Saints and Misfits

by S. K. Ali

  At any other time, I would’ve reveled in this daydream come to life: enclosed in twenty-seven square feet of space with Jeremy, with the possibility of being stuck between floors, as often happens in our building. Even with Tats there with us, it would’ve been a truly welcome scenario. Before.

  Now? Now I’m aware of my seerah book and how I have it affixed to my chest and how Jeremy’s eyes inadvertently keep wandering toward it once in a while, totally unlecherously, if you know what I mean.

  Tats is counting floors aloud as they ping on the indicators above the elevator doors. She’s probably occupying herself in order to refrain from reaming me out for not sharing my book with Jeremy.

  “So,” I say, my cheeks warming steadily toward temperatures I’ve never experienced before. “Are you guys ready for exams?”

  Jeremy shrugs and my heart deflates. I can tell he’s not impressed by moi thus far.

  Tats shrugs as well and says, “Most of my classes have assignments instead of exams. I have one on Tuesday. But of course, you must be ready, huh?”

  She gives Jeremy an exasperated eye roll and adds, “Jan’s a nerd. She gets As without trying. It’s sickening.”

  He looks unmoved, which makes me wonder about the state of his academic record. I shake my head to eject such a revoltingly responsible thought out of it. Jeez, I felt like Mom for a minute there.

  “I’m not really ready,” I say. “I’m going to cram this weekend. After Chicago.”

  “Oh yeah, Farooq told me you guys were going to Chi-town,” Jeremy says, looking right into Mom’s sunglasses.

  I look back at him though he’s fuzzy, appearing in focus then out of focus, in turns. My eye muscles are straining to work out the layout of his features. Mom must be near blind, because that’s some prescription in these glasses. Finally, I settle my gaze on that beautiful forehead, an expanse of uninterrupted clarity.

  “Yeah, we’re leaving tomorrow morning,” I say.

  “Yeah, that’s what he said,” Jeremy says, still looking at me looking at his forehead.

  “We’re coming back Sunday afternoon,” I say. “Maybe we can go by the lake then?”

  “You guys can go,” Tats says. “I’m going to be at my grandparents’ cottage again. Dad’s renovating it for them. We’re coming back on Monday night.”

  “Sure,” Jeremy says to me. “But I thought you had to study?”

  “I’ll study on the way there. And tonight,” I say, immediately regretting my overeagerness.

  “Then it’s a date,” Jeremy says.

  “Ooooooh,” Tats says, flicking my shoulder with hers.

  “Oh,” I say, apprehensive now. When I hear the word “date,” I get scared. I feel like I’ve been thrown out of a plane without a parachute when Jeremy says it—even though he means it lightly. If I get it to be more like a group of friends hanging out, then it’ll feel safer somehow. “Is anybody else going to be there on Sunday?”

  “You mean, like we’re hanging out today?”

  “Yeah?” I say quietly.

  He must think I’m weird.

  “Sure,” Jeremy says, nodding, like he understands. “That’ll be cool.”

  And then he smiles at me again, and I swear my heart inflates into one huge red balloon.

  • • •

  The elevator doors open, and we go out the lobby doors in adorable silence, Tats squeezing my arm so that only I can feel her joy for me, Jeremy strolling slightly ahead, hands in his pockets and shoulders thrown back, relaxed. I wave good-bye to them as I get into Muhammad’s car. He’s texting something while snorting in laughter, but I have no interest in knowing his business. “Hurry, everyone’s there already. Sarah said to come right in—door’s unlocked.”

  It feels beyond a crush now. Jeremy understood me without me saying anything weird like I’m a Muslim girl, and I’m scared to meet with you. He was okay without me explaining myself. Whoa, this is stirring something up in me, breezy and swift. I feel unanchored and it feels good.

  That huge red balloon that’s my heart? It’s floating somewhere in the sky—no parachute needed. Unleashed.

  • • •

  Walking into Saint Sarah’s house is like walking into a tomb. There’s this hush that comes over Muhammad and me as we step lightly through the white hallway toward the door at the end that leads to the basement. Pristine white tiles, glowy white walls, with no pictures or decorations to mar the sobriety.

