Saints and Misfits

by S. K. Ali

  But I won’t, I tell Fizz in my head. I won’t do it, come close to it. I just don’t know how to tell my heart to stop. Or to not choose Jeremy.

  And I don’t know how to tell it to stop smiling now that he chose me back.

  • • •

  For the rest of the evening, I study The Tempest. I fall asleep with a smile on my face even though I’m doing grim work. When Mom wakes me up for evening prayers, I’m clutching an old Franklin Covey agenda, one that contains a series of arguments to prove Caliban’s depravity.

  MISFITS

  Ms. Eisen blows her whistle in the gymnasium. “The weights challenge comprises the first part of your exam. I want to see records of everything. Get your clipboards, girls.”

  Simone lets me go first. I pick up the weights and begin my squats.

  After watching me for a while with her pen poised, Simone lowers her clipboard. The blank spaces on the chart tell me that she hasn’t recorded anything.

  “You know you can go up, right? It’s better to do heavier weights and fewer reps,” she says. She’s one of those natural athletes who can do any sporty thing under the sun.

  “But this is what I’ve been doing since we started weights. I don’t want to change it now when we’re getting marked for it.”

  “Are you feeling it? Tell the truth.” Simone scrutinizes me as I extend my arms, having come up from a long squat.

  “Not right this instant.” It’s true I haven’t broken a sweat since we started.

  “Do you feel it after class at any point?”

  I think about it. “I’m not sure.”

  “Then you’re settling for lighter weights, because the answer to that should be It kills me.” Simone walks over to the rack of weights and points at two of them. “Here, this should do it.”

  She’s pointing at ten pounds. Five times more than my regular weights.

  “What? That’s too much!”

  “Don’t waste time. Fewer reps, heavier weights.” She walks back to the mat. “I’m just trying to help you.”

  I pick up the weights, and my arms fall immediately with the burden. Simone’s tapping the clipboard.

  Grunting, I get into position.

  “Start!” Simone barks.

  I squat and stand, sure I look like a weightlifter at the Olympics as my legs wobble. Sweat beads assemble on my forehead, ready to cascade.

  “Good! I can tell you can feel it now.” Her pen moves across the clipboard. “It’s going to kill—I promise you. You’re going to love it.”

  The front of my shirt is soaked as I switch to lunges. A swirl of hair releases itself from my ponytail. Others join it, frizzy and free.

  “I’m impressed,” Simone encourages me. “This is what it’s all about.”

  I move on to mat exercises and after the last crunch lie there spread-eagle and panting, my hair a tangled ball around my red face.

  Tats sticks her head in and obstructs my view of the ceiling.

  “Get up,” she says. “You have a visitor.”

  I get to my feet, pulling on her hand because my core is done for the day. I look over at the locker room, expecting some mutual friend of ours, but Tats shifts me to face the weight room, a separate facility that is connected to the gymnasium through an inconspicuous door.

  Jeremy is there, raising his hand for a small wave.

  If it had been the 1800s, I would’ve fainted right there.

  As it’s the twenty-first century, I go like this:

  Recovering, I wave back meekly and weakly, my mind scrambling to make sense of this latest development. My hair is showing to a guy. A guy unrelated to me.

  To a guy I freakin’ like.

  This is so against my religion, I’m actually flummoxed for the first time since learning the word.

  I turn to Tats, who’s grinning like she’s proud of her baby’s first step.

  “What the hell?” I ask her, smiling lightly in the general direction of Jeremy, who is beaming and kind of acting like he’s waiting for me to walk my frizzy-hair self over to him.

  “This is his spare period, and I was like, perfect, an opportunity for Jeremy to see the real Janna!” says Tats. “But what happened to your hair?” she whispers. “And why are you soaking wet? Ugh, is that sweat?”

  “Tats, how long has Jeremy been here?” Has he seen my whole Olympian efforts?

  “Since the beginning. Why?”

  Simone hands me the clipboard and positions herself, taking a deep breath. There’s an assemblage of enormous weights parallel to the mat, ready for her.

  I pretend to watch her do sets of squats while grasping huge weights. The girl has Madonna arms.

