“And she’s really into nature. And planting trees. He was just getting to tell me about that when we parked in the driveway.” Khadija turns on the radio and flicks stations. “Is that enough intel?”
It’s Sarah’s turn to speak feebly now. “Yeah. That’s a lot, actually.”
I don’t say anything. I’m just looking at the outlines of trees in my headlights, scanning my brain for when I’ve spoken about my love of trees before to Nuah.
Because I do love trees. And I’d love to plant them one day.
So I must have mentioned it to him.
Chapter Eleven
At the hotel, after Sarah and Khadija check in and go up to their room, I follow the arrows pointing to the restaurant at the back of the lobby. When I reach the sandwich-board sign announcing the Glade, I’m hit with nostalgia for the apartment building I live in with Mom in Eastspring. Like the lobby there, it’s filled with a mix of towering fake plants at the entrance with the exact same cherrywood balustrade to keep them at bay.
When I get closer, I realize the plastic plants have paper flowers sprouting from them randomly. Some of the flowers are nice and almost origami-like, but others look like they were made by kids at school.
I seriously don’t get the Orchard’s vibe—it’s like someone’s eccentric aunt decided to open a hotel and assigned all her nieces and nephews, with varying aesthetic sensibilities, to design and make the interiors however they wanted. Hence the modern, minimalist-looking birch-bark seating paired with fraying tissue-paper flowers made in kindergarten class.
Paired with really nice hotel staff. Like this girl at the restaurant right now, greeting me in a peppy voice that matches the ponytail sitting high on her head. “Hi, welcome to the Glade at the Orchard! We’re so happy to nourish you today!”
I peer beyond the host and glimpse Mom sitting with Uncle Bilal and his daughters. “Thanks! I’m over there,” I say to the host, pointing.
She hands me a menu with a big smile, and I position it like armor before walking over.
There are more fake plants and flowers leading all the way through, and it’s only when I get to Mom that I see that a big, weird bush has been hiding another occupant at the table. He doesn’t turn when I get there, even though everyone else makes friendly gestures and slight squeaky sounds on spotting me.
Uncle Bilal stands to pull out a chair beside Mom, the one that had been keeping a gap between her and him. I kiss Mom on the cheek and sit down, nodding at Dania and Lamya.
The sixth person at the table turns out to be a guy with longish hair that’s unruly in front, with most of it falling on his forehead. He’s got a lined-up five-o’clock shadow on his brown jawline. When he nods at me without smiling, he reminds me of someone, but I can’t place who.
“This is Layth. Our cousin,” Lamya says. “He was driving through, and Dad asked him to meet us for dinner.”
Layth nods again.
“Our entrees are coming. Would you like to order appetizers?” Uncle Bilal beams at me.
I shake my head. “I already had dinner, thanks.”
Uncle Bilal’s changed out of his suit and is wearing an old faded T-shirt that says KICK CANCER: A TREK FOR HOPE.
Did he do that to match Mom’s outfit when she’d first arrived? Her I DID 10K FOR ALZHEIMER’S?
Too bad for him, because now Mom is in a flowery summer dress with sensible sandals and a silky khaki hijab.
Uncle Bilal’s daughters are still in their runway clothes.
Layth’s in a jean jacket with a black T-shirt underneath, a design of a wilted, yellow daisy dying on it. He catches me trying to read the words under the flower. “It says ‘Cheap Thrills,’ ” he says wryly.
When he speaks, I instantly realize who he reminds me of. If this guy’s hair were trimmed, he would look like a taller Zayn Malik, the singer. Well, an around-my-age version of him. It’s his looks plus the way he talks, the way his mouth moves up on his left side more.
And the clipped way he speaks, his dark eyes reserved and framed by strong eyebrows, and how he didn’t look right at me when he spoke just now, like he’s somewhere else.
I nod my head at him, pretending I get it. His CHEAP THRILLS T-shirt.
“Your mom’s told us so much about you!” Uncle Bilal beams again. “Scholarship! To the University of Chicago. Masha’Allah! And to study English lit!”
“With a focus on British lit,” I clarify.
Is it my imagination, or did that Layth guy just smirk a little at this?
Is he sizing me up as a nerd?
I close the menu and add, “They have a learn-abroad program in London that I’m interested in doing.”
“How wonderful,” Uncle Bilal says. “Travel is great when you’re young. The twins did a year in Italy and Sweden, Lamya and Dania, respectively.”
“Yes, more travel to emphasize Eurocentrism,” Layth says, most definitely smirking now, his eyes still not on me, even though he’s talking about me. “How great.”
Dania laughs. “Don’t mind him—he’s going through a Che Guevara moment.”
Ouch, the belittling sarcasm. But also so definitely needed, because how does this guy Layth know why I want to go abroad, why I want to study British lit?
For the last little while, all my English essays have been on the roots of the revival of widespread xenophobia, of the current strain of it calling for bans and walls, through analyzing the British “classics” that we’re fed in school.
I’m not studying British lit to support “the man.” I’m studying it to take him down. “Well, as Che himself said, ‘The first duty of a revolutionary is to be educated.’ ”
Layth gives me a surprised stare before turning away.
“We have a few friends at UChicago,” Lamya says, folding her arms on the table. “We can send you their contacts. And we’re at Northwestern with Sarah, well, where Sarah used to go, so we won’t be too far.”
“Yes, get contacts. You don’t want to be lonely on campus,” Uncle Bilal says, nodding at Mom. “It’s the worst thing. Remember? Freshman year, before we all met each other?”
“Oh yeah. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t met Magda. And she hadn’t made me come to that dinner…”
Mom and Uncle Bilal drift off into a conversation about the old days across from me, and I open the menu again. Because it’s something to read.
“Do you like to dance?” Dania asks me.
That was out of the blue. “Sometimes? With my friends?”
“We’re doing a surprise dance for Sarah at the henna party tomorrow. A bunch of us, like twelve people, have been practicing on Zoom, because the girl has friends all over the place. Do you want to join us?” Dania says earnestly. “It’s just a simple mehndi song. And we’ve shortened it even further because there are a lot of non-desi people dancing.”
“I don’t think I’ll have time to learn it.”
“It’s super easy. This girl named Zayneb, you must know her—Sarah’s good friends with her? MSA president? She put it together in like twenty minutes.”
“She called the Bollywood moves funny names so that everyone can understand them. Come up to the room after dinner and we can show you!” Lamya says excitedly, adjusting her scarf so that it peaks at the top perfectly, her loose silver watch sliding down her slim arm as she does so. “It will be special for Sarah if her sister-in-law-to-be is involved, you know?”