Mad, Bad & Dangerous to Know

by Samira Ahmed

  Alexandre appeared, a potential real-life deus ex machina—the key to my revenge on Celenia Mondego and to turning around my failure. Then he became a gorgeous distraction from Zaid. An Instagram jealousy magnet. And then more. But what, exactly?

  My phone buzzes. It’s Alexandre again: Mes yeux ne brillent que pour toi. My eyes only shine for you. Ugh. The beauty of the French language makes it hard to stay mad sometimes. I get a messy breakup, but seeing him with her, right there in front of my eyes . . . flowery words can’t erase that image or take the hurt away. I slip my phone back in my pocket without responding.

  For now, my best option is to eat my weight in macarons, but I can’t even do that, because my brain is elsewhere, and I’ve forgotten my wallet at home.

  By the time I get back to our building, I’m desperate for macarons. But somehow, as I trudge up the winding stairs, my resolve not to text Alexandre softens, like I’ve stomped out my anger and want to give him a second chance. Don’t we all deserve one? After all, I haven’t been totally honest, either. As far as he knows, my life in Chicago begins and ends with a failed essay, and if I’m mad at him for what he hid, I guess I need to tell him the truth, or else I’m a hypocrite. As I approach our landing, I reach into my bag to grab my phone—I stop short. I let out a little gasp.

  What the—

  Zaid is sitting cross-legged in front of our door. He’s so engrossed in his phone he doesn’t even notice me. His army-green backpack leans against the wall. Those caramel bangs conceal his face as he looks down at his screen. I panic, half-thinking I should run back down the stairs before he sees me—but too late. He glances up, and a huge smile takes over his face. He yanks out his earbuds and stands, holding out a crumpled, oil-spotted brown paper bag.

  He smirks. “I got Ice Capades.” Then he shifts his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other and adds, “Actually, they’re garbage cookies. Your favorite, right?”

  I freeze. Glued in place. Staring at him staring at me. Each of us in anticipation that one of us will say something else. All my words are lost. I take the last couple steps so we’re both on the landing, face-to-face. I remind myself to breathe. In and out. He lowers the bag of cookies to his side and takes a step forward, closing the distance between us. He kisses me on the cheek. I don’t move. I can’t move.

  For a second it feels like he might lean in to kiss me on the lips. I have to admit, I almost lean in, too. It feels natural to kiss him, like it’s muscle memory. An echo of home. But I don’t let myself fall into that old habit.

  Zaid steps back, and we smile sheepishly at each other, like seventh graders at a dance when a slow song comes on, and they’re not sure if the person they like likes them back.

  I shove my phone in my bag and fish out my keys. “How . . . how did you get here?” I sputter, breaking the silence.

  He grins. “On a plane.”

  “Here, on my doorstep.” I’m a little terse because I’m not in the mood for dad jokes. “How did you get in?”

  “I buzzed the building concierge. I told her I brought you les cookies d’amour from America. I think she found me charming.”

  I have to laugh at that. “Madame de Villefort. She’s ancient and probably thought you were an actual delivery guy.”

  I ignore that Zaid has now used the word love for the second time since I’ve been in Paris—a word that never crossed his lips in Chicago, at least in regard to me.

  “Can I come in? Or should we do this whole thing out here?”

  I’m not sure what thing he’s talking about exactly, but I unlock the door and step into the apartment, sweeping an arm toward the main room. “Voilà.”

  Zaid drops his bag in our small foyer, steps into the sunlit living room, takes a look around, and then collapses onto the couch. “It’s nice; I like it.” He’s already totally at ease. Odd that I don’t feel the same way right now, even though this is my actual French home.

  I step into the kitchen to grab us some water. I fill two glasses, letting my mind drift to Alexandre. I was going to text him, tell him my whole truth. And then part of that truth appeared on my doorstep. What the hell do I do now?

  I walk out of the kitchen. Zaid makes room for me on the couch. I hand him his glass and take a seat at the other end with mine. “Besides charming my concierge, how did you get to Paris? And aren’t you leaving for Reed in a couple weeks?”

