Saints and Misfits

by S. K. Ali

  I’m not aware of how much time has gone by until Muhammad knocks on the door that’s ajar.

  “Janna?” He peers in. “Nuah is here.”

  I look up, and the opening in the door widens, Nuah’s face appearing behind Muhammad’s shoulder.

  I get off the bed and walk with them to the living room, holding the seerah book.

  “I can go right now,” I say. “To the hospital. Which one is it?”

  “Janna, he passed away,” Nuah says. “I spoke to his family.”

  I nod.

  “Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajioon,” Muhammad says. “To God we belong and to him we return.”

  I repeat the words Muslims say when someone dies and then walk back to my room. The mess on my bed leads me to Mom’s bed, where I promptly fall asleep.

  I wake up to Tats scraping and flicking her dried nail polish, sitting beside me on Mom’s bed.

  “I heard about your friend,” she says, pausing her handiwork to look at me.

  I flip over and let my left arm hang off the side of the bed.

  “Sorry to hear,” she says. “Do you want me to bring you something to eat? There’s a guy eating chow mein with your brother in the kitchen.”

  Nuah’s still here?

  “I’m okay,” I say. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “I’ll get you something.”

  The bed creaks as she hops off.

  I get up and catch my reflection in the mirror. My hijab’s askew with tufts of hair escaping around both ears. I unwind the hijab and fling it across to my bed and then lie back down, spread-eagle.

  I’m kind of fed up and exhausted with the last few days: with Farooq, with my friends, with Mr. Ram gone without any prior warning.

  I mean, he gave me that file, that ancient file, a few days ago and told me to be sure to tell my English teacher about it. And I nodded, pretending I would, but really thinking as if! I can remember almost nothing of what he said to me before this exchange.

  But he said so much, so how could that be?

  What’s in my head now is his face, especially his tightly-held-lips face, when he’d listen or watch me but not say anything. That face of his would freak me out because he had this way of knowing I didn’t mean everything I said I’d do when he’d ask me to read something or write about something or do something or talk to someone about something. I’d drop my eyes when he got that face. Without looking up, I knew his eyes would have grown more knowing as I sputtered along filling the spaces with empty pronouncements. I didn’t care about things as much as he did, and he knew it.

  I close my eyes because they begin stinging. I realize this awful thing: Mr. Ram was the adult I had the most consistent communication with for the last few years, mainly because even though I kept talking crap and he knew it, he let me be. He just listened.

  And when he spoke, he always gave me something good. I know this for sure, because I always left him feeling good.

  Tats comes in holding two plates. She sets them on Mom’s dresser and, after a quick glance at my face, perches on the bed gingerly.

  She begins scraping her nails again.

  I sit up and wipe my face with my sleeves.

  “Let’s get out of here to eat,” I say, wrapping my scarf on really horribly. “Mom hates food in her bedroom.”

  I refrain from looking at my blotchy self in the mirror.

  Tats grabs the plates and walks ahead. She stops in the middle of the hallway and whispers, “By the way, is that guy in the kitchen Farooq?”

  I shake my head and make a face as we enter the kitchen. Nuah looks up from the breakfast table and immediately stands, chopsticks in the air.

  I don’t know why, but I reach for my scarf, almost instinctively, to fix it up.

  Nuah indicates his chair, and I go toward it as Tats takes Muhammad’s empty seat and sets down our plates. We eat quietly, but something’s growing loud in me. It’s reaching into every part of me, and I let it be.

  I let the ocean of anger be.

  • • •

  Mom comes home shortly thereafter and sits with us in the living room, listening to Nuah. Mr. Ram had a stroke, the kind that shuts everything down. The funeral services are being arranged, but Nuah told us it would be cremation followed by a family-and-friends gathering. Deval would let us know the details soon.

  Mom goes into action, heading to the kitchen to rummage in the cupboards for something to cook for Mr. Ram’s family.

  “Vegetarians, they’re vegetarians,” I mumble. Muhammad leans over and rests a hand on my arm. That just makes the tears spill.

