What does he do, memorize a whole page of corny jokes every Wednesday night?
Ms. Kolbinsky thinks it’s so funny that she hits the table, with tears in her eyes. Mr. Ram looks at her and shakes, mouth open. I can never stop my echo smile when I see him laugh.
So, he walks over to me. Nuah.
“You like muffin jokes? I got a whole page of them,” he says.
“I knew it. You don’t make them up,” I say, looking at my agenda open on the table. It’s on top of the declassified math exam.
“Oh, but I can. I can do improv right here,” he says. “Give me a topic.”
“Algebra,” I say. “Ha.”
“Okay, so what did six-x say to five-x?” he asks.
I shrug, doodling.
“What do you know, we’re both children’s sizes!” he says.” “You know, as in clothing sizes for kids’ clothes?”
I groan.
“Come on, give me a fair topic,” he says. “Like horses. Or teeth. Oh, teeth, I can do a whole act on teeth.”
I click my mechanical pencil. “Um, actually, I have a lot of studying to do. Maybe another time?”
“Yeah, sorry,” he says, backing away. “The tortoise is going, going, gone.”
He does this thing with his head where it almost tips right over to the side while he’s watching me and backing away from the table.
Weird.
“Mr. Ram’s really smart, but you must know that, huh?” he says, right before he turns the corner to head back to the front desk.
I nod. He disappears with a salute-wave again.
And then he’s back. Holding his phone, its screen out to me.
Like I said before: weird.
“I have to show you this. Since you helped.” It’s a picture of a cute kid with his front teeth missing, wearing a snug kufi on his head. “My brother.”
“You didn’t end up choosing the fez?”
“Nah, my brother’s not that dapper.” He swipes the screen and turns the phone to me again. “And, I couldn’t resist.”
His brother, face scrunched up with concentration, swinging a golden plastic sword.
“So, Janna, you make a good arms dealer.” Nuah closes his photo app.
“Told you I wasn’t nice.” I raise my eyebrows, looking up from the doodling I picked up again.
“Now I believe it. Almost,” he says. “My mom’s going nuts with that clanging noise. And my brother won’t stop. He sleeps with the thing.”
“Interesting, so does Muhammad.”
He laughs. “We all bought one. But I bought one for my little brother. Muhammad and Farooq, they’re another story.”
I stop doodling. Why does the monster always show up?
“I have to get back to my studying.” I move around my books, not looking at Nuah. “I’ve already wasted time.”
I move my fingers on the track pad to wake my laptop.
“Sorry, outta here.” He’s gone.
? ? ?
Lauren’s added me as a friend on Facebook. I click accept, telling myself I’m doing this only to check her pictures to see if Jeremy’s in them. He’s not.
I wonder if she’ll notice if I unfriend her right away.
Instead, I open the questions on Amu’s website. Next week is teen week, the time of month when Amu discusses topics of interest to young people on his website, and there’s always a host of interesting questions that his blog posts generate.
Dear Imam, are we allowed to wear nail polish? (By the way, I’m a girl. I’m saying this because there are some STRANGE questions on your website. My dad doesn’t even let me read it anymore. So I have to be sneaky and read it at school.)
What’s the youngest a guy can get married? Not legally, I mean really.
Do you have to grow a beard if it turns out ugly? My brother’s beard is ugly and I don’t want him anywhere around me.
I only like to wear black hijabs and my mom says I’m depressed. She wants me to wear pink or orange or something bright like that so no one thinks I’m forced to wear hijab. I’m not, but I don’t feel the need to prove it to anyone. Can you give me some research to show her she’s wrong to dictate my hijab color?
That last question is interesting.
Still, I erase them all.
Dear Imam, what if you know something bad that someone’s done, something against the laws of God, but no one else knows it, and people think that that person is really good and should get a position of responsibility in the community, like, say, leading prayers . . . what should the person who knows the truth do?
Dear Imam, what if you find that you’ve fallen for someone who is not Muslim?
I read over my questions, and, before doubts set in, I press send.
SAINTS AND MONSTERS
Deval called and said you’d promised to be downstairs with Mr. Ram in ten minutes,” says Mom the second I wake up. She’s lying in bed reading, on the other side of the privacy screens, but of course she still knows my eyelids have fluttered open to Friday morning. Such are the woes of cramped living.
I wiggle out of my sleep T-shirt and put on an old tunic top that Manisha, Mr. Ram’s daughter-in-law, brought me back from India. Slip on yesterday’s jeans and hijab, both lying at the foot of the bed, and I’m ready, except for my teeth. As I head to the bathroom, I think about Nuah and his offer to tell me teeth jokes. I can’t even think of one that would be funny. He must be easily amused.
Across from the bathroom, the door to my old room is ajar. Muhammad is lying on top of a sleeping bag spread on the floor. I tiptoe in and stand over his sprawled form. I’d forgotten he sleeps with his eyes partially open, whites showing. Eerie, yet oddly comforting, knowing he’s got some semblance to my brother BSS—Before Saint Sarah.
He takes in a sudden sharp breath, jerks his left arm, and widens his eyes, pupils returning to life, strange sounds sputtering from his freshly unpouted mouth. “Egh gawph. Gharhakk.”
He registers me and jerks his arm again. “Hey! What are you doing?”
“Just wondering how you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Sleep like a blobfish. Eyes open, mouth puckered. Sarah will be thrilled, if you guys make it that far.”
He flips over and hugs his pillow. “What time is it?”
“Late, for those employed. Like me.” I turn to walk out. “Also, Gandhi has a message for you: ‘Rise, traveler, the sky is light. Why do you sleep? It is not night.’?”
“Thanks. For the room.”
I stop in the doorway. “You can thank Dad for that.”
? ? ?
Mr. Ram is set up in his favorite seat in the corner of the living room. I sit down on the sofa next to him and hold up my seerah book. He smiles.