Saints and Misfits

by S. K. Ali

  He doesn’t respond.

  I say, “Okay, I don’t know what they say about beards and cupcakes. But I thought for sure you’d know.”

  “So did you tell Sarah about it?”

  “About what?”

  “This thing Farooq’s sending out.”

  “No.”

  “Janna, why can’t you tell me about it? What’s happening?” He pulls over to the side of the road and shuts off the car.

  “Muhammad, it’s nothing. I’ll handle it.”

  “It’s nothing? I tell you my stuff. You’re helping me with one of the most important things in life—getting married.” He turns to me and waits.

  I close my eyes. I don’t want to tell him. I don’t want his sympathy or anger or it’ll-be-okays. It won’t change a thing.

  “Why do you shut Mom and me out? If you don’t want to talk to me, at least talk to her.”

  I open my eyes. His voice is breaking.

  “You act like Mom is some enemy. I know you think she ruined things by leaving Dad.” He looks away and turns the key in the ignition. “But she didn’t.”

  “She did. She moved out. She talks about patience and forbearance being part of Islam, but she didn’t put up with anything in her life!” I’m yelling and crying at the same time.

  “Janna, there was nothing to leave. Dad was already gone.”

  “No, you’re lying, he married Linda after!”

  “I’m not going to get into it.”

  “You hate Dad!”

  “No, I just love Mom, too,” he says quietly. We’re pulling into the parking garage.

  My phone rings. Tats. I’m done talking to Muhammad so I pick up.

  “Just got in! OMG, Dad took forever with the cottage. What happened with Jeremy yesterday?”

  “Can’t talk now. Roof tomorrow after my math exam? At eleven?”

  “Okay. Did you meet with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Awesome. Why can’t you talk now? And what’s wrong with your voice?”

  “I have to cram for my math exam. I’ve had a weird, busy day. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Okay, but don’t change that you agreed to go to the party on Friday! If you do, I won’t talk to you. Ever.”

  “Whatever, Tats. Like that’s the most important thing.”

  “It’s the only thing for me right now. Marjorie even added me on Facebook.”

  “We’ll talk tomorrow. Bye.”

  She’ll drag me to that party.

  SAINTS

  The math exam is nothing like the one Soon-Lee and I studied. We glance at each other before she twists the ends of her hair and gets started and before I flop down on my desk. The exam is only on the stuff we studied in class. None of the new work outlined in “A Course Review” appears. None of what I studied intensively until three a.m. is on it.

  I do the best I can, reaching into the recesses of my mind to remember old formulas, and then spend the rest of the period calculating the lowest mark I can get on this exam without throwing my math grade for the term out the window. In another universe, the calculations I do to figure this out would be worthy of some academic merit.

  I feel like roaring when Mr. Mason releases us. He has a strict policy on no one leaving until everyone is done, so we have to wait until the clock strikes eleven and Soon-Lee puts her pen down.

  “What were you working on until the bitter end?” I’m incredulous at her prowess.

  “That last trigonometric function wasn’t as easy as it looked.”

  “I’m going to fail. All I studied was the new stuff.” I avoid a group of freshmen, rushing by clutching armloads of books, fright covering their faces. I look behind, and sure enough, they’re entering Mr. Mason’s room for their exam. It’s the freshman enriched math group. I wish I could stop one of them and give them sage advice about the future and bootlegged exams.

  “I hope you don’t fail. Then I’ll be the only girl in the program next year.”

  “You studied everything?” I pause by the stairway doors that lead to the third floor and the teacher’s old storage room. “You did, didn’t you?”

  “I did. I didn’t want to take a risk.”

  “Well, we go our separate ways here. I hope it’s not forever.”

  She leans in and gives me a hug. “Janna, I love you. Thanks for being my study pal. We’ll meet up in the summer. And I’m sure I’ll see you in enriched math in the fall.”

  “If not, we’ll meet to deal with the goonies.”

  She walks away and turns. “And the Pringles. Don’t forget about tackling them.”

