“I bet they don’t have anything like this in Italy, right?” Mom shouts.
“No, only gondolas and things,” I reply.
“Did Zoe reply to your messages?”
I don’t say anything. No need to tell her I haven’t messaged my friend yet. What’s the point? She’s probably lost in the beauty of European fashion and culture.
In what seems like hours, we reach the mall. It’s a posh-looking building, rising up to three stories high, with all sorts of designer store signs hanging from the windows. Levi’s. Nike. H&M. My mouth must have been open, because Mom whispers, “Stop looking so shocked,” and pulls me in. The rickshaw roars away in a movement that probably broke the sound barrier, and I shudder to think how we’re going to get back home.
But first, there’s lots of shopping. I’m happy to have Mom all to myself after the activity of the last few days. Nana’s house seems full of people all the time, and I miss it being just the two of us. Besides, I haven’t seen Mom this carefree in a long time, smiling at shopkeepers, letting me try on different outfits, actually spending money without a worried look on her face. “Are you sure we can afford this?” I whisper when she buys my fourth shalwar kameez, a white frothy cotton outfit with multicolored lace on the hem.
She nods. “The exchange rate is ridiculously good,” which doesn’t explain a thing to me except that we’re shopping in a way we haven’t ever before in Houston.
We roam the mall like giddy teenagers, holding bags on our arms. We pass by an American clothing store, and I remember our deal. “T-shirts!” I shout, and drag her inside.
“Come on. You don’t really want to buy another stupid T-shirt, do you?” she says, pouting.
“Yes, I really do.” There’s a rack of T-shirts in the back, but most of them have logos of big brands. I find the salesperson. “Do you have any T-shirts with funny sayings?”
She nods and smiles, then disappears in the back for a minute. When she returns, she’s holding a big box full of clothes. “Most people don’t want funny slogans messing up their clothes,” she explains.
“Exactly!” Mom says. I frown at her and rifle through the box while she checks her phone for messages. It’s very disappointing. There are several Garfield shirts, and a few with Urdu cartoons on them.
“You were right,” I finally tell Mom. “No sense of humor.”
She smiles a satisfied little smile. “I’m always right. Now let’s get some food!”
The mall food court is on the third floor. We order KFC and wait at a table. Mom keeps looking at her watch. “Are you waiting for someone?” I joke.
It’s not funny, though, because just then a man strides right up to us and smiles at Mom as if he’s known her forever. “Samia! Sorry I’m late.” His English is smooth and accentless, not like most people who seem to be working hard at pronouncing the words.
My mouth is open this time for real. Who is this person? He’s medium height, with strands of gray in his hair just like Mom. His blue jeans are gleaming clean, and his black-and-white-checkered long-sleeved shirt is crisp despite the heat outside. He drags out a chair and sits down without asking. “So how have you been?”
Mom’s face is . . . radiant. “Alhamdolillah,” she simpers, then turns to me. “This is my daughter, Maryam. We call her Mimi. And darling, this is Sohail. We used to be friends in college.”
“Before you abandoned me and left for America, you mean!” Sohail laughs.
I close my mouth and scowl ferociously at him. Who is he to joke and laugh at my mom, and call her by her first name as if he’s someone special? Mom is supposed to be sad and worried, pining away for Dad, not laughing with a strange man who she apparently arranged to meet here. The scowl is useless. They’re turned to each other, chattering in an effortless mixture of Urdu and English about their college days. What fun they used to have. How interesting life was before kids and marriage and graying hair.
Ugh. I want to throw up.
“So what class are you in, Mimi?” Sohail asks, turning his million-dollar smile in my direction. “Or, grade, as they say in America.”
I debate ignoring him. Or better yet, saying something very sarcastic. Mom gives me a stern look. “Going into sixth,” I mumble.
“Oh, middle school,” he replies as if it’s the best thing in the world. “What are your favorite subjects?”
I can’t believe he’s trying to get to know me, or at least pretending in order to please Mom. “I don’t know,” I say, and rummage through my shopping bags as if I urgently need to find something. He nods like he perfectly understands the predicament of choosing a favorite subject in middle school, and turns back to Mom. They’re sitting so close it’s nauseating.
Our food arrives, but I hardly touch it. I can’t wait to go back to Nana’s house, even if it means riding in that noisy rickshaw one more time. But of course, the universe is not on my side. After we’re finished eating, Sohail offers to take us back home in his car, and Mom says yes immediately.
Double ugh. I make another attempt to ditch this guy. “But I loved riding on that rickshaw!” I grumble.
Mom turns and frowns at me. “Really? You looked like you were going to puke.”
Sohail reaches for our bags and hefts them all up with ease. “My car is much less noisy, I promise,” he says. “This way, my ladies.”
Triple ugh.
14
Sakina
Tell Me a Secret
The kitchen is bustling with activity, the fragrance of sizzling tikka boti permeating the air. Abba has a technique of grilling that involves placing a hot coal into a pot of meat when it’s almost cooked, and I’m eager to see how he does it. The taste of the grill without the hassle, he’s told me many times.
The boneless chicken is cut into neat squares, and marinated overnight with tikka spices, yogurt, olive oil, and ginger-garlic paste. It’s been simmering on a bed of onions and tomatoes for an hour now, and I’m guessing it must be soft enough to melt in my mouth, if I was allowed to eat the same food as the owners of the house. Now, Abba heats some coals on the stove and gently adds them to the pot, taking care not to disturb the beauty of the chicken inside.
We—Tahira and I—lean forward to look. “Stand back and give me space,” Abba tells us.
“Smells delicious,” I murmur, saliva pooling in my mouth.
“Aaaargh!” I hear a scream and freeze.
Tahira jumps. “Who is that?” she whispers, afraid.
I scoff. “Sounds like Mimi. I’ll go check.”
Upstairs in her bedroom, Mimi stands on top of the bed, a look of horror on her face. “Sakina, be careful, there’s a snake in here!”
I look around. Her clothes are lying on the floor in an untidy heap. The top of the wardrobe is scattered with all sorts of things: scrunchies, lotions, small stuffed animals attached to keychains, and a cap with a rainbow on it. “That’s impossible. How would a snake get in here?”
She’s practically crying. “I saw it, I’m telling you. It was this long.” She holds up her hands about three inches apart in front of her face. “It wiggled and slid all the way under those clothes.”