“Right,” Zar said, making no effort to hide how unlikely he thought that was.
Then, to change the subject more than anything else, I demanded to know when he’d get up the nerve to ask Natari Smith out.
Zar was between girlfriends, and he was always a little depressed when that happened. It didn’t help that his latest crush was someone he thought was out of his league. It also didn’t help—though he’d never admit it—that his parents had recently separated, and he was living with his father, who was always out of town on one business trip or another. Zar wasn’t very good at being alone.
Anyway, I let Zar go on about how wonderful Natari was. I’d heard it all before, more than once, but he needed to repeat himself. I got it. I was the same way when it came to Kaval, and Intezar was the only one I could talk to about her. He never interrupted me when I got started either. Good friends, after all, care enough to pretend to listen.
Algie Tippett had a small plaster bust of Winston Churchill on the podium from which he delivered his lectures. It was his habit to place a hand on the bust’s bald head before he started teaching. His voice was thin and reedy, and he spoke slowly, like a stoned turtle.
He’d been working at Aligheri Preparatory Academy for an eternity—like forty years or something—and his lectures felt like they’d gotten old with him. There were people who thought he was a great teacher, but as far as I could tell, all he did was deliver long speeches from memory in a really bored voice.
It wasn’t long before I found myself thinking about Kaval, not as she looked today, but as she had looked two days ago, when I’d dropped by to visit Sohrab, and she’d opened the door a little out of breath. She’d been wearing a tank top and leggings and had obviously been working out, because her ponytail had been messy, the hair around her ears damp, and her skin flushed. Her brown eyes had seemed even brighter than usual.
I let out a sigh. She was so beautiful. Like a perfect molten chocolate lava cake.
Then I realized that everything had gone quiet. Tippett had stopped reciting his speech. I glanced up at the clock. Class wasn’t over yet.
“Mr. Jilani?”
Had Tippett asked me a question?
He must have. Shit. What had he even been talking about?
“You seem awfully preoccupied. What has so completely captured your attention?”
I should’ve made something up. Instead, for some reason, I told him the truth.
“A girl.”
Laughter from the class. Not from Mr. Tippett, though.
“Danyal,” he said, “on your feet, please.”
I managed not to roll my eyes as I stood up.
“Can you tell me,” Tippett asked, “what we were discussing?”
I couldn’t. He knew that. Why did he have to be a jerk about it? I heard snickering from some of the other students.
I folded my arms across my chest. Fine. I could be a dick too.
“History,” I said.
The class laughed again.
Tippett’s lips narrowed into a thin line. “Indeed.” He ran a hand that trembled a little over his heavily wrinkled face. “Your history, in fact.”
I glanced around. A couple of people mouthed the answer, but I couldn’t figure out what they were trying to tell me. “What do you mean?”
“The history of your country, Mr. Jilani. You were born in India, correct?”
“San Diego, actually.”
Tippett sighed. “Yes, but your parents were born in India, were they not?”
I shook my head. “Pakistan.”
“Those are very nearly the same thing,” Tippett said, “historically speaking, of course. Regardless, our subject was the great Sir Winston Churchill. As you are aware, Churchill was posted in India when he grew into the kind of man he was going to be.”
I was aware of no such thing, but I nodded anyway. I just wanted to sit down.
“What else can you tell me about Churchill, Mr. Jilani?”
What. Was. His. Problem?
Churchill. Churchill. What did I know about Churchill? British dude from a while back. Face like a bulldog. Body of a manatee. That probably wasn’t the kind of information Tippett was looking for.
“Uh...he was...well, you know, he was—”
A familiar and welcome trilling bell sounded. Freedom. I glanced up at the heavens—well, the ceiling anyway— and thanked God for the assist.
“We’ll pick this up next time,” Tippett promised, before finally looking away from me.
Principal Weinberg’s office was surrounded by something like a hundred and fifty kids. It was as if half the school was standing around, waiting to see if the list of Renaissance Man contestants would be updated today. This was something of a January tradition at Aligheri Prep, this feeding of the sheeple at the end of every school day, just as you were trying to get home. It would go on until the last participant was announced.
I wondered sometimes if the principal hated Tippett a little for dragging this nonsense out every year by refusing to announce his pick till the last minute.
I shouldered my way through the crowd. Zar was waiting by the heavy, bright mustard double doors that led out to the parking lot. “History was brutal,” he said. “You okay?”
“Fine.” I marched out into the cool afternoon, heading straight for my rickety tan 1997 Honda Odyssey. That’s right. I drove an ancient minivan. It didn’t look like much, but it was functional. I told myself that every day.
I’d bought it for two reasons. First, Intezar and I had been planning to start a band, because I can play the guitar and he’d said he could play the drums. I’d figured it’d be a good way to haul instruments and equipment to gigs. Second, a van would be a convenient place to sleep with all the hot girls who loved my band’s music.
A year later, I had to assume that my lack of a band was the reason I was still a virgin, and that was entirely Zar’s fault. He’d grossly overstated his musical abilities.
Well, there was the whole Muslim thing too. We’re the last Keepers of Virtue in this world, the sworn Guardians of the Hymen. I’d discussed this with Intezar in some detail—a previous girlfriend had relieved him of his virginity a while ago—and he’d argued that clinging to old-world views about sexuality was not a wise long- term plan. He said that Muslims were setting themselves up for disaster, because after the zombie apocalypse, when we reverted back to a savage society and human sacrifices resumed, how would people identify virgins? That’s right. They’d look for the hijabis.
“You’re sure?” Zar asked as I let myself into the van and leaned over to unlock the passenger-side door. “You don’t seem fine. You seem pissed.”
“Well...I really am fine.” I smiled at him, as if being humiliated in front of Kaval and everyone else hadn’t bothered me at all. “But this probably hurts my chance of being Tippett’s pick for Renaissance Man.”
Intezar laughed, a little harder than necessary, and buckled in. “I heard some people talking, and they’re just going to ask him who he’s nominating.”
“Whatever. I don’t want to talk about Algie.”
Zar held up his hands in surrender. “Sure, dude. Let’s go fry some Sectoids.”