Saints and Misfits

by S. K. Ali

  Obediently, I unravel the pashmina. I hold on to it for a while before giving it up. She takes it and walks over to our bags on the bench.

  My hair isn’t the greatest today, so I tie it up in a high ponytail, staring at my unsure expression.

  Lauren walks by, pauses, and backtracks. She stands behind me, smiling at my reflection, before leaning in and whispering, “He’s my cousin.”

  “Who?” My eyebrows, good actors, do their jobs, curling up curiously.

  “Jeremy. You like him, don’t you? I noticed in gym yesterday.”

  I don’t turn around. I have to approach this with care if I don’t want it to splatter all over my face.

  “I don’t really know him,” I say.

  Tats is walking over to us, a curious expression on her face, and I cringe. She’s volatile. She loves that she thinks she’s in control of my involvement with Jeremy, and she’ll actually have it out with Lauren if she perceives interference. On the way to gym class, I told her what Thomas had said about them being cousins. Her response was a frown.

  “Well, do you want to get to know him better?” Lauren asks, as her best friend Marjorie appears behind her. “I can arrange that.”

  “Thanks, I’ll think about it,” I say. “After exams maybe.”

  “Last-day-of-school party,” Lauren says. “At my house, next Friday. Jeremy usually comes, if I beg him enough.”

  Marjorie smiles and bumps her shoulder into Lauren’s.

  “Thanks,” I say again, ignoring Tats’s mouth hanging open.

  Tats crosses her arms after they leave. In the mirror, I see Marjorie whispering something, giggling. Lauren doesn’t laugh but turns around abruptly.

  “You too,” she says, pointing at Tats. “You’re invited too. Add me on Facebook to get the details.”

  Tats smiles and drops her crossed arms.

  “That was awesome,” she says as we walk out to the gym. “How’d you do that? That’s her brother’s party too. Matt will be there; he’s best friends with her brother.”

  “I don’t know why that just happened,” I say.

  “It doesn’t matter! We are going.” Tats does a dance. “Hey, maybe you should do your hair. Jeremy will be there.”

  “I don’t think so. I’m okay with my scarf.” I split my ponytail in half and pull to tighten it. “Anyway, why’d she invite me? Us?”

  “Come on—she obviously approves of you for Jeremy,” Tats says. “Speaking of the guy, where is he?”

  A tall woman with short hair and a wrinkly smile stands in the middle of the gym holding a clipboard.

  “I don’t get why she’d approve of me,” I say. “She and her friends act like we don’t exist most of the time.”

  Tats isn’t listening because she’s gone up to talk to the sub.

  I sit on the floor with the other waiting girls and can’t help noticing how Marjorie has joined some sort of whisper fest with Lauren, across from me.

  “No sign of Jeremy or evidence he’s supposed to help us with softball again, according to the sub,” Tats says, crossing her legs to sit beside me.

  Then, like he’s heard, he peeks out from the weight room, and our eyes meet. He smiles and nods. I draw courage and smile back, doing a little wave before realizing Lauren has seen and is looking back at Jeremy. Marjorie is clenching her lips to stop laughing, shoulders shaking.

  I drop my hand and nudge Tats with my knee. She leans back and says, “I see him.”

  “No, look at them, Lauren and them,” I say. “And don’t make it obvious.”

  That’s like telling a cat not to pounce on a mouse. Tats whips her head and stares at them. By then, Marjorie is openly laughing. Only Lauren stays composed, with this sly smile on.

  Like hell I’m going to that party. They’re up to something, and I’ve been chosen to be a part of it, probably the butt of it.

  As we run laps around the gym on the sub’s orders, I stay far from Lauren’s gang, jogging lightly. I notice the pause Lauren takes at the weight room, waving pointedly at Jeremy, who takes a step out to exchange a few words with her before she rejoins the jogging herd.

  Beside me, Tats slows down as we near the weight room. She begins to walk, holding her sides as if she has a stitch in them, and I slow too. The sub’s busy reading the clipboard and doesn’t notice our approach to the weight room.