  And the monster. Don’t forget about tackling the monster, a small voice adds.

  • • •

  I open the door and start climbing. Technically I’m going up, but inside, I’m going downhill. I can’t take a failing grade on top of what’s happening in my life. It’s not supposed to be like this. School is supposed to be the best part.

  When I open the roof hatch, the place is empty. Tats hasn’t arrived yet.

  I take off my backpack and lie down. The sun is almost directly above, and I let it heat my face.

  What if I pretend to have fallen asleep? Then I won’t have to talk to Tats. And rehash everything.

  I take out my phone and check Dad’s message. Your competitors don’t know what you’re made of. They don’t know what you’re capable of. They don’t need to know. Strike when you’re ready. Let them know your power.

  That sounds scary. If Muhammad saw this, he’d go on and on about how ruthless Dad is.

  Am I like Dad? Or even like Mom? She kicked butt when she needed to.

  The only thing I know is I refuse to be one of Mom’s idolized Silent Sufferers.

  My phone pings: Thy apologies, plural, accepted.

  It’s a text from Nuah.

  I sit up. At least you got to know the real me: mean.

  I don’t buy that. There’s nice in there.

  I look in the distance, at the chain-link fence bordering the parking lot.

  Something tells me you see nice everywhere. Even serial killers.

  Whoa, that’s a big leap. From Janna to Charles Manson.

  Okay, maybe my kernel can sometimes be nice.

  Kernel?

  Yeah, Mr. Ram talks in fruit allegories.

  I can tell this is going to be deep.

  Some people have nice-looking husks with nothing inside. Some people have dried husks but there’s fruit and even a nice kernel in there.

  Ah, knew Mr. Ram was spiritual. Spiritual AND smart, good combo there.

  I decide to be brave. Nuah’s seen me and Jeremy together in the video, and I need to know what he thinks about it. Did you see the video?

  There’s no reply. Then, The cat on the skateboard? Hilarious.

  I pause. Yes, lol. Also yes to the question you texted on Sunday.

  Hence he sent the video.

  Yes.

  Need help?

  No. Anyways, I’m busy with exams.

  Duas for you.

  Thanks & salaams. I add a turtle emoji with a thumbs-up.

  I lie down. The phone pings. It’s a video of a skateboarding cat. I watch it over and over. It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.

  • • •

  When Tats finally arrives, I am almost asleep.

  She settles in and demands a recount of Sunday at the lake. I mumble a synopsis and then ask if I can be silent to tan.

  She nods and begins a conversation with herself about me.

  Tats 1: “Okay, so we’re a hundred percent sure he likes you.”

  Tats 2: “No, make that two hundred percent, because any guy who shows a girl his nerdy side right away is, like, double sure she’s the one. I mean, birds?”

  Tats 1: “Yeah, but actually, he is sort of ultra geeky. You can tell that right away. He’s on the tech crew, hello?”

  Tats 2: “But actually again, he’s on the baseball team too. So that makes him only half-nerdy.”
/>   Tats 1: “Which is fifty percent nerdy.”

  Tats 2: “So, two hundred percent into you, fifty percent nerdy, I guess that equals one hundred and fifty percent worthy.”

  Me: “Please, I had a super-fail experience with my math exam. Please cut the math. Please.”

  Tats 1: “Okay, basically, we need to figure out how to keep him into you. Which is hard because you can’t do anything to keep him into you. Like date. Or kiss the guy.”

  Tats 2: “But, you can play hard to get. Like the hardest to get in the world. That could be your thing.”

  Tats 1: “But too hard to get can turn him totally off. I mean, the truth is, Janna, is he even going to get you at the end of it all?”

  We’re silent, pondering this profound question. I mean, I don’t know if Tats is silent because she’s pondering it, but she does stop the monologue to stare intensely at me. Like I have the answer to the purpose of life or something.

  So I add my own soliloquy to throw her off my back. “To be got or not to be got? That is the question.”

  Tats: “No, I’m serious; where does this all go? You are going to go out with him, right? If he asks you out for real?”

