by S. K. Ali
• • •
I open the dashboard on Amu’s website. There must be someone else out there with the same problem as me. Someone must have asked a question about this.
Non-Muslim love, I type into the search field. It pops up immediately.
Dear Imam, I love to wear non-Muslim clothes. Especially the fashionable ones from the mall. (The one here in town.) But my brothers, all three of them, they dress Islamically, in long kurtas and thowbs, like the companions of the Prophet. When I’m with them, I stand out like a sore big toe. (We’re all bald too, except they wrap their heads in turbans, like at the Prophet’s time, so lucky them. They call it Islamic—I call it convenient!) Imam, how do I change and become more pious like them?
Answer: First, let me commend you on your interest in following Islamic precepts in your life. However, I did not know, until I read your question, that clothes have a religion. In the Qur’an, clothing is referred to as a cover and as items of beauty: “Indeed, We have bestowed upon you from on high [the knowledge of making] garments to cover your nakedness, and as a thing of beauty, but the garment of God-consciousness is the best of all.” There’s no reference to a specific style of clothing. As long as it meets the requirements of Islamic modesty and cleanliness, it can be a “thing of beauty,” a fashionable item if you will, of any culture. If your brethren disagree, please do ask them how exactly Abu Jahl and Abu Lahab, those men bent on killing our beloved Prophet, were dressed. Were they also not wearing the same garments that are now claimed to solely represent Islam? If they were to materialize in our midst today, those among us without true knowledge of our religion would rush to authenticate them as exemplary Muslims, based on their appearance. Meanwhile, the garments of these two evil men—time-stamped, yes, with the fashions of the Prophet’s time—encased hardened hearts. Thus, we wear clothing on the outside to cover and beautify, but our insides are equally important. If our outsides look pious but our core is not mindful of Him, we are not true servants of God. We must constantly strive to align these. That is the beautiful struggle of being a believer. In closing, I want to add clothing is cultural, and Muslims belong to ALL cultures of the world. (So go ahead, cover that head with a baseball cap. Or a turban. I hear they are quite fashionable these days.) And Allah knows best.
I smile. Amu’s awesome.
• • •
After dinner, Mom opens my bedroom door as I’m perusing the bootleg math exam. I have no time to erase the stricken look on my face, but, lucky for me, she associates it with the conditioner and curling iron that I left on the desk.
“Did you have a girls party to go to today? Why all the hairstyling?” she says as she picks up the iron and winds its cord around it.
“Just trying something new,” I say, placing the exam sheets in the middle of my math textbook. My fingers shake, as feigning nonchalance is hard with Mom scrutinizing me.
She shoots a pointed look at my hair, which, I have to admit, is a tangled mass held back by a headband. I shrug and highlight random things in my math notebook.
“They’re delivering my bed tomorrow.” Mom takes a seat at the desk. “Janna, I know your number one concern is privacy. What if I make a promise that nothing will change in terms of that. I’ll treat your space as a separate room. Completely.”
“I really doubt that. I’ll be right there. It’ll be easy for you to treat me like I’m seven.”
“You mean when you used to beg to sleep in my room?” She looks at the picture on the wall above my desk. It’s a photo I took of the decorative pebbles in front of Dad’s house.
“I just know you’ll tidy things in my space, like it’s your room, like you always do. Maybe even check on me.”
“No, I wouldn’t.” She sighs and turns to me, her eyes blinking like they’re wet. “Muhammad being home will be helpful for me.”
Amu’s face flashes in my head. How does that happen?
“Mom, I’m trying to study.”
“I know, but I’d like things settled for Muhammad. For us.”
“You mean for Muhammad, period.” For some reason I feel angry instead of sad when I see this affecting her. It was your choice to leave Dad, I want to say.
“Janna, think about what you’re saying.”
“I’m saying you only care about him.” My throat closes on that, and I want to cry after saying it. Muhammad and Mom are becoming united in my head. But I’m on my own.
My phone beeps with a text from Tats. I HATE Ms. E. But guess what? J likes your hair. He thinks it’s hot.
