“Really, Salma?”
“This dress is ridiculously long. No one will see.” Then I smiled sweetly. “It’ll bring me joy.”
She laughed. “Touché. Now hurry up.”
My family attends the local mosque only a few times a year: for janaza—the funeral service—when someone dies, the two Eids, and a night or two during Ramadan. It was the grand fundraiser and fancy weekend iftar that had us all piled into the minivan and overdressed. When it comes to how my family practices Islam, both of my parents are highly opinionated. Dad is outwardly secular, but as Titi’s original joy-maker, he doesn’t mind going to the mosque a few times a year. It makes her happy. It’s “heritage.” Mom is outwardly more observant, but inwardly critical. She’s got major qualms with the board of our local mosque. “It’s all male and physician dominated,” she regularly complains. But she still felt bad for not attending regularly, so going on a night like tonight—holy and charity-oriented—was like double the karmic value.
The funny thing: Mom was born a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant. She grew up not far from where we live now. Her life changed in 1993, the year she received a postdoctoral research grant to study Islamic literature in Tangier. (In her heart she’d dreamed of studying in Tehran—both cities are notorious for producing brilliant authors and poets—but as an American she couldn’t if she’d tried unless she was a spy.) Her love of the Transcendentalists, particularly Ralph Waldo Emerson and his poem “Saadi,” attracted her to Sufi poetry; her determination to educate herself in a Muslim country brought her to Morocco instead of Iran. By year’s end, she’d met my father. She fell in love with him as she fell in love with Islam. Ever since, she’s been a proud WASM: a white Anglo-Saxon Muslim.
Of course, she claims she’s always been one, her entire life. It just took one step toward Allah for Allah to take two steps toward her.
* * *
—
Amir was waiting for us in the parking lot. He was standing in one of the last empty spots, saving it for my family. Parking is tight on holidays, even though our nice neighbors at All Souls Church share their lot with us. They’re Unitarians. (I’m still not sure what that means, but I know they’re very welcoming.) They have amazing signs all over their lawn. I’ve always loved the quotes they display. LOVE RADICALLY. WONDER DAILY.
Amir wore a long tunic, a matching kufi, and pressed khakis. He was a gorgeous slender reed.
Me, I was a carrot in a takchita and Doc Martens. I didn’t care, though. I burst out of the door and ran to him. His parents were already inside.
“Ramadan Mubarak, beautiful,” he said.
I should have expected he’d add a little compliment to lift my mood.
“Ramadan Kareem,” I murmured back.
“Ramadan Mubarak,” or “Blessed Ramadan,” was the standard greeting. But I love the word kareem, for “generous.” It rolls off the tongue like a poem. Anyway, it perfectly embodies Amir. I wanted to hug him, but knew better; I didn’t want the “aunties”—the older women in the community—to take notice. Funny: he still blushed and glanced around, even a couple of feet apart. Mariam always teased me, “Man, that brother is shy!” And she was right; Amir doesn’t like being in the spotlight in public. On the other hand, nobody engages in PDA at the mosque—not even parents.
“How are you holding up?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Okay. But I miss you.”
“I miss you, too.”
He reached out and touched my arm, then quickly folded his hands behind his back. “Well, you know what Mariam told me? There’s no point in missing two people when one of them is still here. I’m guessing she fed you that same BS, too?”
I could feel a smile spreading across my face as I stared back into those date-brown eyes. “Yeah. And…thank you for—you know—giving me space. I’m better. Ready to exit the scones cave.”
Amir pretended to frown. “She didn’t tell you to give up scones, did she?”
Before I could respond, Yasmin leapt between us. Amir scooped her up without even blinking, and after a twirl, he set her down lightly on her feet. Even in my crap mood I had to admit that my little sister’s hopeless crush on my boyfriend was cute, in its adoring and completely unselfconscious way. More cute was the brotherly way he handled an annoying ten-year-old.
“So?” she said. “Can you help? With my project? For Mr. Peck?”
He shot me a quick smirk. “Your Peck project?”
“Yes? Best All-Time American?” Her voice seemed to suggest a silent Duh.
Naturally, Yasmin never had any doubts that Amir would recall every moment of her fourth-grade schedule.
“For history class,” I grumbled. “Her presentation. She’s enlisting extra help. Yours, specifically.”
“We-e-ll,” said Amir in a slow, drawn-out voice. His eyes flashed again to mine, desperate for any cue to help jog his memory.
Muhammad Ali, I mouthed to him.
His face brightened. “Yes! You want me to look at your poster, right?”
Yasmin frowned. “No. I want you to record some music. You know, as a soundtrack for my presentation. We talked about this.”
I had to laugh. The truth was that I’d also been on Amir to record some music. And to perform live. To share his talent in general. Yes, I know he’s pathologically shy. But I also know it “brings him joy.” If it took my sister’s fourth-grade school project to get him to play in front of other people besides me, then so be it.
I folded my arms across my chest and arched an eyebrow. You better do what my sister wants, I told him with my stare.
“It’s already done,” he said.
“Seriously?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“Awesome!” Yasmin cried, oblivious to my doubts. “Remember: the song is due in two weeks.” With that, she fluttered off to join our little sister Hala to stand in line and plate up. Yasmin just turned ten, and this was the first year she had tried fasting for an entire day. Weekends only, but still. She was proud and equally famished. Hala, close in age, who likewise refuses to ever be outshined or left alone, was also “fasting.” Or had been since snack time.
“Wow,” he said. “That girl is all business.”
“Runs in the family,” I replied dryly. “I’m assuming you were lying. How long does it take you to write a song, anyway?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “About as long as it would take you to hack into the Franklin computer system—to make sure Yasmin will get an A-plus, song or no song.”