  I sit up, pick up my backpack, and say, “Yeah, yeah, whatever, time for English.”

  “This is serious, Janna. A guy’s life is at stake.”

  I look at her. Is this the way I looked at things before? Just this past weekend, in fact? It’s almost crazy.

  “A guy’s life?” I say. “Really?”

  “Love life,” she says. “Really.”

  I open the door and descend the secret stairwell. Pausing to put my ear to the door on the odd chance a teacher has come up to look for a textbook from the 1970s, I whisper, “Tats, relax. I’m into saving lives. If it really matters to him that much, I will not hesitate to lend a hand to keep him alive.”

  Tats claps her hands at my benevolence, as I open the door. To five guys.

  Who begin to furtively put away their stashes of illegal substances until they see that it’s us nobodies.

  “Hey, guys,” Tats says breezily. “Keep it clean up there, will ya?”

  She holds the door open for them. They go up wordlessly.

  This is why I love the girl. She knows how to stay calm and carry on.

  It almost makes me tell her about Farooq.

  Almost. The 60 percent reason that I hold back has to do with something I’m 100 percent sure of: I can’t handle people thinking I come from a messed-up community. I’d rather close the hamper lid on that one.

  Tats walks me to English, which is not good, because she gets to see how there is no English.

  “Oops, I forgot. Ms. Keaton said it was a study period,” I say, feigning a look of dawning remembrance. “So let’s study. In the library.”

  “No, change of plans, because guess who’s coming this way? Looking bored? Looking to hang with us?” Tats says, waving at someone behind me.

  I turn, adjusting my hijab instinctively into what I think is the most flattering shape for my face: a flop-to-the-side look. (It’s a science, making the exact folds and lay of the hijab cloth to suit your type of face.)

  Jeremy is walking, no, striding toward us. I lean against a row of lockers, smiling.

  “Hey,” Tats says, motioning him over. “What’s up?”

  He waves and walks by, turning around to move away from us, backward.

  “Nothing,” he says. “Just gotta help Coach with some equipment inventory.”

  He’s gone. Without even one glance at me.

  “Huh?” Tats says. “What was that about?” She turns to peer at me. “Is there something you’re not telling me about Sunday?”

  “No!” I say, this time not feigning confusion, but exuding it authentically.

  “He acted like you didn’t exist,” Tats says. “Let’s go to the equipment room.”

  “No,” I say again. “I’m going to study.”

  “Don’t be such a nerd,” Tats says. “Come on!”

  She pulls me forward, and for some reason we find ourselves almost running after Jeremy. Who isn’t in the equipment room but on the stairwell landing, with two other guys, just sitting there. Tats, the brash thing, starts running down the stairs toward him, apparently unaware that she’s huffing. I hang back, realizing how crazed we must look.

  “Jeremy, what’s going on?” Tats puffs, right in front of his friends.

  He gets up and comes up the stairs a bit to draw her away from humiliation. Because she doesn’t notice, but his friends are laughing and not even hiding it. I back out through the doors, letting them shut heavily and move to lean my head against the side windows from where I can watch the drama without anyone seeing me.

  Jeremy looks tight, his arms stiff against the sides of his body, but he’s doing most of the talking. Tats has her arms crossed, listening intently to him, and as I watch her, my embarrassment at her behavior slowly dissipates.

  She’s really into this. Trying to make what she thinks of as happiness for me. But is it happiness for me? Am I going to go through with letting Jeremy and me be together in the end? I haven’t really thought that far. But now, watching his lips move and his body tighten up further as time ticks by, the mother of all rhetorical questions whams me with such force that I almost bang my forehead on the glass. Why is everything neater in my head than in real life? What is real life anyway?

  I pivot abruptly and walk to the library, because I know for sure my English exam is real Real Life.

  • • •

  Tats joins me at a study carrel as I’m reviewing arguments against humanizing Caliban. Although I see Mr. Ram’s point that Shakespeare wrote him with the specter of an almost racist form of Otherness in mind, he reminds me too much of Farooq, so I’m all for caging the dude up.

