by S. K. Ali
Sausun shakes her head and flips the clipboard back. “Wow. That was refreshing.”
• • •
Round one starts with questions on Islamic history. Muhammad braves that one pretty well against the reds from Michigan, the yellows from Ohio, the purples from Minnesota, the oranges from Iowa, and the greens from Indiana. We vault to third place after he correctly identifies a picture of the oldest surviving mosque in America: Cedar Rapids, Iowa, early 1900s. The oranges groan in unison at this fact about their home state.
Then Sausun takes on the Qur’an questions and catapults us to first. She’s really cool to watch. Her voice seems to materialize out of nowhere, reciting verses with precision and rhythm. I think it really throws the other teams off to be challenged by a faceless competitor. I give Sausun a low five at the end of her round. Saint Sarah hugs her so hard that she leaves shimmering eye shadow on Sausun’s veil.
Nuah’s turn. Islamic laws.
“What are the primary objectives of Islamic laws? The primary objectives of Islamic laws? Islamic laws? Objectives?” The host is a kindly older man. He’s got a thick Arabic accent so he makes sure to repeat the important parts of his questions several times, with twinkling eyes and encouraging nods of his head. His beard is Santa white.
Nuah buzzes in. He gets a fist bump from Muhammad as he leans in to the microphone. “Mercy, justice, education, and God-consciousness.”
“Excellent. Good.” The host shuffles his cards. “And what are the five categories of protections enshrined in the laws? Five categories of protections? Enshrined in Islamic laws? Islamic laws?”
One of the girls from the red team buzzes in. The three girls on their team have red hijabs on, and I wonder if they were informed about their team color ahead of time. Not that it would have changed anything for me. Black scarf all the way.
“Faith, life, inheritance, family, and lineage?” The redheaded girl sits back, unsure, as the host begins shaking his head in the middle of her response.
Nuah’s already buzzing in. The green light goes on above our team to indicate it’s our turn to answer.
“Life, intellect, faith, lineage, and property.” The white beard’s nodding as Nuah finishes.
From then on, Nuah’s on an untouchable streak. He cleans up the next three questions and completes round four, keeping us in first place.
At the start of a short intermission, when Aliya and Sausun go for a restroom break, he turns to me in the next seat over. “Seerah’s next. Virtual fist bump?”
He holds up a fist, and I pretend to bump it in the air. I can’t help laughing. Unrelated Muslims of the opposite gender aren’t supposed to touch each other, so his gesture’s funny.
Nuah is looking at me laughing, his head tilted in that odd way of his, the wooden prayer beads hanging around his neck askew. “Aha, I knew it. There’re a lot of smiles in there somewhere.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just that it’s nice seeing people smile.”
“I smile.”
“A lot?”
“When I need to.”
“I get it. It’s on a needs basis. Very economical.” He’s got a big smile as he says this.
“It would be kind of freaky to have this huge smile pasted on all the time.” I arrange a freaky smile on my face, crossing my eyes to add to the effect.
He laughs. “Uh-oh. I’ll have to reevaluate my policy of walking around with a smile now. If that’s what I look like.”
“Well, ask yourself: Do people ever move away from you slowly as you enter a room? Do they glance at each other ever so carefully as they back away?”
“I don’t know. Do they?” He’s looking at me quizzically, a smile still on his face. “At the community center. When you first saw me. April sixteenth.”
I stop and pretend to think. Why does he think I noticed him on April sixteenth?
“Was that your first day of work there?”
“No, I started on April first.”
“So why would I have seen you on April sixteenth?”
“Oops. My bad. I mean that first Thursday in April then. Or whenever you first saw me. Maybe at the mosque. Whenever.” He’s looking away now, tilting his chair back.
Muhammad leans over from the other side of Nuah. “Jan, if you need to review your notes, now’s the time to do it. Look at that girl there.”
A petite girl with long curly hair, drowning in a yellow T-shirt, is consulting a seerah book. A published one. The authoritative one. Sticky notes protrude from the book’s pages, and she closes it once in a while to mutter things to herself before checking the book again.