  “This is so not cool,” I say to Tats, unclasping my bangs from a barrette halfheartedly holding them. I flip them over correctly, along the most flattering part in my hairline. “He’s not supposed to see my hair, remember?”

  Tats leans over and smooths the back of my hair. “Relax, it’s just one guy. And it’s just your hair. Dead matter according to Mr. McKay.”

  “Actually, it’s my arms and legs, too,” I say, looking at my T-shirt and shorts, feeling exposed, wishing Mom’s coverall prayer outfit would suddenly appear. It’s like a hazmat suit, with a skirt instead of pants.

  “You’re wearing huge culottes compared to Lauren’s awesome teeny shorts,” Tats reassures me. “And arms are like nothing, especially in your loose top.”

  “Why don’t you just call them my state-issued phys ed pantaloons and balloon blouse while you’re at it?” I say, getting irritated at the way she’s periodically grooming me and then glancing Jeremy’s way.

  Jeremy’s talking to Ms. Eisen, and whatever he’s saying is making her laugh. I forgot, he’s like some star on the baseball team.

  Simone stops. “How many sets was that?” she asks.

  “Um, six?” I say.

  She repositions and begins again.

  “Tats, get him out of here. I don’t feel right about this,” I say. Should I grab Simone’s workout towel, a facecloth, and lay it on my head like a doily at the center of a coffee table? Or beeline to the locker room?

  “Jan, just pretend you don’t see him,” Tats says. “He has every right to use the weight room. And tomorrow, put some leave-in conditioner in your hair before class.”

  If Jeremy wasn’t looking over right at that point, I would hit her on the head with the clipboard.

  Ms. Eisen walks over to us.

  “Tats, disappear; Eisen is on her way,” I say, moving my pen across the chart in a series of squiggles. “Get to your partner now.”

  “My partner’s away, so Eisen already did my exam,” says Tats. “Hi, Ms. Eisen.”

  Ms. Eisen nods at her and then motions for Simone to stop. “I need to talk to Janna here.”

  “Me?” I ask.

  Ms. Eisen takes the clipboard from me and hands it to Tats. “Tatyana, take over for Janna. Janna, walk with me.”

  I succeeded all year in escaping Ms. Eisen’s radar by being the average Jane or, in my case, the average Janna, and doing everything so-so. How is it that with less than two weeks left to go until year-end, she’s walking with me now?

  “Janna, I’m going to get a male student, a senior, to help me with our last couple of gym periods. I want to play softball to finish the year off, and Jeremy’s on Fenway’s baseball team. I’m telling you because of your hajeeb.”

  When she’d first used “hajeeb” I’d kindly pointed out it was hijab. She told me some words were too hard for her to pronounce, so “hajeeb” it is in gym class. Tats said I should have asked her why she has no problem pronouncing Genevieve’s name.

  A good question I dare not ask.

  I glance at Jeremy as we pass him. He’s pretending he isn’t aware of us, but I know he didn’t need that much concentration to roll up his left sleeve.

  “Well, it’s going to be outside, right?” I say.

  “Yes, but we’ll be doing drills inside first—especially tomorrow, w
ith that heat wave forecast.”

  “Oh, because if it’s outside, I’ll be in hijab anyway,” I say. “It’s okay, Ms. Eisen.”

  “Well, I was telling you, not really asking your permission.” Ms. Eisen begins walking away and then turns back and says, “Don’t you need your hajeeb right now? Five minutes till bell rings, so go get changed now.”

  She blows her whistle to gather the other girls.

  I jog to the locker room, but before going in, I go Bollywood and pause to look at him again. He’s standing and watching me, in my pantaloons and frizzy hair. With a nice smile on his face, like he likes what he sees.

  Right at that moment, I feel like the most beautiful girl in the world.

  • • •

  Soon-Lee scribbles me a note. This is crazy. Want to study today? After school?

  I nod. When we walked into math today, Mr. Mason handed out a ten-page package, copied back to back, entitled “A Course Review.” As I flipped through, I noticed that there were at least four topics I didn’t remember learning anything about. A hush fell over everyone as we went through our notes, the textbook, and “A Course Review,” trying to find links to what we were taught this year.

