of waiting as Tats meanders through her story, the agony of finding out that it had something to do with Farooq, or the agony of carrying around so much potential happiness.

  “He said, ‘Actually, I don’t know her; I’ve just seen her places.’ Like a wedding he went to, his friend’s brother’s wedding. He said you were the only one from Fenway High there besides his friend,” Tats says.

  Farooq’s brother’s wedding in the fall. I’d been there with Fizz. He’d been there? He’d noticed me?

  “And, Janna, he had this in-ter-ested look in his eyes, soooo . . .” Tats pauses. “I couldn’t hold it in. I said, ‘Oh yeah, I think Janna mentioned you being there, at the wedding. Yeah, actually, she’s mentioned you a few times. Actually, lots of times.’ ”

  “TATS!” I yell.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Tats says patiently. “Because then Jeremy said oh.”

  I wait. I want to give her a few minutes before I push her off the roof.

  “Then he looked down, looked up, looked around, looked down again, and said . . . drumroll, please,” Tats says.

  I stand up to get ready to push her off before walking back to the hatch, to get away from the scene of the crime.

  “He said, ‘Is she with someone? Like going out with anyone?’ ” Tats stands up and beams. “He likes you, Janna! You, you, you!”

  She grabs my hands and we shriek. Then I stop.

  “What did you say?” I ask.

  “I said you were engaged to this guy from back home from when you were three, but otherwise no,” Tats say.

  “Funny. Tell me what you really said,” I say, proud of the way I’m controlling my excitement.

  “I said, ‘No, she’s not with someone. Have anyone in mind?’ And then we both laughed. That’s why you’ve seen him around, dude,” Tats says, picking up her bag. “We have to go. This is around the time the smokers come up here.”

  “Wait,” I say. I bend down and arrange the gummy bears into a heart. In the middle, I put a green bear (Jeremy) and a yellow bear (me) looking at each other.

  • • •

  After school I head to the kitchen and pour cold chocolate milk into the quaint old teacup with roses that Teta, my maternal grandma, presented to me last Eid. I stick in one of those long wiggly plastic straws that Mom kept from when I was four and sit on the window ledge in the living room, sipping slowly while smiling at the birds. I swear I can hear Snow White yodeling that lovely song she does somewhere off in the distance. (So, yes, I start humming along.)

  I forget Muhammad is home, and, while he’s not too sharp in the intuition department, he wanders into the living room for some reason to stand and watch with nary a sound. When I stand up to add some graceful actions to the soundtrack, he snorts that laughter that he reserves solely for me. I
t’s the kind of laughter that makes one want to act like a three-year-old and throw a tantrum—precisely because it is how an unkind grown-up would laugh at a three-year-old doing the Disney-princess thing with all due seriousness. It’s a let-me-puncture-your-balloon-of-happiness laugh.

  But, like I said before, Muhammad is not too intuitive, so he accepts my excuse that I’m practicing for some school play and not experiencing serious pangs of love. He goes off to pour himself some chocolate milk too.

  Fizz calls, and I have a moment of uncertainty. I haven’t practiced keeping the J excitement from my voice yet, and she’s too good of a friend not to notice something so uncharacteristic of me: cheerful, enthusiastic hellos/salaams followed by comments observing the wonderful things around us humans. She’d definitely see through the fairy magic enveloping me, and I have absolutely no plans to update her, so I let the phone ring.

  When it starts ringing again after a pause of three seconds, I pick up. It’s Aliya, using Fizz’s phone.

  Aliya lets me know that Muhammad has dropped off my permission form for the regional Quiz Bowl and that two cars are going to Chicago on Saturday. Saint Sarah’s tiny car has already filled up (let me guess: Muhammad is one of the passengers) and do I want to go with her, Nuah, and an extra guy to keep Nuah company (no idea who)? I say sure, sure.

  Then she reminds me to brush up on more seerah, to be really ready, as there might be an audience for the competition. I say I’ve already reviewed stuff. Then she says we’re meeting on Friday at Saint Sarah’s place for a last practice. I say okay. Then she asks if I want to talk to Fizz. I say no and hang up quickly.

  I’m afraid.

  How did Fizz morph, in my mind, from a best friend with a no-nonsense attitude into this stern, judgmental person in the span of a few days? I can see the look she would have given me if she’d materialized on the roof when I was shrieking with Tats. She’d have reached into her bag for the green book with the gold title and flipped through the pages, her eyes never leaving me, and found the page on fornication, zina:

  A Muslim is not to long for the things that lead to zina, such as kissing, being alone, and touching, for all these things are haram and lead to the greater evil which is zina. Do not come close to it.