“Where’s your seerah book?” Muhammad asks.
“I left it at home.”
“Nice.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure I can keep us in first place.”
Saint Sarah comes over to the front of our table from where she was huddled with the Quiz Bowl organizers. “Okay, we’re in the final round. After the seerah and dua rounds, only the top two teams will compete for the finals.”
She doubles forward and hugs me, squishing me against her perfumed self. “You’re awesome, Janna. I know you’ll be amazing. And thanks for coming through for us at this busy time for you.”
After she leaves, I turn to Muhammad, noticing Nuah’s empty spot as I do so. “Is there glittery eye shadow on my scarf?”
• • •
“Round five: seerah.” The host looks at the three teams, Michigan, Ohio, and us, in turn, eyes twinkling. Red, yellow, and blue.
“Question one: Why did the Prophet Muhammad’s mother choose his name for him? Why did the mother choose his name? The Prophet’s name? Why?”
I hit the buzzer.
Farooq moves into view from the audience as I open my mouth. His phone is aimed squarely at me, taking a photo or video. I blink into it for a few seconds.
“Yes, blue team?” The host is encouraging me with kindly nods.
I forget the question. The word “why” reverberates in my head. Why? Why? Why? “Why” what?
The green light turns off above our table.
Curly yellow girl buzzes in. “While she was pregnant, Amina, the Prophet’s mother, had a dream with an angel calling her newborn Ahmad, which is a variation of Muhammad.”
“Yellows, one point.
“Question two: Who in the Prophet’s family owned a leather-goods business? Who owned a leather-goods business? Leather-goods business? Who?
“Question three: What key military strategy did the Prophet take his wife’s advice on? Key military strategy advised by his wife? His wife? What strategy?
“Question four: From where did the Prophet ascend to heaven on the Miraj? Prophet ascend to heaven? On the Miraj? From where?
“Blues, you have not buzzed in for any more seerah questions.” The host is looking right at me. “If you don’t get this last question, you’ll be eliminated from the finals, and Indiana will get your spot.
“Question five: When was the first written constitution, the constitution of Medina, written? When was the first written constitution written? The constitution of Medina? When was it written?”
Who? What? Where? When? The questions bounce around my head as I stare into the host’s face.
I can tell that the monster is still filming me.
I sit back. Curly yellow buzzes in. Her team explodes with hoots as they take first place.
The Indiana greens stand up and cheer, clamoring back onstage. The audience, our home-state audience even cheers.
The only silence comes from our table.
As our team streams offstage, I excuse myself on the pretense of needing the bathroom. I go down a hall beside the studio audience steps, this hallway dingier than the one we entered the studio through, and open the first door I see. It’s a cleaning supply closet. There’s a ceramic garden gnome hanging out on the shelf beside a container of pink liquid, and he watches me spread the Cookie Monster T-shirt on the floor
before taking a seat on it.
I lean against the wall, tipping my head back to stare at the stains on the ceiling.
What would it feel like to glide by the monster, all in black, like Sausun? I’d give him no access to me, or my expressions, even my body language, if I wore a huge, tentlike outfit. I could be giving him the finger the whole time, and he wouldn’t even know it.
But what I can’t get is why I don’t even want him to know it.
Why does it feel like I’m wound up, my hands and mouth, by some binding I can’t see?
I dip my head down and rest it on top of knees that are pulled tight to my chest. My eyes close. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow, and everyone will have forgotten I lost for the team.
• • •
I wake to the beep of a text from Muhammad: Where are you? We’re leaving to get something to eat.
The time: 8:12 p.m. The date: still Saturday.
Coming. Can I join your car?
After a minute: That’s a no. Sausun refuses to ride in a “stunted car like Aliya’s.” Something about long legs and necks.
I ride downtown curled in half again.
“Janna’s really tired,” Aliya says in a soothing voice to the guys as she strokes my head.
“Must be exams,” Nuah says.
“Yeah,” says the monster. “Exams.”