  He’s waiting at the entrance and comes out as we reach the doors. He looks past Tats to me, and I feel that clench that I used to feel thinking about him. But this time it’s stronger and deeper. How would I even open my mouth to speak to him? Because I’m pretty sure only a croak would emerge, scaring him off. I look away to gain a moment and give me a chance to return to normalcy.

  When I look back, ready to say hi, I notice he isn’t alone in the weight room.

  Farooq is staring back at me from beside the bench press. Looking at me, hijabless, taking me in with eyes wide open, surprised.

  I take off like a shot, not looking back. I’ve never felt so naked in my life before.

  I want to charge into the locker room and wrap myself in the biggest hijab I can find.

  • • •

  After school, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. The apartment was quiet when I let myself in earlier, and I could tell Muhammad wasn’t home by his big shoes missing from the mat.

  And then I noticed how clean the living room looked. There was a suitcase beside the armchair, a plastic sword—from Mr. Khoury’s table—leaning against it. Most eerie, the Risk game was put away, back on top of the bookshelf.

  I looked in the dining room, and there, too, was evidence of a change in the air. Muhammad’s papers were gone from the table, and Mom’s favorite rustic-candle formation was back to commanding the center space. I retraced my steps to the living room and unzipped a corner of the suitcase. Sure enough, it contained his stuff.

  Is he going, I ask the ceiling, to Amu’s?

  Was I being mean to him? I went beyond the ceiling and asked God. Is that why you’re doing this to me, Allah? This drama in my life?

  I get up and walk to Mom’s room.

  It looks huge now. Mom’s new twin bed appears tiny under the weight of a mature sheet set, the edges of the quilt comforter sweeping the floor. The headboard’s against the wall facing the door, off center so that there’s a sizable empty space near the window. The room’s been swept out, and the sun streams on the half that’s supposed to be mine.

  The divider screens, folded against the wall, look at me.

  I go lie on my bed again.

  Dad. He’ll know what to do.

  I open e-mail on my phone and scroll to find his daily message. Sharing guarantees success because you’re acknowledging the importance of your network. Thus strengthening them, thus strengthening you.

  I click off and stare at the ceiling. Is it wrong to make a deal with God? I’ll reorganize myself in the apartment if you reorganize my life?

  I jump off the bed before I change my mind again.

  I begin with my art desk. I move fast, dragging as opposed to lifting it. I take bundles of clothes by their hangers. It irritates me to see that Mom has cleared half her walk-in closet as if she knew I’d give in, but I shake it off, realizing there’s more space in even half of this compared to my teeny hard-to-get-into sliding-door closet.

  I don’t take the mattress off to move my bed, just push and pull, a little this way and that. At one point I think the bed will be forever stuck in the door and I’ll have to sleep in between privacy and not, but then I push a little while lifting up one of the wooden legs and the whole thing comes free. I drag it the rest of the way, ignoring the banged-up floor’s protests, and place it under the window.

  I want this done before Muhammad comes home and says something to make me mad at him. And then mad at myself for deciding this.

  Moving the green dresser is easy as it has wheels at its base. I put it next to my headboard, and it serves as a night table for my phone and lamp.


  When it’s done, I shelter my “room” with the screens.

  It’s okay in here. Sitting on the bed, I realize I get most of the light.

  I check my phone and see it’s time to pick up Mr. Ram.

  Before I leave, I put Muhammad’s suitcase in my old room, laying his toy sword on top. I wonder if I’m nice enough for Allah now.

  • • •

  “Janna, your mom told me you don’t have school tomorrow. Would you be able to do your studying here? Stay with my father?” asks Mr. Ram’s son, Deval. “Ravi’s teacher asked if I could replace a sick parent on the field trip tomorrow.”

  “Sure.” I wheel Mr. Ram out of the door, waving at Ravi, who’s eating cut-up apples on the couch. He stays with his dad until his mom comes home from work and then with his mom while his dad goes to work. When do they ever see one another all at once?

  “Mr. Ram, are you cold?” He’s wearing a tweed jacket. His hat is houndstooth with a freckled brown feather in it. “You’ve been wearing more clothes than I do lately.”

  “The cold comes suddenly to me. Even though my son tells me there’s a heat wave.” He laughs.

