“No, Mr. Ram, I’m not finishing it,” I say. “There’s a quiz competition tomorrow, and going through this will help me prepare for it. Anyway, I brought it for you to read while I study.”
I lay the planner on his lap. It falls open to a caravan scene. There’s a heart, animated with lines, floating in the last frame, when Khadija, the Prophet’s first boss and first love, fifteen years older, sends a marriage proposal to him. They were happily married for twenty-five years before she passed away. Afterward, until he died, the Prophet couldn’t say her name without tearing up. I copied his words about her into my seerah book, in lionet-gold marker: She believed in me when no one else did . . . and she helped and comforted me when there was no one else to lend a helping hand.
The Prophet had been an orphan from a young age so he really understood what it means to have no anchor. To be on your very own, maybe with problems no one can know or bear for you.
Mr. Ram settles his glasses snugly and grips the book. The smile remains on his face.
I’m reading history notes, thinking, This is nice. Me and Mr. Ram, reading together, surrounded by plants crammed into every available surface in the condo. Thank you, Allah, I mouth. Being nice to Muhammad appears to have been a good idea.
Mr. Ram interrupts my reverie, a shaking hand holding a page taut. “Do you know Rumi?” he asks.
“A bit,” I say. “Mom has a book of his poems.”
“Yes,” he says. Then he stops. I wait and then go on reading about the creation of the United Nations.
He puts his hand on my arm.
“Do you know what Rumi said?” he asks. “What he said about love?”
“Um, no,” I say.
“He thought love was confusing until he realized there’s only one real love,” Mr. Ram says. “Love of the divine. Through which you could love everything.”
“Oh,” I say, flipping a notebook page. “Okay.”
“Here, let me give you this,” he says, pulling himself upright in his overstuffed chair. “This is Rumi.”
This is love: to fly towards a secret sky,
to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment.
First, to let go of life.
In the end, to take a step without feet;
to regard this world as invisible,
and to disregard what appears to be the self.
I ask him to recite it again slowly, while I copy it, to make him happy, to make him feel important again. He falls asleep almost immediately after he finishes the last line. I close the seerah book and take it from his lap.
I’m shuffling through my backpack to find my English notes when the house phone rings. The noise is so loud in the shady stillness of the plants and gentle huddled form of Mr. Ram that I’m ticked as I pick up.
“Janna?” It’s Tats.
“Hello?” I whisper loudly. “Mr. Ram is sleeping. Shhh.”
“What’s with your cell phone?” Tats says.
“It’s charging for the Chicago trip. But not with me,” I say, annoyed at her blustery intrusion. “Who gave you this number?”
“Yo mama. Log on to Facebook.”
“Why? I’m working.”
“Working at your neighbor’s while he’s sleeping? That sounds illegal. Anyway, log on, Lauren’s posted you.”
I scramble to Deval’s laptop, but it’s password protected. “I can’t; I don’t have access here. What did she post?”
“It’s you without hijab, in gym, I think from yesterday,” Tats reports. “Don’t worry—you look good.”
“Did she tag me?” I ask, about to puke. “Untag me if she did.”
“She did, but I can’t because I’m not you,” Tats says. “You want me to log in as you?”
“No, I’ll do it. I can’t believe this. I hate her.”
“Why? She called it ‘Hotness uncovered.’ That’s the title, so maybe she thinks it’s okay to put it up. Everyone’s commenting. I keep refreshing to keep track of it for you. Am I a good friend or what?”
“Thanks,” I mumble. “Can you message her to take it off?”
“Me? Like she’d listen to me.”
“Can you ask Jeremy to message her?” I say, desperate, thinking of everyone from the mosque on my friends list who’d see it on their news feeds. “Please, Tats.”
“I don’t get it, but okay, I’ll try,” Tats says.
“You don’t get it? What’s not to get?” I whisper-yell, keeping an eye on Mr. Ram. “I don’t want pictures of me without hijab on the Internet!”
“Sorry! I forgot! I just thought you looked good. I forgot it’s something in your religion.”
“How can you forget? It’s been on my head since seventh grade!”
“You forget too. What about gym class? Janna, stop getting mad at me when you haven’t figured it out yourself!” She’s actually yelling. “AT LEAST I CALLED YOU ABOUT IT! BECAUSE I ACTUALLY CARE!”
I glance at Mr. Ram again, wondering if her shouts are reaching him through the receiver. His eyes are closed.
I take a deep breath. “Okay, thanks. Thanks a lot for telling me, Tats. I’m just getting worried, that’s all.”
“Chill, I’m keeping on top of it for you.”
I hang up and chew my nails. Only thing to do now is count down until Deval gets back. Or go upstairs quickly for my laptop.
As I cover Mr. Ram with a blanket before I leave, I notice that he hasn’t even changed out of his pajamas. It’s almost lunchtime.
? ? ?
The apartment is empty, so I take my laptop to the dining table and position myself facing the front door to watch for Muhammad’s potential reentry.
Opening Facebook has never been so scary. I close one eye and click.
There’s a gruesome picture of me jogging by with my ponytail flying toward the camera. The intense look of concentration on my face tells me the photo was taken soon after I ran away from Farooq.
I untag myself, horrified that it’s already received so many likes and comments.
Twenty-four people like the picture.
Sixteen comments.
I stop reading after the posts hawt turd and sizlin brown stuff.
Who are these people? I click on names and see faces I don’t recognize.
I scroll through Lauren’s list of friends. Some are vaguely familiar from the hallways at Fenway, but most don’t ring a bell for me.
I open random profiles of those of her friends without privacy settings. Some of them appear to make it a habit to post compromising pictures of their friends. Is that why Lauren thought it was okay to post me like that?
A part of me wants to remove her as a friend, but the pragmatic side reminds me that then I’d never get to see what else she puts up.
I go back to her profile and read it over, trying to figure her out.
She’s so poised in her selfies, like she’s at Who’s Who events, but the pictures she puts up of her friends make them look less than refined. There’s one where Marjorie and another girl are laughing with their mouths open wide in unattractive poses while Lauren smiles serenely at the camera. Her hair is parted to the side, and the white of her diamond earring catches the light.
I look up at the mirrored hallway closet and try a Lauren smile. Mona Lisa in a pashmina stares back at me, and I feel spooked.
My charging cell phone rings in Mom’s bedroom and I jump.
“Janna?” Mom shouts. “Where are you?”
“Mom, why are you yelling?”
“Deval just called me because he’s been calling home and no one’s answering!”