  “My grandparents paid for it. They hadn’t gotten me a gift for graduation yet, so I asked for this.”

  Must be nice. I honestly can’t imagine asking anyone to pay for a little jaunt to Paris. Zaid clearly gets the message from my raised eyebrows and quickly adds, “I think they got it with miles . . .”

  “Well, then, you’re clearly not their little prince if they only bought you a ticket with miles.” I put down my glass and gently punch Zaid in the arm.

  “You’re the only one that calls me out on my privilege,” he says as he takes my hand. “I like it. Sometimes I need it.”

  Zaid knows how his privilege is different than mine. I’m a kid of academics who inherited an apartment in Paris that they never could have afforded. But he has über privilege. Finance money privilege. The kind of money that may not be able to pay for a brand-new building at the school, but definitely a classroom or wing. To be fair, Zaid’s parents are pretty good about not being showy, and their politics lean left—far left—and they donate to all the right causes. I mean, we live in Hyde Park—Obama’s old neighborhood. (The dry cleaner he used to frequent still proudly displays a sign declaring: dry cleaning home of the 44th president.) And if you’re an ostentatious, conservative prick, people call you out on it. Zaid’s family, they’re gauche caviar, as my dad says. In the American vernacular, limousine liberals.

  At first I pull my hand away. But his laughter and warm smiles tug at my heart, so I let him pull me closer. This banter, this space between us, it’s easy and comforting. It’s home. He puts an arm around my shoulders and draws me closer, closing the last inches between us. I lean into him.

  Zaid kisses me on top of my head. “I’m sorry. I’m an idiot.”

  “I know,” I say.

  Leila

  It’s not what they say it’s like. Death. There is no soft, beckoning light. Or feeling of peace. There is nothing but me screaming and every fiber of my body burning and ripping apart and a whooshing in my ears that is loud. So loud.

  And the water, everywhere, all at once. It does not rise up slowly from my feet and ankles, but swallows me whole as I sink below the surface. I force my eyes open so I can meet Death with courage, but in front of me is only water and this burlap shroud that will hold my body until I’m devoured by sea creatures, until my bones are worn smooth and eventually become grains of sand that wash to the shore. In the end, I’m not brave. I’m nothing but writhing and failed attempts to wiggle out of the ropes that bind my hands and feet. You cannot fly with stones resting on your wings.

  I pray, not for help, but forgiveness. Will my spirit ascend to jannah? Will Allah forgive me my trespasses? God knows there have been many.

  My throat closes, and my organs press outward against my body. Every part of me struggles to escape these earthly bindings. This sack, these ropes, these waves, this body.

  This fate.

  My mind—is it my mind?—shrieks, panics.

  This cannot be my last moment.

  In this life where I controlled nothing, where cruel circumstance fixed my fate, I will, at the last, take this moment for myself alone. I close my eyes and see my beloved’s face, feel his cheek against mine. Then a single image rises like a benediction. A rose against my lips. His rose. A damask rose–scented night that descends into darkness.

  Khayyam

  My sense of ease with Zaid fades, too quickly overtaken by nerves, so I rush us outside. I’m not worried that I’ll do something I shouldn’t but rather that I’ll say
something I’ll regret. I have so many questions, but I don’t think I’m ready for the answers. Even now with everything that’s happened, I know Zaid can talk his way out of anything, and I’m too easily swayed by his charm and my own sense of nostalgia and longing for any comfort that feels like home.

  I steer clear of the Latin Quarter, the entire Left Bank, in fact. That’s Alexandre’s side of the city. I might have resolved to text him, see him even, but not like this. I steer Zaid toward the Right Bank. And for now, I’m going to ignore that I live on an island in the river between the two halves of the city. My brain will explode from the symbolism if I think about it too much.