  We exit the lobby and maneuver up the walkway. Ms. Kolbinsky waits where the sidewalk starts, brilliant in her yellow, black, and orange sheath dress. Her hair is fanned out around her face, a mixture of gray and misty brown. Sandra’s beside her, drab in her jeans and gray T-shirt, long hair parted flat on her head, stringing down and covering the sides of her face.

  Mr. Ram holds up his hand. “Who is this lovely lady with you, Ms. Kolbinsky? I see a beautiful resemblance.”

  “This is my granddaughter, Sandra, and look at what she has in her hand.” Ms. Kolbinsky beams. Sandra waves the form, filled in with tiny writing. “I’m coming to Parcheesi today!”

  I take out my phone and click a picture of Mr. Ram’s silent laugh. Now I’m convinced he’s in love with her, too.

  Sandra folds the form up and hands it to me with a smile before walking back to her building.

  I push the wheelchair, and Ms. Kolbinsky falls into step beside us.

  I tolerate the giggling all the way to the community center. Sociological note to self: People never forget how to flirt.

  • • •

  Nuah walks Ms. Kolbinsky through the particulars of Seniors Games Club. From my usual table, while I wait for my laptop to start up, I watch him take her to the restroom area, the fire exits, and the snack counter. He’s talking the whole time, waving his arms about.

  As he’s walking her back to where Mr. Ram and friends are waiting, he sees me watching him. I don’t look away this time, so he does a salute toward my corner before proceeding to tell the old people looking eagerly up at him a joke about a talking muffin. They burst out laughing together.

  What does he do, memorize a whole page of corny jokes every Wednesday night?

  Ms. Kolbinsky thinks it’s so funny that she hits the table, with tears in her eyes. Mr. Ram looks at her and shakes, mouth open. I can never stop my echo smile when I see him laugh.

  So, he walks over to me. Nuah.

  “You like muffin jokes? I got a whole page of them,” he says.

  “I knew it. You don’t make them up,” I say, looking at my agenda open on the table. It’s on top of the declassified math exam.

  “Oh, but I can. I can do improv right here,” he says. “Give me a topic.”

  “Algebra,” I say. “Ha.”

  “Okay, so what did six-x say to five-x?” he asks.

  I shrug, doodling.

  “What do you know, we’re both children’s sizes!” he says.” “You know, as in clothing sizes for kids’ clothes?”

  I groan.

  “Come on, give me a fair topic,” he says. “Like horses. Or teeth. Oh, teeth, I can do a whole act on teeth.”

  I click my mechanical pencil. “Um, actually, I have a lot of studying to do. Maybe another time?”

  “Yeah, sorry,” he says, backing away. “The tortoise is going, going, gone.”

  He does this thing with his head where it almost tips right over to the side while he’s watching me and backing away from the table.

  Weird.

  “Mr. Ram’s really smart, but you must know that, huh?” he says, right before he turns the corner to head back to the front desk.

  I nod. He disappears with a salute-wave again.

  And then he’s back. Holding his phone, its screen out to me.

  Like I said before: weird.

  “I have to show you this. Since you helped.” It’s a picture of a cute kid with his front teeth missing, wearing a snug kufi on his head. “My brother.”

  “You didn’t end up choosing the fez?”

  “Nah, my brother’s not that dapper.” He swipes the screen and turns the phone to me again. “And, I couldn’t resist.”

  His brother, face scrunched up with concentration, swinging a golden plastic sword.

  “So, Janna, you make a good arms dealer.” Nuah closes his photo app.

  “Told you I wasn’t nice.” I raise my eyebrows, looking up from the doodling I picked up again.

  “Now I believe it. Almost,” he says. “My mom’s going nuts with that clanging noise. And my brother won’t stop. He sleeps with the thing.”

  “Interesting, so does Muhammad.”

  He laughs. “We all bought one. But I bought one for my little brother. Muhammad and Farooq, they’re another story.”

  I stop doodling. Why does the monster always show up?

  “I have to get back to my studying.” I move around my books, not looking at Nuah. “I’ve already wasted time.”

  I move my fingers on the track pad to wake my laptop.