I pretend to need to be nudged awake again, this time in front of Baba’s Pizza and Pasta. The others rush in and I hang back, leaning against the bricks outside the restaurant. Saint Sarah’s car pulls up and coughs out Sausun. Muhammad emerges minutes later and strides over to me.
“Remember your offer to chaperone a few more meets?”
I shrug. I’m not in the mood to dispute his misuse of the word “offer.”
“Well, a couple of streets over, on Randolph, there’s this really nice Vietnamese restaurant,” he says. “Will you come with us?”
I nod, open to anything that will take me away from the hulking crudeness known as Farooq, currently inside Baba’s.
“Thanks,” Muhammad says. “And don’t worry about the Quiz Bowl.”
I shrug and walk a few steps ahead to prevent him from seeing the wetness pooling in my eyes.
I knew why the Prophet’s mom had chosen his name for him. I knew about his ascension to heaven. I knew exact instances when he’d consulted his wife about military strategy. I knew who in his family had a leather business.
I would have gotten us into the Quiz Bowl finals.
I cry into the wind that blows off Lake Street, hoping I’m headed in the right direction, hoping they didn’t mean to drive to the restaurant. I want to cry and not attack my eyes to stop the tears. Somehow this cry feels deserved.
By the time they catch up with me, I’m composed and looking up at the “L” train tracks running above us.
We walk silently until Muhammad indicates a turn.
“There,” Muhammad says. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”
The restaurant patio is a composition of dark and light wood. Minimalist, lots of clean lines, good for my state of mind.
“Muhammad?” I ask. “Do you mind if I sit at another table? You guys can talk, and I can make some exam notes.”
“Sure,” Muhammad says. “Sarah?”
“No problem,” Saint Sarah says, leading the way into the restaurant. “You get cracking on those exams, and we’ll promise to be super good.”
I eat shrimp and sweet potato cakes and write words on blank lined paper: “fade,” “extinguish,” “evaporate,” “niqabize.” The ways to disappear.
I don’t need to pretend to make notes. They’re so into each other, they ignore my presence. I do my Islamic duty of glancing at them periodically to make sure they aren’t reaching for each other’s hands or playing footsies. Alas, no such drama.
The highlight comes as we’re leaving, when Saint Sarah tells us about the text she received informing her that the others had squeezed into Aliya’s car, even Sausun’s legs and neck, and gone on to Dad’s house in the suburbs. It will be only us three in the car. Sigh of relief.
We’re walking by the patio when someone calls out, “Sarah?”
“Oh my gosh,” Saint Sarah whispers on turning around.
It’s this girl with trim hair and neat, high bangs. Her lips are red, and she wears no other makeup. She stands up, revealing a black fifties-style dress with crisp white collars. The guy beside her, wearing huge red-rimmed aviators, stays seated.
“Never thought I’d see you here,” the girl says, coming over to us. “How are you?”
Her voice is husky and carries over the other diners.
“I’m great,” Saint Sarah says. “And you?”
“Fantastic,” the girl says. “Malcolm is with us too. He’s in the restroom.”
“Oh, really?” Saint Sarah says, moving a step closer to Muhammad. “What’s going on with you?”
“Just working,” the girl says, glancing up at the restaurant doors. “At an art museum, a small one. When did you start wearing the head scarf?”
I snap to attention. Saint Sarah started the hijab recently?
She, our study circle leader, pauses and says, “Two years ago. After I moved.”
“Awesome,” the girl says. “It looks good on you. Colorful. Oh, here’s Malcolm.”
A tall, thin young man exits the restaurant and turns toward the patio steps. He looks the total opposite of Muhammad. My brother’s fashion sensibilities run more into the support-your-sports-team end of the aesthetics spectrum, whereas this guy is wearing a faded concert T-shirt under a fashionably loud plaid jacket and fitted, distressed jeans. Muhammad’s hair is short and boring, whereas this guy’s is up-and-coming, straight-up rakish. An impressive forehead lies below the hairdo. And beneath that, a five o’clock shadow finely mists his strong jawline, just so.
Cute.
“Malcolm, look who’s here,” the girl calls out. “It’s Sarah.”
