by S. K. Ali
If I let her keep going, I’ll lose this battle of wills. “But Eid—that feels like a good time to wear it out for the first time. That feels right for me.”
Like Papí always says, I’ve got her on the ropes! So I keep going. “I want to wear it Eid day because it’s the way I want to express my relationship with Allah.”
“Leila,” she says.
“Got her on the ropes,” Papí mumbles.
“Mama. Please.”
And then Mama exhales. I smile.
Normally we go to Eid prayers every year, but this year’s different because both Mama and Papí have work responsibilities they can’t put off. Still, we pray Fajr in the morning together, and then we get ready. And I feel a little more bounce in my step than usual as I do.
My favorite part of putting on the hijab before school is the way Papí helps brush my chunky-thick curls back into a bun. He always sings under his breath as he brushes and puts in the hair butter.
Chunky-thick curls. My girlie’s got chunky-thick curls.
Papí brushes much softer than Eima Ali, who brushes fast and firm, a little yanky here and there. But that’s still not as bad as the way Mama does it.
Every “Mama, ouch!” usually gets me a “Mm, shhh, almost done.”
And she is never. Almost. Done.
So Papí’s hands in my hair feel like an okay way to start what Mama has alwaysssss said is “a rite of passage.” To wear hijab out of the house and in spaces that test who we are.
When I get out of the car that morning, Mama says, “I love you. Eid Mubarak, sweet girl.”
“Love you too. Khair Mubarak, Mama.” And I don’t mean to slam the car door shut, but excitement makes my hands heavy.
I give one last wave and then heft my backpack a little higher, feeling the coolness vibes of my whole outfit come together.
Black jeans, leather jacket, and, yep—hijab. Steady.
Ready. Beige. In place and prepped to go.
Except it’s different than I thought. People look at me, but they don’t really say anything. I know I won’t be able to see Carmendee until after lunch because I’m in class A and she’s in class B, but I kinda expected some of my other friends, like maybe Jupiter or Aja or Yuki or Keturah, to be a little excited.
I’m sitting at my desk, writing in my morning journal about it. About how Kyle from class D yelled, “What’s on your head?” when I walked by this morning and I pretended not to hear. About how I kinda get why Mama wanted me to take my time with it. About how I’m not sure what it means if I don’t want to wear hijab after today.
I’m done journaling and start drawing a Chibiusa doodle in the corner of the page when my seatmate, Tennyson Korpi, plops his empty-sounding backpack onto our table.
“Hi, Leila,” he says. To me his voice always sounds like when you eat cherry shaved ice too fast. Soft, but also kinda sharp somehow?
“Hi,” I say back.
I can see out of the corner of my eye that he hasn’t sat down yet, so I glance up at him as he says, “I like your, um,” and then gestures around his own head in a weird way.
“Thanks—it’s called hijab.”
“Cool,” he says. “Oh, hey. Eid Mubarak! I put the day in my phone’s calendar when you mentioned it last month.”
“You did?”
He sits. “Yeah! And then I went on Google and looked up a little bit about it and, like, how to say the right stuff to you.”
I feel my nose crinkle in that embarrassing way when I ask, “Why?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know.” He says it all quiet, and I think maybe I shouldn’t have asked him that.
Tennyson has been my seatmate since, like, fourth grade. He’s always been way nicer to me than anyone else, and at the beginning of the year, when Mrs. Holcomb asked if we wanted to sit next to each other again this year, Ten and I both said yes, but when I said yes, my chest got all hot and my heart started to beat really fast, and when I got home I asked Papí what heartburn was, except it wasn’t that.
Ten’s started writing in his own morning journal, but when he notices I’ve stopped drawing he says, “What? What’s wrong?”
I shrug like I don’t know, but I do know. “I feel kind of weird wearing hijab today. Which, like, is probably what my mom was talking about when she told me to wait.”
“Oh.”
That’s it. That’s all he says. Till he leans back in his chair, the front two legs tipping up off the ground. “Why do you feel weird? Is it uncomfortable?”
