Saint Sarah: Miss Muslim Universe.
That’s why, with this fact that we’re extremely unlike one another, it’s weird that we get into a groove, a rhythm, practicing for the competition. Saint Sarah sits, barking questions that she’s collected from previous Quiz Bowls, her silk flower turning with her head to gaze at the person she’s asked or aimed her quizzing at. Sausun, rocking back and forth with her arms wrapped around her knees and a frown on her face as if she’s experiencing menstrual cramps right in front of everyone, clips her Qur’anic answers in staccato. Aliya sits with her hands raised in prayer, responding to her dua questions by reciting a long prayer of an answer, followed up by a full belly laugh.
The guys animate their answers with fist pumping and jumped-up bro hugs and take-thats and all manner of behaviors that make it seem like we’re participating in football practice and not a dry Quiz Bowl.
Me? I jolt, then mumble my answers. Jolting, because I’m spending a lot of time thinking about Sunday at the lake. As I wait for my questions from Saint Sarah, I can’t stop myself from turning to the last page of my seerah book. I slide the sunglasses up on my head and doodle a picture of Jeremy and me standing with our feet in water. Birds fly above us, and they look like they have hearts as wings. Cheesy but necessary.
I carefully write in Sunday’s date and underline it three times. I add a special memo in a cute cloud: meet J at the lake.
I look up to answer my final question, and that’s when I notice something at the end of the long rec room, now that my vision has recalibrated itself.
The monster is on a low beanbag chair in the corner, using a laptop.
? ? ?
On the way home, the most I get out of Muhammad as to why Farooq was there the whole time is that he’s helping Saint Sarah with the logistics of our Quiz Bowl participation.
Logistics? Like it’s difficult to drive three hours to Chicago, answer some questions, and drive back? I clear Farooq out of my head and think about Sunday again.
Mom’s sleeping when I get back, so I take my exam notes to the dining table. I’m prepared to sacrifice my sleep for a long night of studying. For Sunday.
Before I start with the declassified math exam, I check if Amu has sent answers to my questions.
There’s an e-mail from him, but, weirdly, it’s an answer for another question. A question that never even came through my filtering.
Janna, a gentleman keeps e-mailing me this same question every two weeks and I fear if I do not address it, I may be held accountable by our Creator. Please edit this so we can add it to next week’s posting.
Dear Imam, can Muslims grow (medicinal) marijuana? My neighbor wants to start something with me—don’t worry, it’s not going to be at my place but his—and I’m all for helping people. Besides, God grew it here on earth, right? Just want your opinion before I invest.
Answer: Thank you for your interest in being of aid to people. It is a noble outlook on life, especially if undertaken without the expectation of a return, investment or otherwise. I take it you have perused the laws of your state? A Muslim is a follower of laws—the laws of God and the laws of the society he or she lives in. Thus, if one is not permitted to grow such a crop on private premises by law, such pharmaceutical farming initiatives are forbidden. Furthermore, in our religion, the laws of God ask us to not come near anything which alters our senses, as a Muslim must be mindful of Allah’s creation at all times. However noble your intentions may be, I find it at odds with your investment interests. And yes, God did grow it. But he also grew poison ivy. And Allah knows best.
I laugh. I can’t wait for his answers to my questions.
MONSTER, SAINTS, AND MISFITS
I’m in a car driven to Chicago by the monster.
He was the fourth person, the one Aliya said was coming along to keep Nuah company. Her “devout” cousin.
I’m sitting in the back, trying to ignore his glances in the rearview. I made sure to not sit behind him. He made sure to adjust the rearview mirror.
I am not going to open my mouth the whole way over. I am going to disappear.
Can I text Aliya to shut up with her pointless chattering next to me? And Nuah, with his dumb jokes? And Farooq, with his continued insistence on existing?
Feigning sleep, I curl down into my lap to escape those eyes in the mirror.
I pretend to be nudged awake by Aliya in front of this blank building. Blank, meaning there are no windows, signage, or any indication that things, other than nothingness, go on inside. By the looks of the surroundings, we’re in an industrial area. Cheery.
I actually brighten up a bit at this. The less this Quiz Bowl is made into a big deal, the faster I can skedaddle out of here, I surmise. This inference is quickly shattered when we get inside the building, and I realize we’ve entered through the back door of a local community cable station, STUDIO WKTN, RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW. That’s what the lettering along the walls tells us. Aliya gets giddy and goes charging ahead. I hang back, taking laboriously slow steps as Farooq is right behind Aliya, and the last thing I want to do is give him a thrill by colliding into him. Nuah is behind me, being Mr. Nice Guy and not passing me but moderating his pace.
We end our walk in a burst of black and bright: black stage, black furniture, black fixings lit up by lights from all directions and vantage points. A studio, with a small audience sitting across from us as we enter. Who would want to watch us get nitty-gritty with Islamic facts?
Muhammad cheers when he sees us. Saint Sarah waves us over with blue T-shirts in her hands. There are other teams huddled offstage, on the floor.
“Assalamu alaikum, we’re the blue team,” Saint Sarah says. “Wear these.”
I note with satisfaction that she doesn’t hand a T-shirt to Farooq and that he’s disappeared from our midst.
“Where’s Sausun?” I ask, loosening up now that the monster is gone. I hold up the enormous one-size-fits-all shirt that’s the color of Cookie Monster. There’s no way Sausun would wear this.
“Right here,” Sausun says. “Right in your face.”
I look up to see a tall woman in a black gown, face covered, by Saint Sarah’s side. On first glance previously, I’d dismissed this personage as someone’s mom.
She actually did it. She’s wearing niqab—well, beyond that, because her eyes are covered too by an almost sheer black fabric.
Does this mean she doesn’t have to wear a big blue T-shirt?