  Nuah stands and says he has to leave, that he’d let Mr. Ram’s friends at the community center know. I nod. Thursdays without Seniors Game Club?

  I say salaams to Nuah and good-bye to Tats and lie on the couch with my eyes wide open. The smell of chickpea sauce begins to meander into the living room, and I spring up.

  I watch Mom stirring the pot, still in her work clothes. Missiles of brown sauce bits launch out of the bubbling pot and land on her white shirt. She wipes the spatters away absentmindedly before scattering a teaspoon of salt into the chickpeas.

  It dawns on me: Mom’s never been glam because she makes no time for extras. Only for taking care of the things that need to be taken care of.

  So why does she want to become this other person Auntie Maysa thinks she should be? To meet her match?

  I’d rather have her be the Mom she’s always been.

  I drape my arms around her shoulders and rest my head on the nearest one. It’s been a long time since I’ve given her a hug on my own, and, after a moment of tensed surprise, she turns to me and hugs me back.

  “Can I take the food over to Mr. Ram’s family?” I mumble into her scarf.

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea. I’ll come, of course.” She turns back to lower the heat and cover the pot. “I’ll change; just let it burble here. If you smell something burning, take it off the burner. Let it sit.”

  That’s Mom’s idea of cooking: Let it burble but don’t let it burn and let it sit. Her food is edible but not the kind you relish.

  I feel bad saying this about her cooking because I know she doesn’t have much time and that she does the throw-everything-in-a-pot method due to that, but right now, it feels too similar to what’s happening inside me.

  Burbling bits of stuff about to burn.

  • • •

  I call Sausun. “What do I have to do to be in?”

  “Good choice.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “Don’t worry your pretty head about it. Just wait for instructions.”

  “Promise me I’ll be undercover.”

  “No one will know it’s you. I’ll call you later. Let me get to work.”

  MISFITS

  I wake up to two messages.

  Dad’s: True achievement is birthed by failure. Even public failure, for then you’re guaranteed a greater audience for your eventual rising. Let your detractors watch as you arise anew.

  Sausun’s: Initiated contact with enemy combatant. If he confirms, are you okay for convening at 5 tomorrow? At the Book Nook?

  I have twenty minutes to change and get to school. I call Sausun as I fling things on. “What’s the plan? I need to know before participating.”

  “So I called him and said I’ve got some more information on the video he sent. Something to do with you. I asked him to meet me tomorrow in the coffee shop at the Book Nook at six.”

  “And?”

  “And we’ll film him. And reveal his crimes to his face. Capture his reaction. Put it on YouTube. Finis.”

  “Who’ll do the revealing?”

  “I think it should be you, but if you want, I can participate. The beauty of it is he won’t know it’s you. You’ll be incognito.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “No, the only thing you’ll think about is if the time is okay with you. I got the wheels in motion. You asked and I delivered.
”

  “A good friend of mine just passed away. I’m not feeling my best.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Take care. I’ve gotta get going.”

  • • •

  I finish the exam and wait. It was pretty straightforward, like Ms. Keaton described, so I’m relieved.

  After everyone leaves and she’s putting the exam booklets into her bag, I approach her with my open backpack.

  “Ms. Keaton? I’m sorry to interrupt, but a friend of mine wanted you to read this.” I hold out the file folder with two hands. “It’s his view of some of Shakespeare’s plays.”

  She opens the file, and we both look at the title page, “The Other in Shakespeare’s Works: A Critical Reading by Vinesh Ram.”

  “Thank you. I’ll try to get at it this summer. Maybe some of it will come in handy when I teach Shakespeare again.” She puts the file in her bag.

  I pause and turn to her at the door. “He passed away yesterday, so I wanted to make sure I gave it to you.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” She joins me, and we walk out together. “Were you very close?”

  “I took care of him once a week. He was elderly. He loved reading.”

  “Why don’t you write about him then? It really helps you when you’re grieving to do that. Capture the best points about him.”