  “This is so interesting,” I whisper. “I feel like we’re visiting the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus or something.”

  I sense a slight flicker of something from my fuzzy peripheral vision. Saint Sarah’s parents are sitting in the dining room off the hallway. There are coffee mugs and an Arabic newspaper open on the table in front of them. Her father holds up a corner of the paper, and, from the way he peers at me, I can tell he heard my comment.

  “Assalamu alaikum warahmathullahi wabarakathu,” Muhammad says, moving his bulky body into a please-the-in-laws-to-be pose, very similar to how a praying mantis may appear approaching the most sacred of altars.

  “Walaikum musalam,” Saint Sarah’s dad says, keeping the greeting of peace short and only sorta sweet.

  He looks back at me while lifting his coffee cup to his lips, gaze stern.

  “This is my sister, Janna,” Muhammad says, bowing lower. “She is in tenth grade.”

  “Hm,” Saint Sarah’s mom says. “I know you from the mosque. You always pray in the back, you and your friends. Am I right?”

  OMG, was she thinking of the times Fizz and I used to whisper to each other in prayer when our foreheads were on the ground and we thought no one was watching us? We used to get into so much trouble when the older women caught us.

  Muhammad turns to me, raising his eyebrows taut in an effort to prod me to answer without thumping me on my back, as he would have done at home.

  Wait. She couldn’t have been thinking of me and Fizz whispering. Saint Sarah’s family moved here two years ago, when Fizz and I had learned to actually pray during prayers.

  “Yes,” I say, smiling. “I’m usually in the back of the prayer hall.”

  “Hm,” she says.

  “What is this that Sarah is saying, that your father has invited the quiz team to stay with him in Chicago?” her dad asks, semiglaring at Muhammad. “Why is this? Why this new thing? What is it about?”

  “Oh, yes. My father thought that since the Quiz Bowl may be late in finishing, it would be nice to have a place to stay instead of returning so late on Saturday,” Muhammad says. “The girls would be downstairs and the guys would be upstairs, so it would be quite proper.”

  “Hm,” her mom says.

  “We have family in Chicago,” her dad says. “We used to live there, you know. So Sarah will be staying with her cousin.”

  “Oh,” Muhammad says, his praying mantis position collapsing slightly. “Thank you for allowing her to stay in Chicago. She’ll get the rest she needs before driving back.”

  “Of course we would think of that. We are her parents,” her mom says. “Hm.”

  “And you, this sister,” her dad says, looking at me over his coffee rim while snapping the newspaper. “You are also in this quiz game?”

  Is it my insecure imagination or does Saint Sarah’s mom have a look of disbelief on her face?

  “Yes, she is! She is awesome, Mom and Dad!” Saint Sarah says, materializing suddenly (and stealthily, I might add) to wrap an arm around my stiff shoulders. “This girl knows so much about our beloved Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him!”

  She’s wearing something frothy, with pink and yellow bouquets painted over it. Her hijab has a large rosy silk peony pinned to the side of it.

  This is what Muhammad gets treated to every time he visits? This vision of the feminine mystique?

  Saint Sarah’s dad nods and resumes reading his newspaper. Her mom keeps staring at me though, like she knows about me and Jeremy in the elevator, so I quickly join Muhammad and Saint
Sarah as they head down the basement steps. We follow Saint Sarah’s gauzy dress trailing down the carpeted (white) stairs.

  • • •

  The whole team is downstairs. Sausun is curled up on the only single chair, so I end up sitting between Saint Sarah and Aliya on the sofa. Muhammad and Nuah hang out on the floor, relaxed. From the way he and my college brother are high-fiving and carrying on every time they’re in sync with something—shouting out answers, cracking jokes, or providing commentary—it’s like Muhammad’s found his long lost twin brother.

  As for us girls, we have nothing in common.

  Sausun: tall, thin, languid, bored, yet easily irritated, especially by pleasantness of any kind; has immensely set-apart, huge, dark-lined hazel eyes, like a manga character; memorized the whole Qur’an in Arabic at a young age; born to a loaded Saudi father and a beautiful South African–Indian mother; speaks Arabic and Urdu in addition to English.

