“No, she’s not home from work yet,” I say.
“Okay then, enlighten me as to what this marriage business is all about,” says Dad. “I hope you’re a little more clear with this than with the idea to switch college majors.”
Muhammad talks fast for five minutes, making it seem like Saint Sarah is this amazing catch: smart, giving, kind, friendly, et cetera, et cetera.
“But is she down-to-earth? Fun?” Dad asks. “Because you want someone cool to be with, for the lack of a better word. Not uptight. It makes for a better future.”
I make a sound.
“Yeah, she’s awesome,” Muhammad says.
“Yeah, she’s the one who planned the Fun-Fun-Fun Islamic Quiz Game!” I say. “See, Dad? She’s really f-u-n. Ouch! Muhammad!”
The laddoo starts crying on seeing my plight digitally.
“No, no, Janna’s okay,” I say, smiling brightly. “See? Happy Janna!”
The laddoo’s lips tremble once more before settling back into his satisfied chubby face.
“Oh yes, I’m getting an excellent idea,” Dad says. “I’ll ask Linda if it’s okay for your whole team to stay here, with us. How many of you are there?”
“Six,” Muhammad says, a spark of excitement entering his eyes. Which is funny because Dad never elicits that kind of response from him.
“Plus one,” I say to Muhammad. “Apparently, we have an extra person in our car. A guy.”
“Then it’s not a problem,” Dad says. “You know we have more than enough space up here.”
Dad has an eight-bedroom house with a basement that has four more bedrooms in addition to the nanny suite. Dad’s version of “lite” Indian sweets for “better” Indian restaurants was the key to his success after years trying to peddle the crazy-sweet stuff.
“How do you guys like that?” Dad asks. “I can get to know this Sarah girl as well then.”
“I’m game,” says Muhammad, a sudden strange seriousness replacing the previous glee in his eyes. “If everyone else on the team is fine with it.”
“Me too,” I say. “I can’t wait to squeeze that laddoo!”
The laddoo gurgles and flails his pudgy hands forward toward me, smacking the keyboard. The screen goes blank.
We wait, and then Muhammad closes the laptop.
“Brilliant, Janna,” he says. “Just the thing we need—the whole team to see how Dad lives.”
“What do you mean?” I say. “Oh, you mean Sarah? That she’s going to see that Dad’s not Islamic?”
“It’s not only her,” Muhammad says, picking up his laptop. “It’s everyone.”
“But then why’d you act excited first? When Dad brought it up?”
“Because it seemed fun. And, for a sec, I forgot about what he was like.”
“You’re awful,” I say. “You’re ashamed of Dad?”
He’s walking away, toward Mom’s room. I follow him, this thumping feeling growing in me.
“You think more about what others think than about how you feel about Dad?”
“Well yeah, if his essential agreements include dictating my life into being a copy of his. I don’t want to marry a Linda and live like a coconut. Brown on the outside, white inside.” He closes the door on me.
Dad is stiff, arm’s-length-only family to Muhammad, mainly due to their different views on Islam. Muhammad and Mom are becoming a team. And then there’s me. Dangling in the wind.
? ? ?
I pick up Fizz’s call right after that. I’m moving in a haze of anger at Muhammad, so it doesn’t register it’s her calling.
“Guess who’s been asked to cover for Sarah as study circle lead while you guys are gone to Chicago?” Fizz asks.
“Uh, no?” I say.
“Uh, yes,” Fizz says. “I said no way. Me? Lead a study session?”
“You’d be good, you know,” I say, warming up to the fact that we had a focus to our conversation, other than the one I’m avoiding. “You’d be totally in charge. Not like Saint Sarah, flaky.”
“We’re reading Ghazali, remember? Which I didn’t even choose,” Fizz says. “How am I going to get people to reflect? You need to be Zen to do that.”
“And you think Saint Sarah is Zen?”
“She’s got that yoga look. Remember how she got us to reveal all our prayer flaws so easily?”
“She’s just got the look. You’ve got the guts to get people talking honestly, with no BS.”
“I’m not doing it,” Fizz says. “I’d rather work on my flaws on my own than talk it all out with the study group. What’s the point of figuring this stuff out anyway? Just get people to do their prayers on time, five times a day.”
I stay quiet. We’re reading Inner Dimensions of Islamic Worship by Al-Ghazali for study circle, and so far I haven’t found one flaw that I don’t have in my worship. I used up four pages of my 2011 Moleskine agenda writing them out. Rushing is my number one problem, and since figuring that out, I actually began slowing my prayers and working on my “conscious awareness,” as Ghazali calls it.
“How’s school?” Fizz asks. “Did you find out what Tatyana—”
“Oh my gosh, I forgot to tell you—Dad wants the whole Quiz Bowl team to stay with him in Chicago!” I say.
“What? Why?”
“Because we’ll be there anyway. It’s going to be kind of fun, don’t you think? Too bad you’re not coming.”
“Yeah. Aliya’s car is full. What about Sarah’s?”
“Full,” I say quickly. “I actually have to go now. Study for history and math.”
“Okay,” Fizz says. “What about Jeremy?”
“Oh yeah,” I say. “Tats just told him I was best friends with you, and that you were Farooq’s cousin.”
“Oh. That’s all?”
“Yeah. I really have to go now . . . salaams.”
“Waalaikumusalam warahmathullahi wabarakathu,” Fizz says. (Which is Arabic for extra heapings of kindness ladled on top of the simple “peace be upon you” we usually say to each other. Which makes me feel tons worse. Which makes me feel really really low. Which is why I take a long shower with Mom’s expensive hair conditioner. And then spend two hours working on my hair. Which is why I go to sleep with cascading curls, ready for gym tomorrow.)
MISFITS AND SAINTS
Muhammad and I are at the breakfast nook checking e-mails and eating cereal when both our phones make a simultaneous beeping sound. It’s a text from Dad.
Confirmed: hosting 7 kids this weekend. Going to call the caterers for a super breakfast.
“Hope the food’s halal,” Muhammad says.
I kick him under the table, and my cereal spills. Muhammad laughs as he takes his bowl to the sink.
“Why do you hate him so much?”
“Hate’s a strong word.” He’s filling up the sink with soapy water and sliding in dinner dishes from last night.
“Here, you need to hear this, Dad’s message for today: Share your home, your time, yourself. Share and you enlarge your networks and widen the possibilities to achieve your success scenario that much faster. See, this message is read by—whoa, the last I checked there were about four thousand people on his mailing list. Now this is read by nine thousand and sixty-two people. He’s encouraging all these people to go out and do things.”