  “Maybe I should.” I wonder if I should say it, what I’m thinking. Then, because it’s the last day of English and there’s nothing left to do, I let myself blurt, “But I’ve known him for four years, and I feel like I never paid real attention to him. I’m ashamed that I don’t know much about him.”

  “Ah, here’s where I can give you your favorite writer’s advice: ‘I write to discover what I know.’ Flannery O’Connor.”

  I smile. “She always knows what to say. Thanks, Ms. Keaton. Have a good summer.”

  “You have a wonderful summer. See you in September.” She gives me a wave by the staff room door, Mr. Ram’s file in her bag.

  • • •

  I log on to Facebook and click through the notifications letting me know I’ve been tagged and then untag myself methodically. There are sixteen new ones, from one or another of the Pringles, and that doesn’t count the J.Y. account. Don’t they have a Tiffany sale to go to or something?

  I unfriend Lauren and create a new page: “Mr. Ram, You’ll Be Missed.”

  Scrolling through my camera, I find Mr. Ram’s Belly-Laugh smile and upload it. His first Facebook picture.

  Mr. Ram was a dedicated person—that means he didn’t let go of the things that were important to him. He was dedicated to Seniors Games Club every week. He got dressed up to go. Everyone knew he was serious about spending time with his friends, that’s how dressed up he was.

  He was dedicated to people. Even though he was a serious person, with a lot on his mind, he made sure to let you know he remembered you. Always. He smiled at jokes even if they were only sort of funny. He remembered that it was a person who was telling the joke, so he smiled for that person.

  He was dedicated to reading good books, even if they were from another generation or didn’t make complete sense to him. He read the first Harry Potter when he was ninety years old because someone told him it was good. He would have read the rest of the series if that someone had been able to find the large-type versions in the library for him.* He smiled one of his loudest smiles ever at the Shel Silverstein poem about a pet snowball. But his favorite Shel Silverstein poem was “The Little Boy and the Old Man.”

  Like the old man in the poem, he was dedicated to someone too, dedicated to helping her find out what the really important things for her were. What she should be dedicated to. She misses him but was happy to have had someone like him in her life. Thank you, Mr. Ram, for the warmth of your hand.

  *Someone still regrets that they didn’t find the rest of the HP books for him.

  I send friend requests to Mr. Ram’s son, his wife, and Nuah and invite everyone already on my friends list to Mr. Ram’s page.

  Tats writes on the wall first: Mr. Ram was a good friend to my best friend, rest in peace, xoxo.

  Muhammad: To God we belong and to Him we return. Thanks for putting this up, sis.

  Then news: Nuah Abdullah has accepted your friend request.

  I cringe, only now remembering that he’s going to be able to see all the tagged crazy pictures of me put up by the Pringles.

  I click on Nuah’s profile. In his album I find a photo of him on hajj with his hair shaved, as is typical of pilgrims. I feel awful noticing his forehead, but I do. It’s an okay forehead, well balanced with his smile.

  Notification: Nuah Abdullah wrote on your page, Mr. Ram, You’ll Be Missed.

  Nuah: It’s true, Mr. Ram was dedicated to people. He had a lot of friends at the community center and he made them by honoring them. That’s rare. Thanks Janna for doing this and please pass on that the funeral will take place on June 25 at 4 p.m.

  That’s the day of Lauren’s party. Now I have the perfect excuse for not going with Tats.

  • • •

  I walk across the street to Tats’s building. The elevators here are normal, and within a minute I’m at her front door.

  Her brother Alex lets me in and then goes back to playing a video game on the couch.

  I find Tats in her room, looking at Matt’s Facebook page. She gives a start when she sees me.

  “You just made a page for Mr. Ram. How are you here?”

  “I’m fast. Thanks for posting.” I sit on her bed. “About the party.”

  “You promised.” Tats twirls to me in her chair. Her hair is tied up in a huge severe and shiny bun. No tendrils of hair escape it. Her hair secret, a bottle of almond oil, stands on her dresser.