  Fresh air and sunshine are the best cures for Zaid’s jet lag and for my fear of too much truth before I’m ready. For now, I show him my favorite places, like Rue Montorgueil—a narrow and cobblestoned street bursting with life at all hours. Shops and cafés and their customers spill out onto the sidewalk, pushing pedestrians to walk on the road, making it nearly impassable by car and all the more pleasant. We quickly fall into step with old routines—comfortable side by side without unnecessary words. Maybe outside wasn’t an escape from awkward conversations about us. Because wherever we go, there we are.

  Zaid grabs my hand and pulls me toward a tiny floral shop, a riot of colorful blooms bursting out its doorway and into buckets on the sidewalk. He chooses a small bouquet of deep red flowers that look almost like roses. He hands the florist ten euro. She smiles and tucks the money into her pocketed green apron. “Renoncules,” she says, pointing to the flowers.

  Zaid looks up at me through his long bangs, flipping them to the side with one hand and handing me the ranunculus with the other. His deep brown eyes look tired, but still shine through the jet lag. I sink my nose into the flowers. They don’t have a particularly sweet scent, but they are quite stunning, and I’m quite stunned. I need a moment to recover from this swoon-worthy moment. This is basically epic-level romance for Zaid—the boy who had to be reminded to get me flowers for prom and then forgot them in his car.

  I turn back toward the street and the crowd of people, but Zaid draws me toward him, wrapping an arm around my waist. I forget the flowers and the people around us. At first, my mind hesitates, but my body pulls me into a kiss. This kiss tastes like home—and I surrender to the nostalgia, the memory of what Zaid and I once were to each other. I’m drawn to him like a moth to the flame in one of my mom’s beloved Urdu ghazals.

  A loud, long whistle yanks me away from Zaid.

  I turn my head and catch a glimpse of a scruffy guy with messy dirty-blond hair who slows down his scooter to yell, “Elle est bonne, ta meuf!” Zaid laughs and gives the guy a thumbs-up as he roars away. I smack down his arm.

  “Ow!” Zaid winces. “What did you do that for? That guy said you were pretty, right?”

  “Um, no. He said, ‘Your girlfriend is good.’ But that good means . . . well, it has implications.”

  Zaid looks down at the cobblestones, half-embarrassed, half-smirk.

  “Don’t be so pleased with yourself,” I say.

  “What? He’s basically saying I have good taste. Which, obviously, I do.”

  “Oh my God, Zaid. Have you ever considered that maybe everything isn’t actually about you?” As the words tumble out of my mouth, I realize this is something I’ve known all along. It’s so simple, so obvious, but maybe because I’m in a different country, because of the distance between us, I finally have some perspective.

  It’s Zaid’s world, and he wants the rest of us to live in it. The truth is, he’s never even lied about that—never pretended to be someone he’s not. He is who he is. He’s not going to change. More importantly, he doesn’t want to. And that kiss we shared? The one that took me back to that moment under the rumble of the Brown Line ‘L’? The feeling of home in his arms . . . well, maybe we’re both guilty of operating under the soft, filtered focus of nostalgia. But I can’t let sentimentality cloud my judgment. I’m not going to let myself be a paragraph buried in Zaid’s story—even if it is epic.

  I walk absentmindedly down the street. Zaid rushes to catch up and takes me by the elbow. “Hey, what happened? Was it that guy? I’m sor—”

  “I’m fine. My mind wandered for a minute,” I say.

  “I’ve heard my kisses can have that effect,” Zaid says, a twinkle in his eye.

  “Please. Get over yourself.” I shake my head. This is Zaid. This is the goofy, solipsistic guy I fell for, eyes wide open. “You do know it’s possible for the world to revolve around someone other than you?” I nudge him with my elbow. “I was actually thinking about the Delacroix. I discovered a new—”

  “You mean the painting from your Art Institute essay? Is that still bothering you? Here we are on this beautiful day in Paris, together, and you’re obsessing on a little academic mess-up? It’s not like it was for a grade.”