“No.”
“It smells really nice.”
“Oh. Thanks?”
He coughs and then says, “Is it because Kyle Broad-beck yelled that thing on the playground this morning?”
“Yeah, kinda. Also because no one’s saying anything nice. Except you. They’re not saying anything at all, so it makes me feel like they’re saying bad stuff about it instead. And at my mosque we learn that it’s super not about what other people think. We learn that it’s about what we think and what Allah thinks. And I just expected to feel a little different. More, like, full, I guess? I don’t know. I expected to feel the way I always feel on Eid day.”
“How do you feel normally?”
Pretty good question. “Happy? And, like, really excited for every part of the day because it means that I’ll get to go home and go to masjid and see my friends there and then have dinner with some of them and their families.”
“That sounds kind of nice.”
“It is! It’s so nice.”
Ten nods. “So, how you’re feeling now—do you not still feel happy and excited for those things?”
Mrs. Holcomb stands up from her desk and hums the first five notes of “Shave and a Haircut,” and the rest of the class, seated at their own tables, sings the rest of the line back, signaling the start of class.
I hadn’t really thought about it. Probably because Kyle Broadbeck yelled and knocked all my happiness vibes right out the nearest window. But I think maybe that’s the point.
Maybe . . . maybe we wear hijab even knowing that the Kyle Broadbecks of the world will yell at us from across the playground and make us feel small. And so then it’s our job to look to Allah SWT to guide us back to that place of grace and pre-Kyle happiness.
I run my hand along the side of my head and smile.
Mrs. Holcomb asks who wants to read their morning journal to the class. Ten and a few other people raise their hands, but she picks Maisie Mannon. When Maisie is up in front of the class reading, Ten slides his journal over to me.
I can’t really read his handwriting, but I catch some of the big pieces.
He wrote about me. Ten wrote about Eid and so also pretty much about me.
Today is Eid day for Leila and a bunch of other people who practice Islam.
Super glad Leila is my seatmate and my friend because she smells like strawberries all the time, which is pretty cool, and she teaches me things I never knew.
List of People I’d Like to Learn Stuff From:
• Leila
• Anthony
• Nala
• Manuela
And the list goes on for, like, ten more names. I laugh quietly, imagining Ten up there reading names of, like, basically half the class.
I bump his shoulder with mine, and when he looks at me, I mouth, “Thank you.”
He nods.
Maybe there’s some stuff I can learn from Tennyson too.
Mrs. Holcomb is asking Tatiana Pijot to read next. Tati starts reading the lyrics of a song she wrote about loving tacos.
Same, Tati. Same.
I flip a page in my journal and start drawing another doodle. This time it’s one of a magical girl in hijab with her magical sun powers and her sun scepter and her faith, which she wears as chest armor.
Hmmm. If I were an Eid gift, where would I hide?
Under the bed? Too obvious.
Near the furnace? Nope.
I squeeze past Sulaymaan to check behind the
sofa. Dust bunnies.
Sulaymaan says, “Just leave it, man! Wait till Eid like everyone else.”
“How can you be like that? Aren’t you itching to find out?”
Sulaymaan looks up from the Quran he’s reading. “Well, yeah. But we’ve got a whole month to get through, and Ramadan is about a lot more than just gifts.”
He doesn’t want to admit how much he likes getting gifts too.
The leather couch lets out a booff sound as I flop down on it. I kind of like the noise, but Sulaymaan looks over at me like I did something wrong, then goes back to reading.
His lips move, and I can tell he’s not just reading the English translation—he’s doing the Arabic too, even though it’s harder. And something about him irritates the heck out of me. So I toss a cushion at him.
“Quit it!” he says, and pushes the cushion behind him. He doesn’t even toss it back.
There’s so much time to fill when you’re not eating or drinking!
Right on cue, my stomach rumbles. Suhoor was a long time ago.
I say a bit too loud, “Why do we even have to fast?”
Sulaymaan puts down the book and looks at me like I’m dumb. I thought he’d be glad for the chance to lecture me.
