“You’re not...I mean, you’ve had...you’ve done—”
“I’m not a virgin.”
“That’s what I meant.” When she didn’t say anything further, I said, “That’s like...whatever, you know. I don’t really understand why desis make such an issue out of it. They treat it like it’s the end of the world or something, but it isn’t a big—”
“There’s video,” Bisma told me, very quietly. “Is that apocalyptic enough for you?”
“You haven’t said anything in a really long time,” Bisma pointed out softly.
I pulled into a parking spot in front of a small coffee shop I liked. They made the best mocha, which was the only drink I ever ordered, because it was the brownest of all coffees.
“Danyal?”
“I’m not sure what to say.”
“That’s okay.” Her gaze was still fixed on her lap.
More silence.
“So...in this video, you’re—”
“Fucking.”
I knew she’d used that word to shock me. I could respect that.
“What are you waiting for?” Bisma asked. “Take me back.”
I shook my head, not at her suggestion, but at the situation she was describing. How was there video? That was insane. It was the kind of thing the reputation of a Pakistani girl would never, ever recover from.
Did anyone know? Did her parents? I had so many questions. I chose to ask one.
“So...you’re a porn star, then?”
Now Bisma did look up at me, eyes flashing with indignation. “What? No! How can you—holy shit, I’m not—”
I held up my hands. “It was a joke.”
“Was it?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“It didn’t sound like a joke.”
“I’m super dry.”
She scowled at me. “It was stupid. There was some stuff going on at home and I was really angry. I went to a party because my parents wouldn’t want me to and drank because they wouldn’t want me to and...Anyway, I decided to sleep with this guy and I didn’t realize he had a camera in his room. I guess he thought it’d be funny to record it or something. Then he posted it online. He called it ‘Muslim Girls Like Dick Too.’ ”
“What? Seriously? That’s...wow, that’s messed up.”
Bisma ran a hand through her hair. “Yeah. Well, then his friends showed their friends. By the time he agreed to take the video down, because I told him I’d go to the cops, it was too late. It was all over school, and then the mosque. Then my parents heard about it, and my father almost kicked me out. Anyway, we couldn’t live there anymore. We moved to California to make a fresh start.”
“And that’s why you’re in the bargain bin.”
“Yeah.” She sighed. “So now that you know, can we please go back? After we leave, you can tell your family all about how I’m a slut who slept with a white boy, and the whole world saw it. They’ll never mention me again.”
“You’re probably right.”
“I know I am,” she said, sounding very tired, and something she’d said came back to me.
I can’t get my mother to stop setting these meetings up.
“This has happened before,” I guessed. “You’ve had to tell this story before.”
“Every single time my parents introduce me to someone. I get my mom to ask the guy’s mom to send us out for coffee, and then I have this conversation with them. There’s no point in talking to someone who can’t handle what happened.”
“And you’ve had a lot of coffee?”
Bisma laughed and wiped roughly at her eyes. “It never gets that far. They hear my story, and they’re nice—I mean, you know, most of them—but they drive me back. I don’t blame them. This isn’t going to stay a secret. Someday, someone is going to find out, and his family will be the one with a tramp for a daughter-in-law. I’m over it. I’ve made peace with it.”
“Peace is good,” I said, just to have something to say.
“Sure. Yeah. It’s great.”
I didn’t really think much about what I would do next, which wasn’t all that unusual for me. I’d agreed to have coffee with her before she’d told me about her past. All I had to do was ask myself if learning her story had changed my opinion of her at all. If it hadn’t, there was no reason to change our plans.
“Can I ask you something?”
Bisma shrugged.
“Do you like nuts in your brownies?”
“What?”
“Some people like their brownies plain, you know, just pure chocolate batter. And that’s cool, but I think having nuts in there makes for a better experience.”
“Are the brownies a metaphor?” Bisma asked. “Because if so, that’s pretty racist.”
“Two things,” I said. “First, membership has its privileges, okay? Second, no, it isn’t a metaphor. This place has good brownies, but they make them with nuts. They put a little sea salt on top, which I think really...anyway.” I turned off the ignition. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”
She stared at the keys as I withdrew them from the car, then she stared at me, and then the entrance to the cafe. “This is a nice gesture, Danyal, but I don’t need your pity.”
“It isn’t pity. My mother told me to have coffee, so that’s what I’m going to do. You in?”
“So,” Mom demanded as soon as the Akrams left, “what did you think?”
“Who cares what he thinks?” my father asked. To a stranger, he would’ve seemed inordinately annoyed by my mother’s question. I knew, of course, that this was his default setting. I’m pretty sure Ahmed Jilani came into this world with a frown, and the odds are good he’ll be frowning when he leaves it. His autobiography would probably be called something like A Series of Continuous Disappointments. I’d have a feature role.
“Should I request your opinion, then?” Mom glared at him. “Are you going to marry her, or will he?”
Ahmed Jilani gave a grunt. He grunted like happy people smiled—that is to say, often. There were different types of grunts, and if you spent enough time with him you learned to tell them apart. This one, drawn out at the beginning, then abruptly cut short, was dismissive.
“He should be grateful anyone even considers giving him their daughter. He’s just a bloody part-time cook. Hasn’t even graduated high school yet. He might never manage it. Why would the Akram girl even consider marrying your son?”
“Acha, he’s my son only now?”
This argument happened every time my future came up. My father had strong opinions about what I was doing—or not doing—with my life, and he wasn’t shy about voicing them.
“Of course,” he said. “Wasn’t it the great-uncle on your mother’s side who had a restaurant? Danyal doesn’t get that nonsense from my side of the family, I’ll tell you that.”
My mother huffed and came back with her stock reply.
“On your side also there is art, okay? Wasn’t it your mom’s mom’s brother who was a poet?”