  Mr. Mason is looking at his phone, with his feet up on the desk.

  Soon-Lee flips her hair to the left side, twists the ends, and begins working out a problem in her notebook. I peer over to see what she’s deciphering.

  Mr. Mason looks up. “A question, Janna?”

  “Sir, I don’t remember some of the topics in this package. Is everything in here going to be on the exam?”

  “Everything.” He goes back to his phone.

  Robby pokes me with a pencil. I turn to him with a frown. His package is open to the second-to-last page, and he’s pointing at the bottom. There are the remains of a website name that’s only been half blocked off. I check the other pages in my package. They all show a rectangular outline near the edge of the page, like letters have been covered up before being photocopied. It’s evident this is something Mr. Mason pulled from online somewhere.

  No wonder it doesn’t match what we’ve done in class.

  Robby leans in to whisper. “We didn’t learn half this shit.”

  Soon-Lee glances over. I point out the website remains to her. She goes through her own package, disbelief growing on her face.

  “So which one of you is going to let Mason know this isn’t fair?” His voice a thick whisper, Robby peers up at both of us from his slumped form on the desk.

  Soon-Lee stares at him over her dark glasses. She peels a sticky note off a pad. Her pen moves across the yellow paper.

  She passes it to me. Why does it have to be one of US? MAN UP Robby.

  I crumple the note and drop it on Robby’s desk, a smile on my face. He reads it and gives Soon-Lee the finger.

  I pick out a highlighter from my pencil case and commence highlighting each topic we haven’t covered. There’s a lot.

  From behind Soon-Lee, Pradeep passes Robby a note that makes him crack up and nod.

  “Robby, may I suggest you concentrate on your own learning.” Mr. Mason raises his eyebrows. His phone is on his desk, and for the rest of the period he watches us.

  • • •

  “Maybe it’s an experiment,” Soon-Lee says. “A twisted experiment where he wants to check how well we can teach ourselves.”

  We’re in the library at a pair of study carrels. Soon-Lee’s got her iPad propped up, and it’s been running a steady supply of YouTube videos demonstrating the new concepts we need to learn.

  I show her Dad’s message for today to make her feel better: To spring back after failure, you only need two things: energy fueled by the memory of past successes and a vivid mental image of your success scenario. It’s in your grasp if you spring immediately.

  “What does that even mean?” She pauses from recording formulas into her notebook. Her writing’s gone from tiny, perfectly formed letters to chicken scratch.

  “It means we need to concentrate on beating this thing with a positive attitude.”

  “We have less than a week before the exam, Janna. There isn’t anything positive about that.”

  Familiar hyena-like laughter reaches us from the bank of printers and photocopiers along the half wall separating the checkout area and the book stacks. I motion to Soon-Lee, whispering, “Robby and Pradeep.”

  We make our way to the bookshelves behind us. Through the gaps in books, Robby and Pradeep are visible, standing by a printer. Pradeep’s backpack is open, and he’s shoving in each freshly printed page.

  “There’s no way they should be this happy right after that math class,” Soon-Lee whispers. “Unless . . .”

  She steps out from the bookshelves, a pen still in her hand. “Hey, guys, what’s up?”

  Pradeep zips his bag and shoulders it. “Nothing, just wondering what that smell was. But then you showed.”

  Robby laughs and thumps Pradeep on the back. “Korean BBQ, meet Mr. Hacker.”

  “Shut up, man.” Pradeep heads out through the turnstiles, clutching his backpack in his arms. Robby scrambles after him.

  Soon-Lee beelines to the printer they were at, still humming as it prints out a blank page that says seven of seven. She pushes the menu button and selects Jobs list, from which she presses reprint.

  The machine starts up again and spits out another seven pages. I turn the printout over. It’s an exam, with the same website link from our course review lining the bottom of each page.

  “What was that your dad said about springing immediately?” Soon-Lee says with a grin.

  I let her make a copy for me. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to use it.