“It’s only my second year,” I add.
“Well, it’s kind of like thanking Allah for the gift of guidance. The Quran first came down in Ramadan.”
“But why do we fast?”
He looks thoughtful. “I think it’s a reboot. A sort of training.”
“Huh?”
“If we can be strong enough to resist the stuff Allah has allowed, it makes it easier to resist the stuff that’s forbidden. I know Ramadan makes me appreciate the things He gave us that I usually take for granted, like food and water.”
He’s back to reading his Quran. I can’t help but think of the pictures I’ve seen of starving kids in Yemen, and I feel ashamed.
It’s hard having an older brother who’s better than me.
The sun’s getting ready to set.
Its rays light up the clouds on the horizon, so they glow around the edges like an inspirational poster. The traffic is quiet on our street. There’s only one guy out walking his dog.
I close my eyes and listen to the birds calling to each other as they return to their nests for the night. I wonder if they’re saying, “See you tomorrow!” “Good night!”
Mom calls, “Idrees, it’s almost time to break.”
When I come inside, she asks, “How was your fast?”
Then she and Dad and Sulaymaan stare at me, waiting for me to answer. I hate being the youngest. They never ask Sulaymaan!
“Piece of cake!”
Sulaymaan laughs. “You had a piece of cake?”
“No! I mean—”
He looks shocked. “Idrees! You can’t eat cake while you’re fasting! Don’t you know that?”
“I didn’t!”
“Was it chocolate or vanilla?”
Dad and Mom laugh too, and I feel so dumb.
Mom brings out the Ramadan boxes. It’s a tradition she started a few years ago, something she saw on Instagram: thirty small boxes containing some candy and a hadith or Quranic ayah for each day of Ramadan. She offers it to Sulaymaan, but he waves it toward me and says in a Moses–from–The Ten Commandments voice, “You don’t have to bribe me to fast!” Then he points at me. “Let the child have his bonbons!”
Dad looks confused. “Bonbons?”
“Candy,” says Mom, and they both laugh. But then Dad looks at me and tells Sulaymaan, “Stop teasing your brother.”
I say, “You don’t need to bribe me either!”
Mom pats the side of my face. “Oh, honey. It’s not a bribe. It’s encouragement!”
“I’m eleven!”
Mom pinches my cheek. “Too old for candy? Fine! I’ll have them!”
And she pops the Jolly Ranchers and Nerds into her mouth, and I have to look like I’m okay with it. Grrr.
Sulaymaan reaches over and reads the little slip of paper from the box out loud. “God said: ‘Every deed a person does will receive ten to seven hundred times reward, except fasting, for it is for Me, and I shall reward it. There are two occasions of joy for one who fasts: one when he breaks the fast, and the other when he will meet his Lord.’”
Are they looking at me again? It sure feels like it.
It’s a school night, so we pray Taraweeh at home.
As if Isha isn’t long enough, we have to pray eight extra rakats. Dad and Sulaymaan take turns leading. Behind us, Mom closes her eyes and smiles just before we begin. She looks so peaceful in her hijab and long dress.
I don’t groan out loud when we start. I don’t dare. But I swear it feels like the prayer will never end.
But it does.
Eventually it always ends.
As we’re getting up from the last rakat, Dad rubs my head and gives me a quick hug. “You want to lead tomorrow?”
“Sure!” I say, and again I feel ashamed of the way I was feeling.
Mom takes off her hijab and is folding it neatly when I catch her off guard by asking, “Um, did you buy the Eid gifts yet?”
In the way she glances quickly at Dad and says, “Never you mind,” I have my answer.
I’ll have to double my efforts!
While I’m snuggling into bed, it feels like the month will last forever, and yet the first day of Ramadan is already gone—one thirtieth is already done. One step closer to Eid.
Basketball practice is hard while I’m fasting! I’m panting like I never do, and my best friend, Liam, says, “Not even water?”
“Nope.”
“That’s hard!”
“Yeah.” Right now it is.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead, and as I pass by the water fountain, I take a mouthful just to rinse out the dryness.