  I squeeze the stems of the flowers in my hand. “There was nothing little about it. Okay?” I can feel my anger rising, and I take a breath before I explode. “You of all people should know how important that contest was to me. How hard I worked. And I’m not wallowing in my failure, by the way. I’m fixing my own problems. I’ve discovered a new angle. It’s about this mysterious woman who might be a connection between Dumas and Delacroix. And I probably should’ve—”

  Zaid cuts me off. “Shoulda, coulda, woulda. I get it, Khayyam. You know I’m still pissed for missing out on being valedictorian. But I try not to live my life with regrets. Maybe you should do the same. Leave the past in the past. Don’t dwell on it. Live for the now. Carpe diem, baby.” He gives me a warm smile and puts his arms around my shoulders, like I’m the perfect prop for the Zaid show.

  I’m too stunned to speak. Zaid has a lot of skills. Recognizing irony isn’t one of them. We continue walking down the street, a beautiful bouquet in my hand, people passing us by probably thinking we’re what we look like, a young couple on a romantic stroll. But the face of things isn’t always what they are. Because right now, Zaid and I might be walking with hands clasped, but there’s a chasm a universe wide between us, and it’s filled with my rage. For myself. For Leila. For every woman who’s been told to stop acting crazy, to calm down. For every woman who had to step back from center stage because she was told the spotlight wasn’t for her.

  “You should check into your hotel,” I say. “Please don’t tell me your grandparents got you a room at Le Meurice.” We haven’t talked about his sleeping arrangements, but even if my parents are out of town, he knows he could never stay at our place. I’d never offer anyway, especially not now.

  A shadow of disappointment passes over Zaid’s eyes before he answers.

  “That’s cool. I can grab a nap before we get dinner. And for your information, I’m not staying at a fancy five-star hotel. I wanted to be close to you, so I got a room at a little hotel in the Marais—the Beauchamp. It’s a few blocks over that bridge . . . Pont Marie, I think.” He tucks his hands into his pockets. “I left my bag at your place, though.”

  We head home. My pace is brisk. I don’t speak. I don’t look at him. The air between us is heavy with confusion and all the words we’re not saying. I’ve been gripping the flowers so tightly, the tissue paper wrapped around the stems is crinkled and damp with sweat.

  After an excruciating silence, Zaid finally speaks, trying to fill the awkwardness with conversation, telling me what he wants to see and do in Paris in the next few days. He’s acting like the last hour never happened. Like we’ve rewound time, like it’s before our pseudo-goodbye and before him making cameos all over Instagram and before me trying to make him jealous with pictures of Alexandre. Before Alexandre, period.

  We’re halfway across Pont Marie when I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. He smiles and tries to touch my cheek, but I turn my head away. “Aren’t you going to say anything about the pictures?”

  “What pictures?” Confusion pass
es over his face.

  He can’t be this oblivious, can he? “The pictures on Instagram of you with every other girl at Lab sitting on your lap.”

  Zaid’s mouth hangs open for a second. “Are you serious? That was nothing. I mean, literally, nothing. Lucien had a party, and Rekha and I were hamming it up for stupid selfies.”

  “She wasn’t the only one.”

  “C’mon, babe. I don’t want to fight,” he says and tries to take my free hand. I pull it away and ball it into a fist at my side. I can feel my temperature rise like I’m a cartoon thermometer and the red mercury is about to burst out of the glass.

  I turn away and start running home. God, I’m such an idiot. Zaid runs after me, calling my name. He catches up with me across the street.

  “Khayyam, listen, I’m sorry. Okay? I didn’t know it would bother you. I mean, we weren’t . . . together anymore. And anyway, you were posting pictures with the gangly French guy.”

  I grit my teeth and start walking away, even angrier than before. I know that what Zaid said earlier is true. Maybe I should leave the past in the past and live in the now. I’m always reacting and never leading. It’s like all my choices have been taken away. In perpetuity.

  Zaid jogs to catch up with me. “Hang on. I have to get my backpack.”

  Begrudgingly I pause, and we continue the short walk to my apartment. My heart thuds in my ears, and I slap my soles against the pavement like a four-year-old having a tantrum. My thoughts are a mess of crossed lines and wrong connections and regrets—a loading wheel that keeps spinning. I’m not a tech genius, but even I know when you need to pull the plug and reboot.