My pulse ratchets up a notch and I glance around, looking for a friendly face—or maybe an escape route. I want him to leave me alone, but I am afraid of what might happen if I tell him so.
“You are beautiful like honey.” He’s so far into my personal space that I can feel his hot, smoky breath against my face. “Sweet.”
What if this was what Grandma Irene meant when she talked about kidnapping? I think about running, but I have no idea which direction to run other than back toward the apartment. I don’t want this creeper to know where I live.
“I’m meeting my boyfriend.” My voice shakes and I hate having to lie. Girls shouldn’t need boyfriends—fake or otherwise—to get guys to leave them alone, but I am almost to the theater, and trying to deflect him is not working. What if he follows me into the building?
“If you were my girlfriend, I would not permit you to go out in the streets dressed in such a revealing way.” His tone has gone cold. “Have you no respect for yourself, provoking men like this?”
My top covers me from my neck to below my backside, my jeans are not tight, I am wearing no makeup, and my hair is tied up in a messy bun. More of his skin is showing than mine, but I’m the provocative one? And how did I go so fast from sexy to lacking self-respect? My fear turns to anger.
“Go away.” I put as much force as possible behind my words. “Leave me alone.”
The movie theater is right here, my imaginary boyfriend waiting for me inside, but this man has killed my desire to be out in public. I spin around on the sidewalk and run as fast as I can. I glance back to see if he is following, but he just stands where he is, shouting at me in Arabic. The language sounds ugly coming from his mouth and makes me feel as if I am the one who has done something wrong.
I don’t wait for the elevator, instead sprinting past Masoud, up the stairs by twos, and rushing into the apartment. Only when the door is firmly closed behind me do I feel safe.
“Are you okay?” Mom asks as the afternoon adhan begins. Even with the windows closed and the air-conditioning on, there is no escaping the call to prayer. I can’t help wondering if the man down in the street will stop to pray, wondering if his god approves of harassing women.
“I want to go home.”
“What happened?”
“Some guy hit on me,” I say. “And when I asked him to leave me alone, he basically accused me of dressing like a whore.”
“This happens often in Cairo.” Adam stands in the doorway of my room. “Some Egyptian men believe foreign women dress . . . I do not know the correct word . . . in such a way to attract attention.”
“Nothing about this”—I motion toward my own body, but he glances away quickly, looking out the balcony doors—“is meant to attract attention. What am I supposed to do? Cover myself up like those ladies who only have their eyes showing?”
Adam’s gaze swings back, meeting mine for a second. “It would not matter if you did. There are men who would harass the niqabi for wearing makeup on their eyes.”
“That is so sexist.”
He nods, but his shoulders lift a little at the same time. “My mother has been harassed, my sister even worse. There is not much that can be done. You must try to ignore it.”
“That’s easy to say when no one is questioning your self-respect.” The anger in my voice earns me a sharp look from Mom and I wish I could reel back my words. I don’t understand how Egyptians just let this kind of thing happen, but Adam isn’t to blame for what happened to me. It’s not his fault that harassment is an issue in his country.
“I am sorry.” He sounds sincere. “The furniture is finished, so I should go. My father will be looking forward to your call if you should need him.”
CHAPTER 6
It’s about a week later when Mr. Elhadad knocks on our front door. Dad’s back in the United States for work and Mom has spent the week training her staff, preparing the clinic for opening, and nagging me to get out of the apartment. After seven days of self-imposed exile, even cat videos are starting to lose their appeal and I am reluctantly ready for a day out with my personal driver.
Except when I pull open the door, Adam is standing in the hallway with damp curls and his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans.
“Where’s your dad?” I ask.
Just yesterday I was crunching my way through a bowl of Fruit Rings—the Egyptian equivalent of the American brand—when Mom issued her ultimatum.
“I am not going to let you spend the whole year hiding out in the apartment,” she said. “Either you call Mr. Elhadad or I will.”
“But—”
“No buts.” Mom cut me off before I could point out the dangers, like creepy guys, the insane traffic that might run over me, or the fact that I know only one Arabic word. “Ahmed will be with you.”
“Hanging out with someone else’s dad,” I muttered into my cereal bowl. “That should be fun.”
Mom gave me her Dr. Rebecca Kelly Hulk Smash look—not unlike the one she gave the rental agent—and any other protests I might have had went down my throat with a mouthful of cereal. “I’m making the call.”
She dialed Mr. Elhadad, whose enthusiasm boomed so loudly down the phone line I could hear him across the kitchen. “Tomorrow I will take her to the pyramids,” he said. “It will be good fun. I will arrange a guide.”
Disconnecting the call, my mom said, “I understand that Cairo can be a scary place—I go out into the city every day—but you have been given an opportunity most kids don’t get. I won’t let you waste it.”
Now opportunity stands before me, looking less than thrilled to be here. “My father woke with a fever,” Adam explains. “He sent me in his place.”
“Is that okay?” I ask. “What about your job?”
He does his little shrug-nod combination, as if it’s not actually okay but there is nothing he can do about it. “Someone will be happy to take my shift.”
The space between his dark eyebrows is creased with worry, though. Am I putting his livelihood on the line?
“I can go another day,” I offer. “When your dad is feeling better.”
“My father’s business is more important than my job. Today will be fine.”