But there’s something about the water swishing over my tongue. It’s only water, but it tastes so good! The urge to swallow is strong. Nobody would ever know. When I was young, I wouldn’t have hesitated, but now . . . I spit it out.
It wasn’t easy.
So why am I smiling as I head to class?
Mom didn’t hide the gifts in the laundry room.
And they’re not in any of the closets either.
When it’s time to break my fast, I plop down in my seat harder than usual.
“Are you all right?” Mom asks.
“Fine! Just fine!”
She hunts through a bunch of dates and picks out the fattest, juiciest one. “Here.”
And she hands me a glass of water. The date is so sweet that it makes the spots just behind my jaw tingle, and the water is colder than from the fountain.
I feel better.
I’m standing at the kitchen sink drinking another cup when I notice the moon high in the sky. It’s big, like a cookie with a huge bite taken out of it.
Mmmm, cookies!
I’m just brushing off the cookie crumbs when Dad calls. It’s time for Isha.
And when we begin the Taraweeh, I step forward to the prayer mat at the head of them all.
Sulaymaan, with his Ten Commandments voice again, says, “Don’t forget, you’re leading all our prayers!”
Dad says, “Leave him alone. He knows.”
I do my best to concentrate and not let my mind wander. There’s no need for Dad or Sulaymaan to correct me, and when I’m done, I step back so Dad can lead. Mom gives me a thumbs-up, and Sulaymaan can’t say anything.
Tucked into my bed later, I think, That’s the second fast done—one-fifteenth of the month over.
The third night I think, That’s one-tenth, and after the fifth day, all of a sudden, it’s one-sixth.
On the seventh night, me and Sulaymaan are on the porch drinking mango juice, watching the moon rise long after the sun has set. It’s half full.
“Okay, smarty-pants, why do we use the moon to tell time?” I ask him. “Why can’t we just use the regular calendar so Ramadan is always at
the same time of year?”
Sulaymaan says, “All ancient societies used the moon to tell time. The Native Americans, the Chinese, the Jews, the Hindus, and lots of others.”
“So, the month is a quarter done?”
“Yup.”
“It’s so pretty.”
“Yup.”
Just then a breeze springs up and flutters my hair. Along with the taste of mango juice, it feels perfect.
On the weekend, we go to the masjid for Iftaar and Taraweeh. Mom turns to me. “Don’t let anyone distract you. Remember what you’re here for!”
“Yes, Mom.” She never tells Sulaymaan that.
The hall is packed with a lot of Muslims who only come during Ramadan. I know people who don’t follow most of the stuff, but when it comes to Ramadan, they go all in. There’s something about fasting as a community.
The rows are awfully close together, and when the prayer begins, I end up squished between Sulaymaan and a man with a bushy mustache and big belly.
Even though the imam who’s reciting has a beautiful voice, it’s hard to concentrate because the man beside me keeps quietly burping. After a day of rest, his stomach is going gurgle, gurgle, gurgle.
The imam says, “Allahu Akbar.” And we have to go down on the floor for sujood.
BONK!
With the rows so close together, I guess a head-to-butt collision was inevitable. My head, the guy in front of me’s butt.
I must not laugh! I must not! But when Sulaymaan starts giggling, I do too. We’ve ruined our prayer.
We both break it and start again. We’ll have to make up the ruined rakats.
By the ninth day of Ramadan, I’m kind of tired. As soon as I come home, I drop my backpack on the floor in the hall, and before I can stop myself, I say, “I miss eating during the day.”
Mom rushes over. “You feeling all right?”
“Yeah! Just tired.”
“Don’t fast tomorrow. Take a break. You’re still young.”
So I do, but then there’s all the questions at school—“Why are you eating?” “Did you forget?”—and the looks from the other Muslim boys who are still fasting make me feel guilty.
Before I know it, the day is done, and the feeling of watching Mom and Dad and Sulaymaan at the dinner table choosing their dates and insisting that I have one too, even though I didn’t fast, feels so awkward.