“Hi,” I said, beaming at her.
My mom rolled her eyes, smiled. The side door slid open and we all exchanged hellos, settled into our seats. The minivan’s interior smelled vaguely of Cheez-Its, which, for some reason, I found comforting.
My mom tugged off her reading glasses.
“Madreseh khoob bood?” Was school okay? Then, to Zahra: “Zahra joonam, chetori?” Zahra dear, how are you? “How’s your mom?”
Zahra was busy responding to my mother in flawless Farsi when I noticed, with a start, the discarded magazine on the console.
I picked it up.
It was an old issue of Cosmopolitan featuring a highly airbrushed photo of Denise Richards—under whose name it read: Be Naughty with Him! And, as if that weren’t alarming enough, there was the headline—in bold, white type—
Our Best Sex Secret
I looked up. Zahra was saying something to my mom about SAT prep courses, and I couldn’t wait. I cut her off.
“Hey,” I said, shaking the magazine at my mom. “Hey, what the hell is this?”
My mom stilled. She spared me a single glance before inserting the key in the ignition. “Man chemidoonam,” she said. How am I supposed to know? “It was at the dentist’s office.”
Zahra laughed. “Um, Nasreen khanoom”—Mrs. Nasreen—“I don’t think you’re supposed to take the magazines.”
“Eh? Vaughan?” My mom turned on the car. Oh? Really?
I was shaking my head. I did not believe for a second that my mom thought the old, grimy magazines at the dentist’s office were free for the taking. “So is the secret any good?” I asked. “Because it says right here”—I scanned the cover again—“that it’s a secret so hot, so breathtaking, experts are raving about it.”
My mom was driving now, but she still managed to glare at me in the rearview mirror. “Ay, beetarbiat.” Oh, you rude child.
I was fighting back a smile. “Don’t lie, Maman. I saw you reading it.”
She said something in Farsi then, an expression difficult to translate. To put it simply: she threatened to kick my ass when we got home.
I couldn’t stop laughing.
Zahra had swiped the magazine, and she was now scanning the article in question. Slowly, she looked up at me.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “I love your mom.”
My mother muttered something like What am I supposed to do with you kids? in Farsi, and then turned on the radio.
My mom loved pop radio.
Currently, she was a loyal fan of Enrique Iglesias, because she grew up listening to his dad—Julio Iglesias—and when Enrique was first introduced on the radio she clasped her heart and sighed. These days she championed Enrique Iglesias as if it were her civic duty, as if Julio were watching and she hoped to make him proud. Right now, Escape was blasting through the speakers at a ridiculous volume, in what was no doubt an effort to drown out our voices.
“Hey,” I shouted, “you’re not getting off that easily.”
“Chi?” she shouted back. What?
I tried for a higher decibel. “I said, you’re not getting off that easily.”
“What?” She cupped a hand to her ear, pretended to be deaf.
I fought back another laugh and shook my head at her. She smiled, put on her sunglasses, adjusted her scarf, and gently bobbed her head to the music.
“Hey.” Zahra tapped my knee. “Shadi?”
I turned, raised my eyebrows. “Yeah?”
“We’re, like, five minutes away from my house,” she said, glancing out the window. “And I just—before I go, I wanted to say sorry. Again. About today.”
“Oh,” I said, surprised. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. I shouldn’t have just attacked you like that.” She sat back in her seat, stared into her hands. “Ali just— He always gets everything, you know? Things are so easy for him. Relationships. Friendships. He doesn’t know what it’s like for me, what it’s like to wear hijab or how horrible people can be or how hard it is to make friends.”
“I know,” I said softly. “I know.”
“I know you do.” She smiled then, her eyes shining with feeling. “You’re like the only one who gets it. And everything is just”—she shook her head, looked out the window—“school is so fucking brutal right now. Do you remember that guy who pulled off my scarf?”
I stiffened. “Of course.”
“He keeps following me around,” she said, swallowing. “And it’s really freaking me out.”
I felt my chest constrict with panic and I fought it back, kept my face placid for her sake. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know. I thought maybe I was imagining things.”
“We’ll report him,” I said sharply. “We’ll tell someone.”
Zahra laughed. “As if that’ll make any difference.”
“Hey”—I took her hands, squeezed—“look, I’ll stay with you. I’ll walk you to class. I’ll make sure you’re not alone.”
She took a deep breath, her chest shuddering as she exhaled. “This is stupid, Shadi. This whole situation is so stupid. Why do we even have to have these conversations? Why do I have to be scared all the time? Why? Because of a bunch of ignorant assholes?”
“I know. I know, I hate it, too.”
She shook her head, shook off the emotion. “I’m just—I’m sorry I’m taking things out on you. I don’t mean to.”
“I know.”
“Everyone is different now. All my old friends. Even some of the teachers.” She looked away. “I think I’m worried I’m going to lose you, too.”
“You’re not going to lose me.”
“I know.” She laughed, wiped her eyes. “I know. I’m sorry. I know.” But when she looked up again, she looked uncertain. She whispered: “So you’re really not hooking up with my brother?”
“Zahra.” I sighed. Shook my head. “Come on.”
“I’m sorry, I know, I’m crazy.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I just—I don’t know. Sometimes I need to hear you say it.”
I stole a furtive glance at my mom, who was now tapping the steering wheel along to a Nelly song.
“Zahra,” I said sharply. “I am not hooking up with your brother.”
She smiled at that, seemed suddenly delighted. “And you’re not going to, like, fall in love with him and ditch me?”
I rolled my eyes. “No. I am not going to fall in love with him and ditch you.”
“You promise?”
“Wow, okay, now you’re starting to piss me off.”
She laughed.
I laughed.
And just like that, I had my best friend back.
December
2003
Ten
I left the classroom with the tide, grateful today, as I was most days, that our school was home to the nearly three thousand students who gave me the cover to disappear. I felt lucky, too, that our student body included just enough Muslim kids—and a couple of girls who wore hijab—that I didn’t have to bear the weight of representation entirely on my own. Recently they’d formed a Muslim Student Union, an on-campus club through which they set up conferences and organized interfaith dialogues and patiently answered all manner of ignorant questions for the masses. The MSU president flagged me down a few times, generously inviting me to their events, and I never had the heart to say no to her. Instead, I’d do the more detestable thing, and make promises I never intended to keep. I avoided those kids not because I didn’t admire them, but because I was a husk of a person with little fight left to give, and I didn’t think they’d understand. Or maybe I was afraid they would.