  “Sorry, outta here.” He’s gone.

  • • •

  Lauren’s added me as a friend on Facebook. I click accept, telling myself I’m doing this only to check her pictures to see if Jeremy’s in them. He’s not.

  I wonder if she’ll notice if I unfriend her right away.

  Instead, I open the questions on Amu’s website. Next week is teen week, the time of month when Amu discusses topics of interest to young people on his website, and there’s always a host of interesting questions that his blog posts generate.

  Dear Imam, are we allowed to wear nail polish? (By the way, I’m a girl. I’m saying this because there are some STRANGE questions on your website. My dad doesn’t even let me read it anymore. So I have to be sneaky and read it at school.)

  What’s the youngest a guy can get married? Not legally, I mean really.

  Do you have to grow a beard if it turns out ugly? My brother’s beard is ugly and I don’t want him anywhere around me.

  I only like to wear black hijabs and my mom says I’m depressed. She wants me to wear pink or orange or something bright like that so no one thinks I’m forced to wear hijab. I’m not, but I don’t feel the need to prove it to anyone. Can you give me some research to show her she’s wrong to dictate my hijab color?

  That last question is interesting.

  Still, I erase them all.

  Dear Imam, what if you know something bad that someone’s done, something against the laws of God, but no one else knows it, and people think that that person is really good and should get a position of responsibility in the community, like, say, leading prayers . . . what should the person who knows the truth do?

  Dear Imam, what if you find that you’ve fallen for someone who is not Muslim?

  I read over my questions, and, before doubts set in, I press send.

  SAINTS AND MONSTERS

  Deval called and said you’d promised to be downstairs with Mr. Ram in ten minutes,” says Mom the second I wake up. She’s lying in bed reading, on the other side of the privacy screens, but of course she still knows my eyelids have fluttered open to Friday morning. Such are the woes of cramped living.

  I wiggle out of my sleep T-shirt and put on an old tunic top that Manisha, Mr. Ram’s daughter-in-law, brought me back from India. Slip on yesterday’s jea
ns and hijab, both lying at the foot of the bed, and I’m ready, except for my teeth. As I head to the bathroom, I think about Nuah and his offer to tell me teeth jokes. I can’t even think of one that would be funny. He must be easily amused.

  Across from the bathroom, the door to my old room is ajar. Muhammad is lying on top of a sleeping bag spread on the floor. I tiptoe in and stand over his sprawled form. I’d forgotten he sleeps with his eyes partially open, whites showing. Eerie, yet oddly comforting, knowing he’s got some semblance to my brother BSS—Before Saint Sarah.

  He takes in a sudden sharp breath, jerks his left arm, and widens his eyes, pupils returning to life, strange sounds sputtering from his freshly unpouted mouth. “Egh gawph. Gharhakk.”

  He registers me and jerks his arm again. “Hey! What are you doing?”

  “Just wondering how you do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Sleep like a blobfish. Eyes open, mouth puckered. Sarah will be thrilled, if you guys make it that far.”

  He flips over and hugs his pillow. “What time is it?”

  “Late, for those employed. Like me.” I turn to walk out. “Also, Gandhi has a message for you: ‘Rise, traveler, the sky is light. Why do you sleep? It is not night.’ ”

  “Thanks. For the room.”

  I stop in the doorway. “You can thank Dad for that.”

  • • •

  Mr. Ram is set up in his favorite seat in the corner of the living room. I sit down on the sofa next to him and hold up my seerah book. He smiles.

  “No, Mr. Ram, I’m not finishing it,” I say. “There’s a quiz competition tomorrow, and going through this will help me prepare for it. Anyway, I brought it for you to read while I study.”

  I lay the planner on his lap. It falls open to a caravan scene. There’s a heart, animated with lines, floating in the last frame, when Khadija, the Prophet’s first boss and first love, fifteen years older, sends a marriage proposal to him. They were happily married for twenty-five years before she passed away. Afterward, until he died, the Prophet couldn’t say her name without tearing up. I copied his words about her into my seerah book, in lionet-gold marker: She believed in me when no one else did . . . and she helped and comforted me when there was no one else to lend a helping hand.