  If she did end up covering her face, it would be like saying to the world You cretins and peasants are only permitted to see my eyes. Which, lo and behold, wouldn’t you know it, happen to be my most striking feature.

  Aliya: a jolly, wholesome, triangular-scarf-wearing, kind soul; with standard-issue big glasses that have survived all the phases possible for their existence, from the only choice in eyewear to a staple of geekdom to the latest cool accessory; possessing a motherly yet giggly nature, sometimes laughing at the wrong times while saying the wrong things to the wrong people (i.e., she and Sausun did not hit it off); born a big sister, always hustling ahead to smooth the way for others; complete lack of evil tendencies or stealth behavior sometimes makes her boring (but dependable in the times when your own depravity has caught up with you).

  Saint Sarah: Miss Muslim Universe.

  That’s why, with this fact that we’re extremely unlike one another, it’s weird that we get into a groove, a rhythm, practicing for the competition. Saint Sarah sits, barking questions that she’s collected from previous Quiz Bowls, her silk flower turning with her head to gaze at the person she’s asked or aimed her quizzing at. Sausun, rocking back and forth with her arms wrapped around her knees and a frown on her face as if she’s experiencing menstrual cramps right in front of everyone, clips her Qur’anic answers in staccato. Aliya sits with her hands raised in prayer, responding to her dua questions by reciting a long prayer of an answer, followed up by a full belly laugh.

  The guys animate their answers with fist pumping and jumped-up bro hugs and take-thats and all manner of behaviors that make it seem like we’re participating in football practice and not a dry Quiz Bowl.

  Me? I jolt, then mumble my answers. Jolting, because I’m spending a lot of time thinking about Sunday at the lake. As I wait for my questions from Saint Sarah, I can’t stop myself from turning to the last page of my seerah book. I slide the sunglasses up on my head and doodle a picture of Jeremy and me standing with our feet in water. Birds fly above us, and they look like they have hearts as wings. Cheesy but necessary.

  I carefully write in Sunday’s date and underline it three times. I add a special memo in a cute cloud: meet J at the lake.

  I look up to answer my final question, and that’s when I notice something at the end of the long rec room, now that my vision has recalibrated itself.

  The monster is on a low beanbag chair in the corner, using a laptop.

  • • •

  On the way home, the most I get out of Muhammad as to why Farooq was there the whole time is that he’s helping Saint Sarah with the logistics of our Quiz Bowl participation.

  Logistics? Like it’s difficult to drive three hours to Chicago, answer some questions, and drive back? I clear Farooq out of my head and think about Sunday again.

  Mom’s sleeping when I get back, so I take my exam notes to the dining table. I’m prepared to sacrifice my sleep for a long night of studying. For Sunday.

  Before I start with the declassified math exam, I check if Amu has sent answers to my questions.

  There’s an e-mail from him, but, weirdly, it’s an answer for another question. A question that never even came through my filtering.

  Janna, a gentleman keeps e-mailing me this same question every two weeks and I fear if I do not address it, I may be held accountable by our Creator. Please edit this so we can add it to next week’s posting.

  Dear Imam, can Muslims grow (medicinal) marijuana? My neighbor wants to start something with me—don’t worry, it’s not going to be at my place but his—and I’m all for helping people. Besides, God grew it here on earth, right? Just want your opinion before I invest.

  Answer: Thank you for your interest in being of aid to people. It is a noble outlook on life, especially if undertaken without the expectation of a return, investment or otherwise. I take it you have perused the laws of your state? A Muslim is a follower of laws—the laws of God and the laws of the society he or she lives in. Thus, if one is not permitted to grow such a crop on private premises by law, such pharmaceutical farming initiatives are forbidden. Furthermore, in our religion, the laws of God ask us to not come near anything which alters our senses, as a Muslim must be mindful of Allah’s creation at all times. However noble your intentions may be, I find it at odds with your investment interests. And yes, God did grow it. But he also grew poison ivy. And Allah knows best.

  I laugh. I can’t wait for his answers to my questions.

  MONSTER, SAINTS, AND MISFITS

  I’m in a car driven to Chicago by the monster.

  He was the fourth person, the one Aliya said was coming along to keep Nuah company. Her “devout” cousin.