“If I only cared for him, why wouldn’t I just order you to hand your room over?”
“I’m studying.” As I’m about to click the phone off, another message pops up. He wants to talk. When?
“Well, I see you’re making good use of the present we got you.” Mom stands up.
“So it was a bribe.” I’m trying to click off when three more messages appear, annoying beeps punctuating the air. When hot hair?
When hotness?
When?
“Do you really think that’s what it is?” She doesn’t make a move to leave. “If so, maybe you need to give it back then.”
Powering the phone off completely, I place it on the side of the bed closest to the wall and keep my hand on top to ensure its security. The idea of Mom taking it from me and finding Tats’s texts is making me sick. “Okay, Mom, I don’t think it’s a bribe. I know you meant it as a present to show you care about me. Not just Muhammad.”
Making sure my voice doesn’t sound robotic while just saying what she wants to hear is hard. I look up at her to see if it works.
She turns and leaves, closing the door behind her. I don’t catch her face, but the stiffness in her back tells me she’s not impressed with me.
I power the phone back on and delete all of Tats’s messages.
SAINTS
I decide to buck trends and be hot, temperature-wise. If a bunch of people can jump into icy waters for polar bear plunges in the cold of winter, I see no reason I can’t wear my favorite clothes when it’s ninety degrees outside. Four layers of diverse fabrics: denim, Lycra, cotton, sweatshirt, and a slick (and thick) pashmina to knit the whole ensemble together. All in black, my feel-good color.
Comfort clothes are a must today.
Mom’s queen mattress, box spring, and headboard are resting against the wall beside the front door. Muhammad appears carrying the disassembled lengths of the bed frame, held together like it’s an Enfield 1853 rifle-musket and he’s marching to the Battle of Fredericksburg. (Sad fact: The North suffered more than twice the casualties in that skirmish.) He does a Three Stooges move when he sees me, turning suddenly and feigning surprise at missing my head with the bed frame. I glare and stuff a breakfast bar and a lunch bar into my backpack. My plan is to head to school earlier and miss the drama of dismantling Mom’s room.
At school, I sit on the steps by the side doors that lead to the hall where English is. Normally these doors are locked, but if you wait long enough, someone opens the door from the inside for whatever reason. Okay, usually a nefarious reason, like smoking or making out.
I take out a granola bar and cradle Flannery’s complete stories in my lap. With the first taste of oats ’n’ honey, I fall into “The Life You Save May Be Your Own.” It’s shady here due to an old oak tree standing sentry beside the steps, and I’m doing okay so far.
But the light shifts, maybe a cloud moves, and that or something else makes me look up, toward the front of the building. Jeremy’s getting out of his car in the parking lot, his arm outstretched, opening the door. I lean back and lift Flannery up to my face, thinking Tats would call this cosmic, me reading the line Are you married or are you single? just as Jeremy appears on the horizon.
His arms appear in my mind. The arms I saw when I searched for him in last year’s yearbook. He was standing with some of the guys from the baseball team, strong, tan arms crossed so hard across his chest that the veins etched an imprint in me. I
never knew until that moment that you could look at someone’s arms and want them around you so badly.
I wonder if Flannery ever felt that way. There was only one guy linked to her and only one recorded kiss. According to her notes, she didn’t think much of that kiss. According to his notes, neither did he.
I lower the book, thinking Jeremy would be gone into school by now.
He’s walking toward me. He’s in the middle of the lawn between me and his car.
I look around for help and then gather the remains of my breakfast and stand up, flushed, realizing just how hot it is. Oh God, I can’t talk to him now; I don’t know what I’d say; I don’t have Tats with me. All this time I’m holding Flannery open on the page that says, right at the very top, Are you married or are you single?, fluttering it around as I move in ambivalent ways to collect myself.
Was there ever a bigger geek than me? Ya Allah, save me from my geeky self, I’m praying when the side doors open. Soon-Lee spills out, holding her boyfriend’s hand. “Hi, Janna.”
