Like hell I’m going to that party. They’re up to something, and I’ve been chosen to be a part of it, probably the butt of it.
As we run laps around the gym on the sub’s orders, I stay far from Lauren’s gang, jogging lightly. I notice the pause Lauren takes at the weight room, waving pointedly at Jeremy, who takes a step out to exchange a few words with her before she rejoins the jogging herd.
Beside me, Tats slows down as we near the weight room. She begins to walk, holding her sides as if she has a stitch in them, and I slow too. The sub’s busy reading the clipboard and doesn’t notice our approach to the weight room.
He’s waiting at the entrance and comes out as we reach the doors. He looks past Tats to me, and I feel that clench that I used to feel thinking about him. But this time it’s stronger and deeper. How would I even open my mouth to speak to him? Because I’m pretty sure only a croak would emerge, scaring him off. I look away to gain a moment and give me a chance to return to normalcy.
When I look back, ready to say hi, I notice he isn’t alone in the weight room.
Farooq is staring back at me from beside the bench press. Looking at me, hijabless, taking me in with eyes wide open, surprised.
I take off like a shot, not looking back. I’ve never felt so naked in my life before.
I want to charge into the locker room and wrap myself in the biggest hijab I can find.
? ? ?
After school, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. The apartment was quiet when I let myself in earlier, and I could tell Muhammad wasn’t home by his big shoes missing from the mat.
And then I noticed how clean the living room looked. There was a suitcase beside the armchair, a plastic sword—from Mr. Khoury’s table—leaning against it. Most eerie, the Risk game was put away, back on top of the bookshelf.
I looked in the dining room, and there, too, was evidence of a change in the air. Muhammad’s papers were gone from the table, and Mom’s favorite rustic-candle formation was back to commanding the center space. I retraced my steps to the living room and unzipped a corner of the suitcase. Sure enough, it contained his stuff.
Is he going, I ask the ceiling, to Amu’s?
Was I being mean to him? I went beyond the ceiling and asked God. Is that why you’re doing this to me, Allah? This drama in my life?
I get up and walk to Mom’s room.
It looks huge now. Mom’s new twin bed appears tiny under the weight of a mature sheet set, the edges of the quilt comforter sweeping the floor. The headboard’s against the wall facing the door, off center so that there’s a sizable empty space near the window. The room’s been swept out, and the sun streams on the half that’s supposed to be mine.
The divider screens, folded against the wall, look at me.
I go lie on my bed again.
Dad. He’ll know what to do.
I open e-mail on my phone and scroll to find his daily message. Sharing guarantees success because you’re acknowledging the importance of your network. Thus strengthening them, thus strengthening you.
I click off and stare at the ceiling. Is it wrong to make a deal with God? I’ll reorganize myself in the apartment if you reorganize my life?
I jump off the bed before I change my mind again.
I begin with my art desk. I move fast, dragging as opposed to lifting it. I take bundles of clothes by their hangers. It irritates me to see that Mom has cleared half her walk-in closet as if she knew I’d give in, but I shake it off, realizing there’s more space in even half of this compared to my teeny hard-to-get-into sliding-door closet.
I don’t take the mattress off to move my bed, just push and pull, a little this way and that. At one point I think the bed will be forever stuck in the door and I’ll have to sleep in between privacy and not, but then I push a little while lifting up one of the wooden legs and the whole thing comes free. I drag it the rest of the way, ignoring the banged-up floor’s protests, and place it under the window.
I want this done before Muhammad comes home and says something to make me mad at him. And then mad at myself for deciding this.
Moving the green dresser is easy as it has wheels at its base. I put it next to my headboard, and it serves as a night table for my phone and lamp.
When it’s done, I shelter my “room” with the screens.
It’s okay in here. Sitting on the bed, I realize I get most of the light.
I check my phone and see it’s time to pick up Mr. Ram.
Before I leave, I put Muhammad’s suitcase in my old room, laying his toy sword on top. I wonder if I’m nice enough for Allah now.
? ? ?
“Janna, your mom told me you don’t have school tomorrow. Would you be able to do your studying here? Stay with my father?” asks Mr. Ram’s son, Deval. “Ravi’s teacher asked if I could replace a sick parent on the field trip tomorrow.”
“Sure.” I wheel Mr. Ram out of the door, waving at Ravi, who’s eating cut-up apples on the couch. He stays with his dad until his mom comes home from work and then with his mom while his dad goes to work. When do they ever see one another all at once?
“Mr. Ram, are you cold?” He’s wearing a tweed jacket. His hat is houndstooth with a freckled brown feather in it. “You’ve been wearing more clothes than I do lately.”
“The cold comes suddenly to me. Even though my son tells me there’s a heat wave.” He laughs.
We exit the lobby and maneuver up the walkway. Ms. Kolbinsky waits where the sidewalk starts, brilliant in her yellow, black, and orange sheath dress. Her hair is fanned out around her face, a mixture of gray and misty brown. Sandra’s beside her, drab in her jeans and gray T-shirt, long hair parted flat on her head, stringing down and covering the sides of her face.
Mr. Ram holds up his hand. “Who is this lovely lady with you, Ms. Kolbinsky? I see a beautiful resemblance.”
“This is my granddaughter, Sandra, and look at what she has in her hand.” Ms. Kolbinsky beams. Sandra waves the form, filled in with tiny writing. “I’m coming to Parcheesi today!”
I take out my phone and click a picture of Mr. Ram’s silent laugh. Now I’m convinced he’s in love with her, too.
Sandra folds the form up and hands it to me with a smile before walking back to her building.
I push the wheelchair, and Ms. Kolbinsky falls into step beside us.
I tolerate the giggling all the way to the community center. Sociological note to self: People never forget how to flirt.
? ? ?
Nuah walks Ms. Kolbinsky through the particulars of Seniors Games Club. From my usual table, while I wait for my laptop to start up, I watch him take her to the restroom area, the fire exits, and the snack counter. He’s talking the whole time, waving his arms about.
As he’s walking her back to where Mr. Ram and friends are waiting, he sees me watching him. I don’t look away this time, so he does a salute toward my corner before proceeding to tell the old people looking eagerly up at him a joke about a talking muffin. They burst out laughing together.