  • • •

  After school I lie in bed, a buzz of thoughts swirling in my mind: hoping Fizz doesn’t call again, debating whether to wear my hijab to gym tomorrow, wondering if Jeremy is going to talk to me in the morning. I’m also mustering the courage to take a careful look at the exam. As I sit up to rummage in my bag for the contraband matter, Muhammad barges in. “Dad’s on Skype.”

  Muhammad sets up his laptop so that we’re sitting on the couch with the window behind us, the rest of the apartment strategically hidden from view. We’d agreed that this is the best setup for video chatting with Dad as he sometimes starts asking about Mom’s buying habits if he glimpses anything new in the apartment. I guess he’s careful about his child support payments being put to good use.

  “Greetings, people of Eastspring. What’s the latest from the hinterlands?” Dad’s wearing a suit and tie, but I can tell he’s at home because he’s holding Luke on his knee. We call the baby laddoo, like those Indian dessert balls, due to some serious chubbiness all around and due to the fact that Dad’s company is one of the premier prepackaged Indian sweet makers in North America. We call our other half-brother, Logan, laddoo too. The laddoos are a year apart.

  “Hi, laddoo,” I say, waving. “Dad, we’re going to Chicago this weekend. For the Islamic Quiz Bowl tournament. Are we going to see you?”

  “Coming here? Your mother never told me,” says Dad. He starts frowning, swatting the laddoo’s hands away to stop him from stuffing the tie into his mouth.

  Muhammad nudges my knee with his. “We just found out this past weekend,” he says. “We’re driving up for the day with others, so maybe we can have dinner together.”

  “Nonsense, you have to stay with me for the night,” Dad says. “You can take the bus back, or, Mo, why don’t you drive up on your own?”

  “Because he wants to go with Sarah,” I say.

  Muhammad nudges my knee again, harder.

  “Sarah? And who is Sarah?” Dad’s brows are knotting up.

  “Sarah is this girl who I’m getting to know, for, you know, marriage purposes,” Muhammad says.

  “Your mother never told me anything about that,” Dad says. “I thought we’d agreed on an open communication plan. I don’t want to be finding out that you’re getting married in this way.” />
  “I’m not getting married, Dad,” says Muhammad, stepping on my toes.

  “Ouch!” I say. “Dad, he’s getting mad at me because I’m telling you all this.”

  “Is your mother there?” Dad asks. “I would like her to be involved in a renewal of our essential agreements. That our family operates in the same way regardless of whether we are a merged entity or not.”

  “No, she’s not home from work yet,” I say.

  “Okay then, enlighten me as to what this marriage business is all about,” says Dad. “I hope you’re a little more clear with this than with the idea to switch college majors.”

  Muhammad talks fast for five minutes, making it seem like Saint Sarah is this amazing catch: smart, giving, kind, friendly, et cetera, et cetera.

  “But is she down-to-earth? Fun?” Dad asks. “Because you want someone cool to be with, for the lack of a better word. Not uptight. It makes for a better future.”

  I make a sound.

  “Yeah, she’s awesome,” Muhammad says.

  “Yeah, she’s the one who planned the Fun-Fun-Fun Islamic Quiz Game!” I say. “See, Dad? She’s really f-u-n. Ouch! Muhammad!”

  The laddoo starts crying on seeing my plight digitally.

  “No, no, Janna’s okay,” I say, smiling brightly. “See? Happy Janna!”

  The laddoo’s lips tremble once more before settling back into his satisfied chubby face.

  “Oh yes, I’m getting an excellent idea,” Dad says. “I’ll ask Linda if it’s okay for your whole team to stay here, with us. How many of you are there?”

  “Six,” Muhammad says, a spark of excitement entering his eyes. Which is funny because Dad never elicits that kind of response from him.

  “Plus one,” I say to Muhammad. “Apparently, we have an extra person in our car. A guy.”

  “Then it’s not a problem,” Dad says. “You know we have more than enough space up here.”

  Dad has an eight-bedroom house with a basement that has four more bedrooms in addition to the nanny suite. Dad’s version of “lite” Indian sweets for “better” Indian restaurants was the key to his success after years trying to peddle the crazy-sweet stuff.