“Soon-Lee! Can we talk? Something serious.” I’m walking away from the steps, backward, increasing the space between Jeremy and me, with Soon-Lee the monkey in the middle.
“Sure,” she says, letting go of her boyfriend. He shrugs and puts his hands in the pockets of his Bermudas.
Jeremy is almost at the steps when I back myself into the corner where the arts wing juts out.
“The exam, did you look at it?” I gaze over Soon-Lee’s petite shoulders. He’s standing on the steps, like he’s waiting for me.
“My conscience only let me look at the parts we didn’t learn about. Here, look.” She bends over her open messenger bag. I look. Still there, thumbing his phone.
“See, I even blocked the questions we should’ve known all about with a Sharpie.” She holds up a stapled set of papers that look like a formerly classified, now somewhat declassified CIA document. “Ethical or what?”
“Good idea. Can I get a copy of that?” He’s talking on his phone now.
“Course. Want my notes, too? On the topics Mason didn’t teach us?”
“Awesome.”
Soon-Lee turns to look at her boyfriend. He’s wandered off to stand by the fence across from the steps, watching us with his elbows resting on the metal railing.
I glance again at Jeremy and catch his eyes. He smiles in the middle of his phone conversation.
“Who’s that? And why are you hiding from him?” Soon-Lee adjusts her dark frames to peer at me.
“I’m not.” I reach out for the papers she’s holding.
“Oh come on. Who’s he waiting for over there then?”
“I really don’t know.” I flip through the exam as Soon-Lee leans against the wall beside me.
“He’s hung up. And now he keeps glancing over. Don’t worry—I’m looking at Thomas and just using my powerful peripheral vision to relay this information to you.”
“Does he look happy? Confused? Annoyed?”
“He looks hot. As in temperature hot.”
“I wish he’d just go in.”
“Oh my God, is he stalking you?”
“No! He’s not stalking me! No way.” I’m sure I said that a bit too loud. I’m afraid to look his way to check.
“Aw, he likes you then?” She turns to me, her left shoulder pressing into the bricks. “And you so like him back. It’s written all over your face.”
“Soon, are you coming back to me soon?” Thomas calls.
Jeremy’s no longer on the steps. He gave up on me. Yes!
What is wrong with me?
“Sorry, math troubles,” Soon-Lee says as we join Thomas again. “Thomas, do you know the guy that was standing here just a minute ago?”
I hit Soon-Lee with Flannery.
“Yeah, Lauren’s cousin?”
“Lauren? Lauren Bristol?” Soon-Lee’s incredulous.
“As in the bitch herself.” Thomas drapes his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.
After agreeing to a study session on Monday, I make my exit with a wave, walking to the more accommodating, less happening, front doors.
Lauren’s cousin?
• • •
History is awkward because I can’t stop myself from glancing at Lauren periodically to find the Jeremy resemblance I’ve been missing all along. She’s nothing like him, from hair to facial features to stature to style. She looks old money, with the tiny, perfect diamonds in her ears to prove it. I don’t get why she’s not in a private high school.
Mr. Pape seats himself on top of an empty student desk.
“Last day for questions before exam week.”
“Okay, do you have to be antiwar to pass the exam?” Oliver says, amid laughter. He occasionally takes Mr. Pape on when he’s bored. Usually on points related to his love of the right to possess guns.
“No, but if you’re pro-war, articulate your position clearly in the essay portion, using proper citations, and you get an A.”
“See, I don’t like that: Why’d you call it pro-war? It’s called antiterrorism.”
“Sure, sure, whatever you call it, just do a good job with your reasoning.”
“Are you antiterrorism, sir?”
“Of course. I’m antiviolence.”
“So, why do you cut up antiterrorism tactics?”
“I don’t believe more violence solves the problem of violence. Anyway, my opinions don’t constitute the exam.”
“They do, if you designed the exam.” The class goes silent for a second before a few guys begin hooting.
“Oliver, if you see that the exam is, in any way, unfair to your beliefs, you can take it up with the office. But not before you have evidence of it.” Mr. Pape’s knuckles on the desk are white, the only telltale sign he’s getting stressed.