  “Are you sitting down for this?” Tats asks my seated form. Her face is livid.

  I slump down.

  “Apparently, there’s this guy, Farooq, who says you and him are together,” Tats says, carefully watching my face. “This guy is good friends with Jeremy, so now he says he doesn’t feel right. . . . Okay, who is Farooq?”

  I stare at her, willing her to stop.

  “So, there is something you’re not telling me!” Tats says. “Jan, I thought we didn’t do that? Keep stuff from each other?”

  “Tats, can you just shut up? I need to study. I can’t fail another exam.”

  “But who is he?” she says, leaning forward, really expecting me to launch into an essay explaining who the Caliban in my life is.

  I close my books, slam them into my backpack, and drag it with me out of the library. Tats doesn’t follow, and I wonder how real she is in my life because I don’t care that she sits there, shooting me a steady, evil glare.

  At the rate I’m going, I’ll have no friends left by Friday.

  • • •

  I make it to the condo lobby before collapsing into a faux-leather couch. With my English notes perched on the armrest, I pick up where I left off: the depravity of Caliban.

  I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep until lights flashing across the lobby wake me. An ambulance is parked out front. It’s not a common occurrence, but I don’t give it much thought until I see Mr. Ram’s daughter-in-law coming out of the doors to the stairwell. She waits, looking toward the elevators, her hands clenched.

  I go over to stand beside her. “Is everything okay?”

  She looks at me briefly and shakes her head before watching the elevators again.

  “Mr. Ram?” I ask. She nods and then clutches my arm suddenly.

  The elevator doors open, and ambulance attendants come out wheeling Mr. Ram, laid out, with an oxygen mask on his face. My stomach flops.

  Mr. Ram goes by soundlessly, his son and daughter-in-law, now sobbing quietly, following. I go to the lobby doors, wanting to climb into the ambulance with them.

  But the ambulance drives away.

  Something breaks in me, and I start to heave, tears running d
own my face.

  Mr. Ram can’t go.

  • • •

  I lie sprawled on my bed. Muhammad backed away when I let myself in earlier and he got a glimpse of my face, so I have a bit of respite. Plus, I wedged Mom’s dresser against the door for double protection.

  Lying motionless, I stare at the water stain on the ceiling for so long that it takes on more and more details that make it look like Farooq.

  I shake my head and fish my phone out of my backpack. Scrolling down, I find his number in my messages folder.

  I wonder briefly if he’s at school, but still, I let it ring. I’ll have to be brave enough to leave a message if no one answers.

  “Assalamu alaikum?” Nuah asks. “Janna?”

  I nod, afraid to speak.

  “What’s up?” he says, the surrounding noise of many voices fading. “I can hear you better now. I’m not in the hall anymore.”

  “Mr. Ram, he’s not well. They took him away in an ambulance.”

  “Oh. Do you know which hospital?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Let me call and check. Call you right back?”

  “Okay.”

  I hang up and fish under my bed for a piece of blue poster board. I move the dresser back to its place, go into Muhammad’s room, and put the blue board against the window. When Tats first moved into Fairchild Towers, we used to communicate through window colors. Blue meant “All is lost; come over now.” Even though I can’t talk to Tats, I want her to see this. I want her to know something—I mean a lot of things—is not right.

  I go back to my room without shutting the door. I need to be ready to go when Nuah calls. The hospital wouldn’t be too far so I can bike it. I look around the room for something to take with me. Mom’s Rumi poems. Maybe I can read him some.

  My seerah book lying on the dresser catches my eye. He’ll probably like that, but I haven’t added anything new to it since I was twelve.

  I hop on my bed and cross my legs, cradling the book in my lap. I reach for my gel pens in a basket on the window ledge and spread them out. I choose a dusty brown and draw a valley by a high hill. I want to write about the Prophet’s farewell sermon. Hurt no one so that no one may hurt you.