Maybe that’s why Mom didn’t get the smiley daughter she’d always wanted. Because I’m Janna.
Whenever my uncle sees Nuah, his face lights up and he slaps him on the back, and while talking to him, he does that nonstop smiling nod that I’m pretty sure Amu isn’t even aware that he does. Whenever I see Amu like that, I get all glowy, because I know Nuah’s already mine. So it’s like someone is admiring something that belongs to me.
The way I’m laying it out, it’s like he’s perfect. Nuah. But he does have his faults.
Like sometimes he can laugh at something you said so much and so long that you wonder if he’s laughing at you, too. Like his smile is ever present, so it’s hard to know where the default ends and the appreciation begins. Like I’ve taken a while, a couple-of-years while, to get back to him about his feelings for me because, truthfully, sometimes my gut will whisper, How for real is his thing for you, Janna?
And sometimes it will also say things like, He’s on and off in talking to you, Janna.
And, girl, doesn’t he always keep it light and fluffy when he does talk to you?
How for real is his thing for you again, Janna Ibtissam Yusuf?
I push delete on the comments from my mean gut and fill the space with evidence. Such as his I-stand-by-you texts exactly when I needed them.
And the truth that he’s never treated any other girl at the mosque the way he’s treated me.
Special.
* * *
Everyone’s outside on the patio, and I freeze the image like it’s a photo.
Muhammad and Sarah are sitting across from each other at the long table with bench seating, a plate of burgers in front of them. Dad and Linda are still at the barbecue, now grilling corn. Haytham is kneeling in the grass, bending over the bubble machine like he’s fixing it, with Luke, Logan, and Dawud peering at his tinkering.
And then there’s Nuah. He’s by the condiments, dressing his burger.
He’s still his lanky self in a white T-shirt and gray shorts that look like they’re cut-off track pants. He’s grown out his Afro above his medium-size forehead. (A forehead that I’ve accepted with dedicated resilience because it goes hand in hand with an awesome personality.)
I even glimpse the wooden tasbih necklace he always wears, its threaded ends disappearing into his T-shirt.
When he smiles a secret smile at his burger for some reason, a smile that ends in a dimple on the right side of his face, I feel that blue-sky feeling again—but this time it’s intensified by a thousand.
I’m about to slide the patio doors open when I hear steps. Behind me.
I turn.
“Hey, assalamu alaikum! Janna! Long time no see!” I’m surprised to see Khadija, Nuah’s older sister.
I move in for a side-hug, relieved she takes it, instead of doing the whole big-bear-hug thing most people at the mosque are into.
I haven’t seen Nuah’s sister in a while as she lives in Missouri now, but I like her a lot.
Before I became old enough to join it, she used to run the teen study circle at the mosque. Whenever she found me and my friends hiding in the bathroom, “taking breaks” from our Sunday school classes, she’d tsk, shake her head, and laugh to herself, but never, ever tell on us. Then she got married and moved away from Eastspring.
She’s like a taller, girl version of Nuah. Well, except for the pink scarf she’s wearing.
And the huge baby bump she’s sporting.
Seeing my eyes land on it, Khadija rubs her belly. “Due in a week.”
“Really?”
“Yup. That’s why I came up from St. Louis. Mom wanted me to have the baby with her, at home in Eastspring.” She continues rubbing it, and we watch the scene outside quietly for a bit. “The only way she was okay with me coming up here for the wedding was that I had to promise her I wouldn’t have the baby in… what’s this place called again?”
“Mystic Lake.”
“Well, that’s a pretty name. So maybe I wouldn’t mind Maysarah being born in Mystic Lake, actually. Maysarah of Mystic Lake.” She laughs, and I get that warm feeling again of being a little girl giggling in the mosque bathroom, of being accepted with no expectations.
Linda slides the door open. “Corn’s ready now.”
I let Khadija lead the way and put my hand in the pocket of my hoodie, my fingers finding the gummy bear package.
Nuah’s sitting beside Muhammad now, his back to me and Khadija.
When Sarah waves at us, he turns around, and I do the only thing that feels right at the moment: I immediately hold out the gummy bears, my eyes darting between them and Nuah’s face.
He smiles and takes it. “Hey, assalamu alaikum, JY,” he says, turning the package over in his hand. “Ah, the best ones. Haribo halal.”
He hands them back to me.
“They’re for you,” I say.
“Me? Aw, thanks.” He nods and smiles again.
Muhammad laughs. “What is it with you guys and gummy bears? Didn’t you bring some for her last time, Nuah? At Christmas break?”
“They were for both you guys.” Nuah turns back to his burger. “My roommate’s Turkish, and he brought tons of halal ones from Turkey. And I unloaded some on you guys.”
“Naw, there’s something between you two kids. Admit it.” Muhammad looks at me.
I head to the barbecue to get corn, to get away from Muhammad making things more awkward than they already are.
More than I already made them by just wordlessly handing Nuah gummy bears.
When I bring back my plate of corn, Nuah’s ripped open the bag of gummies, and it’s now being shared by Sarah, Khadija, and Muhammad.
I take a seat beside Sarah, which puts me right across from Nuah. And then of course, me being me, I move over so I’m directly opposite Khadija, who’s beside him, instead.
Muhammad doesn’t miss this. “Why’d you move over? Now you can’t do the gummy bear thing with your pal Nuah. Actually, NA to you, JY.”
He picks up a red gummy and a yellow gummy and does a fake conversation between them, asking each other, NA and JY, how many gummy bear packages they’ve exchanged.
I ignore him with nuclear-powered strength, concentrating on nibbling my corn.
“Okay, cut it out, Muhammad. It’s not funny,” Sarah says.
“Wrong move. Surprised you haven’t learned this, and you’re marrying him in two days,” Nuah laughs, and picks up a colorless gummy bear. “You tell him to stop it and that at least doubles his buffoonery. And yeah, Muhammad, this would be… um, I don’t know, the tenth pack of gummies we’re trading?”
He nods at me and hands me the colorless bear. “Your favorite, pineapple.”
I take it with a smile and set it down on the edge of my plate. That simple move of his just made this whole thing better—me not saying hello, salaam, how are you, how was the drive, what’s happening at school, et cetera, et cetera.
Me just gummy-bearing him has been erased by him handing me my favorite flavor.
I stare at my pineapple bear and almost tear up thinking of how much Nuah gets me. And lets me be my awkward self.
And still likes me.
“When did you get back to Eastspring?” I ask, picking a corn niblet up from my plate.