As I opened my mouth to tell her no thanks, Amir cut in.
“I’m good,” he said, placing his hand over his heart, “but I bet Salma would love some. Lemonade is her favorite. Thanks, Kate.”
I shot him a quick glare. Yes, lemonade was a favorite. And even though Amir was fasting and was used to others—ahem, me—not fasting, he didn’t need to go out of his way to show that or extend our stay. Hello, Amir? In and out: that was our plan. But he didn’t notice my glare. His eyes were on the TV as he made his way over to the farthest section of the couch, leaving me no choice but to follow. I slumped beside him. I knew he was doing this for my mother, but he could also watch the game at our house.
“You know, I have a good buddy named Amir,” Mr. Turner said, settling back into his chair. He flashed us a rueful grin. “He lives about nine thousand miles away, though. Where is your family from, originally?”
Amir shrugged. “Um…different places?” I knew he wouldn’t say more than that.
Mr. Turner’s eyes shifted to me. They were hazel, bright. They softened him. Still, his question made me bristle. Of course a brown boy, a Muslim, wouldn’t be local. But maybe I was overanalyzing. After all, his wife had just invited us inside her home. And if I wanted to wrap up this visit, I should at least try to match his neighborly warmth.
“We were both born and raised right here in Arlington,” I said, mustering a smile.
Mr. Turner tilted his head, as if to say Go on. Like there was more to the story.
“My mom’s side of the family is all from Tennessee,” I added. “Nashville. My dad’s…North African.” I almost cringed. I was about to say Berber, but Dad would never identify himself as such; Berbers rarely do. Besides, this was not the time to get into ancestry and postcolonial North African politics, or about how Berbers are still fighting to be heard, to be Amazigh—meaning “free.” The seconds ticked by in clumsy silence.
“Now, that’s what I’m talking about!” Kyle Jr. loudly exclaimed.
I shot a puzzled look in his direction. Oh, right. The game.
“Thank you for coming by with these gifts,” Mrs. Turner said. Sharp lady: she knew it was time to wrap up this supremely awkward meet-and-greet. But then she pulled back the aluminum foil from Mom’s tray. Her smile faltered but just as quickly returned. “Wow, these look delicious!” Ugh. She was lying, of course. Not only had Mom gifted them all the good stuff, dessert leftover from last night’s iftar fundraiser (Titi’s finest ma’moul, sesame cookies, and date bonbons), I figured I would have to explain each dish.
Amir suddenly tensed up beside me. His eyes widened, riveted by something on TV.
An alert streamed across the bottom of the screen, hashtag #DCterror. The game switched abruptly to a newsroom. My heart began to pound, drowning out the grave voice of the normally goofy local news anchor. But I got the gist—an explosion near the National Cathedral; another on Massachusetts Avenue near the synagogue on Macomb Street; no casualties reported. The screen flashed to an image of a flaming dumpster, accompanied by the bolded words: LIVE BREAKING NEWS—AUTHORITIES CONFIRM TWO EXPLOSIONS IN WASHINGTON, DC. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. With news flashes like these, there is a collective holding-of-breath for every Muslim. Dear God, let it not be a Muslim. Please. And a prayer: Audhubillah. May God protect us all.
With a sigh, Mrs. Turner fell into the rocking chair, shaking her head. “God help us.”
Her words echoed my own. I opened my eyes and offered a smile of gratitude, which she returned. I felt a knot growing in my stomach. Time to go. I took a deep breath and stood. “I’m really sorry, but we should be—”
“Of course,” Mrs. Turner interrupted, but her voice was soft. She stood as well. “Thank you so much again for the gift. Can I walk you home? I can give you the lemonade to go—”
“Oh, no, thank you,” Amir interrupted politely. “That’s very kind.” Before I knew it, he was up on his feet, too, already halfway to the door.
“We live right across the street,” I explained. My eyes flashed to Mr. Turner and his son. Both were staring at the TV, shaking their heads, their faces stony. “It was nice to meet you all.” I turned and hurried after Amir.
“It was nice to meet you, too,” Mrs. Turner called after us. “Despite the circumstances.”
* * *
—
Amir and I didn’t exchange a word on the short walk back to my house. There was no need. I knew what he was thinking, and I’m sure he knew what I was thinking, too. Another echo of what Mrs. Turner said, what everyone says. May God protect us all.
He paused at my doorstep. “I…um, I should practice. With Yasmin’s project coming up…” He stopped. A strand of wavy brown hair fell in front of his face. He brushed it aside, and looked right at me. “Doesn’t it feel weird? Talking like this, like—”
“Nothing happened?” I said, completing his thought. “Yeah. It is. But what else are we supposed to do? Watch the news?” I reached out and took his hand. “Bite our nails?”
I was needling him, and he knew it.
“Funny,” he said dryly. “I’ve switched to the clippers.” Nail-biting is Amir’s only bad habit. Which I’ve pointed out many times. Of course, being the mellow guy he is, he just counters with how it’s the only thing he does that gets on my nerves, whereas nothing I do gets on his nerves. (Liar, although I can’t prove it.) He also claims it serves him well. This is because Mr. Epstein, our music teacher—who “shreds” on guitar (Amir’s word)—actually inspects Amir’s nails on his left hand, to make sure they’re short enough. Apparently this has something to do with crisper tone and faster fretwork.
“Is Sheikh Epstein cracking the whip?” I teased lightly.
Amir shrugged. His smile faded. I reached out and squeezed his hand. “Kidding. Go practice. Wage some beauty. It’s exactly what the world needs right now.”
He squeezed my hands back tightly. Normally he might try to pull me close and sneak a hug, perhaps even nuzzle my ear, but Amir was fasting and Titi had eyes of a hawk. He leaned in, just a little. “Be good to yourself the rest of the day, okay?”
* * *
—
I couldn’t sleep. And after I learned that there’d been a third explosion, near a DC post office, not even being online would offer comfort. I trudged upstairs to warm some milk.
The kitchen light was on.
Mom was at the table, staring blearily at her laptop. “I’m so sorry, love,” she said.