Eastspring: June 12
June 12 was yesterday. Mom’s long-pendant-earrings day.
I close the drawer and decide to change my scarf.
? ? ?
“I think I have it. I’ve been thinking about it since you told me about your forehead thing.” Muhammad, giddy about his date, is driving silent me. “Now I’m pretty sure the guy in your pics is white. I can tell.”
I stare ahead.
“So, I’m thinking, the whole day, yesterday and today, I didn’t see one guy that fit the description at the mosque. None of the white guys there have such prominent foreheads.” He turns to check my face. “By the way, I’m trying to help you.”
I make no sound.
“So, I think, this guy is not Muslim.” He looks at me again. “And that’s okay. It happens.”
I can’t help it when I hear that. “Yeah, I know: Melissa, Samantha, and Jennifer.”
“Fourth grade, sixth grade, and seventh. Crushes from long ago.”
“What do you want? Why are you Sherlocking me? I’m already doing this date thing for you.”
“I’m helping you like I said.” He turns the car north onto the main street of Eastspring. “Sometimes you just have to find alternatives. And then it hit me today, while at the open house, at that table where you were taking pictures.”
I turn to him. What is he going on about?
“You know who I can see you with? And who has kind of a big forehead? Farooq, Fizz’s cousin.” Muhammad stops at a light and beams at me. “You love Fizz’s family, so it’s like a bonus.”
I close my eyes and turn away.
“Okay, suit yourself. The guy is the real deal. If you knew him, you’d completely agree.”
? ? ?
When we arrive at the restaurant, Harold & Fay, Saint Sarah is waiting by the doors, wearing a flowery summer dress with high platform sandals. Her scarf is held up by a pink peony tonight. She flings her arms out when she sees us and envelops me in a tight, perfumed hug as if she hadn’t seen me this afternoon at the open house. Then she proceeds to link arms with my stiff self as Muhammad opens the door for us.
I get a feeling that it’s going to go downhill from such a grand entrance, so I give myself some advice as we step into the uptight, uptown restaurant: This is about them. Don’t make it worse than it already is. Keep your mouth shut, except to open it wide to eat the most expensive appetizer and dessert on the menu on Muhammad’s tab.
But then she, Saint Sarah, squeals when she finds out that I’m an appetizer, no dinner, and yes dessert person too, like her.
“I knew you were amazing, Janna!” she says, as if being like her immediately catapults me into another class of human beings.
It keeps getting worse, the squeals, every time she finds out another thing we have in common (all of which she’s teasing out of me with the precision of a brain surgeon). A weird, completely alien feeling suddenly pierces my heart for a brief, fleeting moment. I feel sorry for my brother, who is trying to daintily eat this tiny piece of deepwater char with mustard greens, preserved fennel, and watercress puree while interjecting what he thinks are witty observations to divert the attention back to himself.
She’s forgotten about him.
When Muhammad flops back in his seat, apparently giving up on us and his food—his plate a work of art, swirled from more fork action then eating action and resembling the deep murky waters from whence the fish came—the feeling of sympathy flees, and I decide to sprint to the front lines. I’m going to decimate him for linking me and the monster so effortlessly. I’m going to annihilate him.
To do it properly I know I have to wait to spring efficiently, intensely, in such a way as to get to the jugular of the whole thing in one or two swipes.
I get my opportunity when the waiter brings the dessert menu.
“Yum, dessert!” I say, mustering excitement from the thinning air.
“Ooh, this is going to be good!” says Saint Sarah. “What will it be for you, Janna?”
“Well, let me see . . . will it be oozing chocolate lava cake at sixteen dollars or the caramelized runny butter tarts at fourteen dollars or the . . . ,” I say, trailing off.
Then, expertly, I stop and look up, stricken.
“What is it?” Saint Sarah asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “I think I won’t be having dessert,” I add meekly, closing the leather-bound menu with a faint sigh.
“Why? You can’t only eat breadsticks,” Saint Sarah says, glancing at me, then at Muhammad as she notices my “surreptitious” peeks at my brother.
“No reason,” I say. “Except that I’m actually full. Buffalo mozzarella breadsticks with pumpkin seed sauce, you know.”
She looks at me again, adjusting her cotton-candy-pink hijab in wonder.
“Muhammad,” I say, turning to him and leaning forward to gaze thoughtfully into his eyes. “I forgot to ask: Did you get that job you applied for? Or are they saying the philosophy thing is not cutting it? Like the others did? Mom’s been wondering too, because of the rent increase.”
“Oh,” says Saint Sarah. She closes her menu too.
Muhammad stares at me, confused. I love that look on his face.
“Sorry,” I say, giving what I hope is a tinkly laugh. “I forgot: Don’t discuss finances—or lack of—at the dinner table. Sorry, Muhammad.”
His eyes narrow. He’s getting it and will soon gather the forces of his puny yet searing rejoinders, so I stand. “I need to go to the restroom. Sarah, are you going to come with me so that we keep this halal? I don’t want to get in trouble with your dad for leaving you guys alone.”
Saint Sarah gets up, looking at my brother with a mixture of pity and confusion. I love that look on her face too.
My back feels prickly all the way to the restroom, so I guess Muhammad is sending daggers my way.
In the restroom Saint Sarah shows me her new way to secure her hijab, as if I’d asked. I’m feeling victorious so I humor her, even letting her redo my hijab in the latest style.
When we get back to the table, there’s a big sampler plate of all of the restaurant’s desserts waiting for us. Muhammad stands up, pulls out my chair for me with a flourish and then Saint Sarah’s before sitting down with a smile.
Saint Sarah smiles this soft smile back at him, and I realize right then and there, they’re already an item.
And wham! Just like that, I understand why she focused on me during the whole dinner. She knows she only has me to win over so she’d gotten right to work.
I thought I was the stealthy one, but her? She’s stealth with a smile.
MISFITS
Today is the hottest day thus far in the year, and that means most everyone will act annoyed as soon as I step into school. Because they’ll be stripped to the teeniest clothes they’re legally allowed to wear. And me? I’ll look like I’m going on an Arctic expedition.