“Adam told me how you used to braid his hair when you were kids,” I say, rolling the hijab into a neat bundle before putting it back on the shelf.
She sighs. “I have always wished for hair like his. He washes it and it dries into perfect curls, while I must use a curling wand to get the same results. It’s unfair.”
Not wanting to think about Adam’s hair, I change the subject. “We haven’t really had much chance to hang out. I was thinking . . . would you be interested in joining a club with me?”
“What sort of club?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. “Maybe a sport?”
The Elhadads’ computer is in the main living area, so we use our phones to look up women’s sports teams in Cairo.
“There’s a roller derby league,” I say, and I can picture myself on a flat track, knocking skaters out of my way and having a really awesome derby name like Vivi Section or Abbey Roadkill. The reality, though, is that my strongest roller skating skill is falling down.
Aya shakes her head. “I am not cool enough for roller derby and I don’t think my parents wish for me to die.”
I laugh. “Fair enough. What about rugby?”
“What is that?”
“Okay, no rugby.”
Finally we discover a recreational women’s soccer team called the Garden City Daffodils, founded by a couple of expatriates—one American, one Australian. According to their website, they compete against teams from the area sporting clubs. Joining this team would be good conditioning for my high school team tryouts in September. And maybe help keep my mind off Adam.
“I can do this,” Aya says. “I would like to do this.”
We fill out the contact form on the team’s website, then hang out in her room until Adam’s fingers drum softly on the door and he tells us to come out for dessert.
CHAPTER 23
Midnight closes in as Adam drives us across the bridge to Manial after an uneventful serving of chocolate layer cake and a heaping of thanks on my mother for her part in saving Mr. Elhadad’s life. Adam stops at our building and it feels final somehow. Especially when Dad hands him a big tip and wishes him good luck with the new job.
“Shokran,” Adam says quietly.
Mom thanks him for keeping me company.
“Afwan,” he says.
There is so much I want to say, but not now, not in front of my parents. I follow them toward the building, but after taking a few steps, I pause and look back. Adam is still there. He smiles and touches his hand to his heart.
Upstairs, standing on the balcony, I send him a text. Are we finished?
I don’t want to be.
Will I see you tomorrow?
Adam doesn’t respond right away, but when I look over the railing, his father’s car is still down there on the street. Finally my phone chimes.
Yes.
“I’m a little concerned about Caroline.” Mom’s voice drifts out onto the balcony from my parents’ bedroom. I step back as she closes the doors for privacy, then creep into the shadow between their room and mine. Her voice is more muffled now, but I can still hear it when she says, “She and Adam . . . well, they seem . . . attracted to each other.”
“That was pretty evident from day one.”
“They’ve been spending a lot of time together,” Mom says. “And when I spoke to Manar about it, she said he has been miserable.”
“Of course he is, Beck,” Dad says. “He’s head over heels for a girl—probably for the first time in his life—and has no idea how to deal. His culture says one thing, but his hormones are singing a completely different, much louder song. And now his access to her is about to get cut off. They’re probably both pretty miserable right now.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Why should it?”
“Because the boy isn’t supposed to be spending time with Caroline, let alone developing feelings for her.”
“That’s between Adam and his faith,” my dad says. “Not my business. But what I do know is that he’s a good kid and so is our daughter. She dated Owen for three years, so what’s different now?”
“I don’t want her to lead him astray.”
Dad laughs a little. “He may be Muslim, but he’s still a guy. She isn’t leading him anywhere he isn’t willing to go. But look, Ahmed is back on his feet, I’m here now, and we’ve got that school orientation thing coming up, right? She’ll meet some of her new classmates, and Adam will get her out of his system. Problem solved.”
I slip out of the shadows and into my room, where I lie in the dark for a long time wondering if Dad is right.
? ? ?
The early morning light is seeping into my room when I receive a text from Adam telling me he’s on his way. I shower and dress in record time, pulling my damp hair into a bun. Mom comes out of her bedroom wearing her pajamas as I’m headed for the front door.
“Where are you going?”
“My driver is coming to pick me up,” I say. “Not sure where we’re going or when we’ll be back, though. Leading Muslim boys astray takes time.”
Her eyebrows arch up. “Were you eavesdropping?”
“When you can overhear it . . . it’s called overhearing.”
“Then you know the context,” she says. “I don’t want to see either of you get hurt, but there is a lot more at stake here for Adam than there is for you. The kind thing to do would be to leave him alone.”
Dad shuffles out of the bedroom, scratching the back of his head. “Why are we all awake right now?”
“Tomorrow Adam starts his new job,” I say to Mom. “And then he’ll have all the time in the world to get me out of his system. Problem solved, right?”
My dad winces as I throw his words back at him. “Listen, Caroline—”
“No.” I hold up a hand to stop him. “You brought me here. You expected me to make the best of it in a strange country. Adam is the best of it and I am one hundred percent done with this conversation.”
I yank open the front door.
“Caroline Elizabeth Kelly, stop right now,” Mom demands, but I walk out, slamming the door behind me.
I hate that my parents and Bahar are on the same team. I hate that being with Adam feels right and wrong at the same time. It can’t be both. Rebellion has never suited me, but my heart and mind are a tangled mess. Still, the elevator is barely past the second floor when I send my parents an apology text. Sorry for being a jerk. Adam and I just need time to talk.
Adam is waiting at the curb. “How are you?”
“I don’t know.”
We don’t talk as the car winds through the streets of the city. I want to ask him what he is thinking, but I’m scared of the answer. There are dark circles under his eyes, as if he didn’t get much sleep, and I wonder what happened at his apartment last night after we left. Adam takes me to our first ahwa, the one in Coptic Cairo, where it is quiet and private.
“I am Muslim.” Adam looks over my shoulder instead of looking me in the eye. “And you are not. You are leaving Cairo in a year and this is my home.”