  “Mr. Ram’s funeral is on the same day.”

  “Oh.”

  “Sorry.” I shrug my shoulders.

  She turns her chair and checks something on her laptop. “But it’s at four o’clock.”

  She faces me again. “Lauren’s thing is at eight. Can’t we do both?”

  “How can I be in party mood and funeral mood at the same time?”

  “Can you at least think about it? Otherwise I’ll join you for the funeral and then go on my own to the party.”

  I panic at that. I can’t imagine Tats at the mercy of the Pringles. They’ll eat her alive, and she’ll think she’s having fun.

  “Okay, give me time to think about it.”

  She turns back to Facebook. “So, Nuah? Yesterday at your place? How do you know him?”

  “He’s this guy who works at the community center I take Mr. Ram to. Used to take him to.”

  “Does he like you?”

  “No. What do you mean?” I peer over her shoulder. She’s added him as a friend, and apparently he’s accepted because she’s scrolling through his profile.

  “He’s really Muslim, huh?” She pauses at the hajj pictures. “You like him, don’t you?”

  “No. I mean, he’s a nice guy.”

  “Better than this Farooq guy Jeremy told me about?”

  I cross my arms. “Tats, Farooq is a pervert. He tried to . . . I can’t tell you.”

  “What?” She’s off her chair and in front of me. “What did he do? Who is this guy?”

  “He’s the cousin of an ex-friend of mine. I can’t talk about it now.”

  “Why does Jeremy think you guys are going out?”

  “I don’t know. Can we drop it?” I get up and move to the door. “I’m dealing with it. Just know that.”

  “Will you call me if you want to talk?” She follows me to the front door. “This is going to bother me.”

  I turn to her. She’s such a great friend. I lean over and hug her. “You’re right about Nuah.”

  “What part?”

  “The really Muslim part,” I say, not telling her I also mean the other part: You like him, don’t you? I wave at her from down the hall.

  • • •

  Fizz and Aliya are waiting in t
he condo with Muhammad when I get back. I look at Fizz. She looks away.

  Aliya speaks first. “We heard about Mr. Ram and wanted to give our condolences.”

  Muhammad comes out of the kitchen with drinks.

  “Thanks.” I sit down on the armchair and keep my gaze on Fizz. I want to talk to her. Alone. But that would mean leaving Aliya with Muhammad. I take a breath. “You guys want to see my new room?”

  They stand and follow me to Mom’s room. I close the door behind them.

  “Your cousin tried to rape me on the day the twins had their Qur’an party. Yes, Farooq.” I look unflinchingly at Fizz’s face, but my lips close up after saying his name. If I go on, it won’t be clearly.

  “Bullshit.” Fizz has finally raised her eyes to mine. “I thought you’d make up something like that. To cover what you’re up to with this guy.”

  Anger floods over my grief at having to talk about this. It blankets and quells me, and I regain my steady voice. “I’m up to nothing. True, I fell for Jeremy. But that’s all that’s happened. It’s not a crime. On the other hand, your cousin is a criminal.”

  “Let’s get out of here, Aliya.” She reaches for the door. “This bitch here is trying ruin Farooq’s good name.”

  I put my hand on the doorknob and hold tight. I push in and turn the handle to lock it.

  “Your cousin ruined himself. And you enable it with your stupid belief that just because he memorized the Qur’an he’s untouchable. The Qur’an is a book of messages. And he didn’t get one of the main ones in it: respect.”

  “Janna, you’re saying something serious. How can we believe you?” Aliya’s face is flustered, vacillating between concern and disbelief.

  “Aliya . . .” I pause, swallowing the urge to break down on seeing glimpses of care in her eyes. “Why would I make up something I can’t even bear myself?”

  I let go of the door and sink to the floor, spent. Fizz unlocks the handle, yanks the door open, and walks out. Aliya places an arm on my shoulder before following her.

  Flannery: The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.

  • • •

  Muhammad knocks on the privacy screens.

  “Yes?”