“I have evidence plenty in all the stuff you’ve given us.” The guy behind Oliver makes a sizzling sound.
Mr. Pape stares at Oliver.
I slump down on my desk. I hate, just hate, this.
Sandra’s hand rises in the air. We look at her.
“Mr. Pape, how detailed do we have to get for the short-answer questions?”
“Thanks for asking, Sandra.” He jumps off the desk and strides to the board and begins to talk about the perfect short-response algorithm.
I give Sandra five. Her first oral contribution the entire year, and it cut the tension like a birthday cake knife.
• • •
“He waved at me again. From five o’clock,” Tats says as we make our way to our table at lunch. “Did you see it?”
I look at Matt and his friends. They appear to be laughing, huddled over a phone. “No, I missed it.”
“So, what if one day I went with my mom to her book club? At his house?” Tats takes a seat. “Would that be weird?”
“Kind of,” I say, unwrapping my second granola bar of the day. “What if he’s not even there? I can’t imagine him hanging around when his mom’s book club is happening.”
Sandra plunks down beside me.
I look at Tats, wondering if she’s going to change the topic of conversation.
“No, not to see him. Just to see his house, you know?” Tats takes out a saran-wrapped tray of sushi from her backpack. It has a big LAST BATCH OF THE DAY SALE sticker on it.
“I think that’s stalkerish,” I say.
“What do you think, Sandra? Is it stalkerish to go to a guy’s house when he’s not home? A guy you like?” Tats picks a roll up with her chopsticks and looks at Sandra.
“I don’t know,” says Sandra.
“Do you like someone?” Tats asks, before opening her mouth wide to shove a piece of sushi in.
“No.”
“Come on.” Tats pauses in her chewing. “It’s normal.”
Sandra shakes her head and takes a bite of her sandwich.
“You can tell us,” Tats prods.
“Maybe some people don’t,” I say. “Maybe they haven’t discovered anybody interesting.”
>
“I think you should walk around expecting to meet interesting people,” Tats says, picking another roll up. “Like I don’t mind, Janna, if you tell Sandra all the guys I’ve liked before.”
“What? Why?” I scrunch the granola wrapper. I’m still hungry. “Why does that matter?”
“Because I’m not ashamed of being open to people. Who cares if it doesn’t work out?” Tats puts two rolls on the discarded wrapper off her tray and pushes it to me. “If it doesn’t happen with Matt, I know I’ll find someone else.”
“Thanks, but only one. You need lunch.” I take a roll and push the other back to her.
She gets Sandra’s eye and motions toward the sushi. Sandra shakes her head again and continues eating her sandwich. It’s always turkey and lettuce.
“Sandra, if you ever fall for someone, let me know,” Tats says, leaning over the table to whisper. “I’m helping Janna, and it’s like the best. To make it happen between two people.”
Sandra looks at me. I shrug. I don’t want to tell her about something I’m not even sure of myself.
“It’s nothing,” I say. “Just a crush.”
When Sandra looks back at her sandwich, I frown at Tats and shake my head.
“Anyway, I think I might grow up to become a professional matchmaker if acting doesn’t work out,” Tats says. She looks up and then smiles big, waving.
I turn around. Matt and his crew are walking by on their way out. He doesn’t even glance this way. We’re not on the same planet as him.
I look back at Tats. She’s still smiling, wrapping her chopsticks with the saran wrap.
Her tray is in front of me, a roll on it.
Tats deserves someone awesome.
But someone accessible. Or at least on earth.
• • •
Tats pops her head out of the locker room into the gymnasium to check if it’s true. When we entered, we heard the word “substitute” being tossed around.
“YES! A sub!” Tats confirms. “Last-day sub!”
I’m in front of the mirror winding my hijab on my head in bandanna fashion, to accommodate physical activity, when she sticks her hand out, palm up.
“Give me your hijab,” she says. “He likes your hair. The guy likes your hair, and you’re going to hide it from him?”