Malcolm does an abrupt dramatic stop when he sees her. At first I can’t tell if it’s put on or actually authentic, but when he resumes walking, overly casual, hands in his pockets, arms stiffened, it’s evident his initial reaction had been real. He stops by the girl with red lips and observes Saint Sarah. It’s an openly searching look, and I would’ve blushed if I’d been her.
“Whoa, Sarah,” he says quietly. “What’s up?”
Saint Sarah, uncharacteristically mute, smiles half her wattage and weaves an arm through mine.
“Just finishing up school,” she says. “This is my friend, Janna, and her brother, Muhammad, my fiancé. Guys, this is Malcolm and Trish, old friends.”
Trish takes Muhammad in for the first time as he steps forward to shake hands with Malcolm, pumping enthusiastically like a goofball politician. I’m still contemplating the ramifications of Saint Sarah’s reference to Muhammad as her fiancé so I don’t make any moves toward friendliness.
“Congratulations,” Trish says. “Wow, that’s zany. Getting married so young.”
Saint Sarah laughs high and fake, and I become intrigued with these “friends” from her past. Especially since Malcolm keeps staring at Sarah like she has an extra eye or something. Muhammad takes no notice, probably reveling in being called her fiancé.
“Oops, look at the time,” Saint Sarah says. “We’ve got to drive to Inverness. Catch up later?”
“Where are you staying in Inverness?” Trish asks.
Muhammad steps in and clarifies. “My sister and I are staying there, but Sarah will be with her cousin in the city.”
“Oh, at Noura’s?” Trish asks. “Maybe we’ll stop by then.”
Saint Sarah smiles and leans in for a hug with Trish. Malcolm moves in as well, but Saint Sarah turns away and strides off.
Muhammad and I have to hustle to catch up with her after we bid adieu to her friends.
“Old friends,” Saint Sarah mutters. “No biggie.”
“That Malcolm guy? He acted quite weird,” I say. “Don’t you t
hink so, Muhammad?”
“No, not really,” Muhammad says. “Sarah, you’ll have to come in and meet my dad now that we’re, you know, engaged.”
“Oh,” Saint Sarah says. “Right. About that . . .”
“We’ll need to get a ring,” Muhammad says. “How about during the week coming up?”
“Um,” Saint Sarah mumbles. “Maybe.”
“Aren’t you going to congratulate us?” Muhammad asks, thumping me on the back.
“Don’t tell anyone yet, because, it’s not, you know, finalized,” whispers Saint Sarah, as though the man talking to himself across the street is going to put an announcement in the New York Times if he hears.
“Yeah,” Muhammad says. “We’ll tell our families first.”
I don’t say a word because I’d taken a few glances back and seen Malcolm and Trish remaining standing at the edge of the patio, talking, eyes fixed on us.
Something’s fishy, and, like the last time, on the first date of my brother’s that I chaperoned, I’m stung with pity for my brother. He couldn’t seem to see the kernel of the matter: Saint Sarah and Malcolm have a history.
I hang back and let them walk ahead. For a couple that has apparently just got engaged, they sure are atypical. Muhammad’s the one getting giddy with the wedding prep, while she stays silent.
I’m getting an intuition about maybe-not-so-saintly Sarah’s sordid past. I vow to investigate and put my findings to good use.
On the ride over to Dad’s, I try in vain to bait her (“Malcolm looks a lot like Liam Hemsworth, don’t you think, Sarah?” and “He looked at you like he’s known you for a long, long time, eh, Sarah?”), but she doesn’t bite (“Liam Hemsworth? Really? You think so?” and “Did it look like he’s known me for that long? Well, he does wear glasses and he didn’t have them on. Probably explains his eye trouble.”). She’s concentrating on the road like she’s taking a driver’s exam. Muhammad is counting things off on his fingers, things to do re the engagement, and doesn’t pay attention to us.
Sarah does realize I’m quick on the uptake though and, after a while, begins to take control of the situation by opining on diverse topics totally unrelated to 1) guys, 2) engagements or weddings, and 3) friends.