  I’m sitting in the back, trying to ignore his glances in the rearview. I made sure to not sit behind him. He made sure to adjust the rearview mirror.

  I am not going to open my mouth the whole way over. I am going to disappear.

  Can I text Aliya to shut up with her pointless chattering next to me? And Nuah, with his dumb jokes? And Farooq, with his continued insistence on existing?

  Feigning sleep, I curl down into my lap to escape those eyes in the mirror.

  I pretend to be nudged awake by Aliya in front of this blank building. Blank, meaning there are no windows, signage, or any indication that things, other than nothingness, go on inside. By the looks of the surroundings, we’re in an industrial area. Cheery.

  I actually brighten up a bit at this. The less this Quiz Bowl is made into a big deal, the faster I can skedaddle out of here, I surmise. This inference is quickly shattered when we get inside the building, and I realize we’ve entered through the back door of a local community cable station, STUDIO WKTN, RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW. That’s what the lettering along the walls tells us. Aliya gets giddy and goes charging ahead. I hang back, taking laboriously slow steps as Farooq is right behind Aliya, and the last thing I want to do is give him a thrill by colliding into him. Nuah is behind me, being Mr. Nice Guy and not passing me but moderating his pace.

  We end our walk in a burst of black and bright: black stage, black furniture, black fixings lit up by lights from all directions and vantage points. A studio, with a small audience sitting across from us as we enter. Who would want to watch us get nitty-gritty with Islamic facts?

  Muhammad cheers when he sees us. Saint Sarah waves us over with blue T-shirts in her hands. There are other teams huddled offstage, on the floor.

  “Assalamu alaikum, we’re the blue team,” Saint Sarah says. “Wear these.”

  I note with satisfaction that she doesn’t hand a T-shirt to Farooq and that he’s disappeared from our midst.

  “Where’s Sausun?” I ask, loosening up now that the monster is gone. I hold up the enormous one-size-fits-all shirt that’s the color of Cookie Monster. There’s no way Sausun would wear this.

  “Right here,” Sausun says. “Right in your face.”

  I look up to see a tall woman in a black gown, face covered, by Saint Sarah’s side. On first glance previously, I’d dismissed this personage as someone’s mom.

 
She actually did it. She’s wearing niqab—well, beyond that, because her eyes are covered too by an almost sheer black fabric.

  Does this mean she doesn’t have to wear a big blue T-shirt?

  I wiggle some fingers at her in hello but feel more distant from her than ever before, if that’s possible.

  For the rest of the time, while Saint Sarah preps us with the information the studio people gave her, I keep peeking at Sausun. She looks so . . . so . . . so elegantly aloof? Are these the words to describe the vibe she gives off? Like someone who doesn’t give a crap about anything, even things like a stalker guy in your mind’s comfort zone or the potential for an annoyingly perky person to become your sister-in-law in merely two more chaperoned sessions.

  Basically, she looks like she’s excused herself from the proceedings of life’s unnecessariness.

  At the same time, she looks like an in-your-face ghost or someone cloaked in a very obvious invisibility cloak. Powerful stuff.

  I slip the blue shirt on top of my clothes and follow the team onto the stage. We get assigned one of the six tables, staggered slightly diagonally so that we can sort of see the other teams. The host and judges are on the floor in front of the stage, with their backs to the audience. They look serious, with suits on or sporting sharp ties against neatly buttoned-up shirts.

  We get dusted by the makeup people. It’s telling that Saint Sarah does not need any additional makeup, and I glance over to see if Muhammad has duly noted this. But he’s engaged in some sort of intense handshake thing with Nuah and misses the opportunity.

  My niggling admiration for Sausun blossoms as she casually waves away the makeup people, like some ninja diva.

  Saint Sarah goes to huddle with the other team captains. I notice her hands are free. Her clipboard. It’s lying facedown on the table in front of Sausun.

  I pull my chair close to Sausun. “Sarah forgot her clipboard.”

  She glances at it and then flicks it over. We peer closer.

  It’s a hand-drawn table of the weekend, including Friday. The column on the left lists top, bottom, hijab, shoes, purse, and accessories, and the next three columns are filled in with her outfit details. Details, as in pink-necklace-with-dangly-crystals details.