I wiggle some fingers at her in hello but feel more distant from her than ever before, if that’s possible.
For the rest of the time, while Saint Sarah preps us with the information the studio people gave her, I keep peeking at Sausun. She looks so . . . so . . . so elegantly aloof? Are these the words to describe the vibe she gives off? Like someone who doesn’t give a crap about anything, even things like a stalker guy in your mind’s comfort zone or the potential for an annoyingly perky person to become your sister-in-law in merely two more chaperoned sessions.
Basically, she looks like she’s excused herself from the proceedings of life’s unnecessariness.
At the same time, she looks like an in-your-face ghost or someone cloaked in a very obvious invisibility cloak. Powerful stuff.
I slip the blue shirt on top of my clothes and follow the team onto the stage. We get assigned one of the six tables, staggered slightly diagonally so that we can sort of see the other teams. The host and judges are on the floor in front of the stage, with their backs to the audience. They look serious, with suits on or sporting sharp ties against neatly buttoned-up shirts.
We get dusted by the makeup people. It’s telling that Saint Sarah does not need any additional makeup, and I glance over to see if Muhammad has duly noted this. But he’s engaged in some sort of intense handshake thing with Nuah and misses the opportunity.
My niggling admiration for Sausun blossoms as she casually waves away the makeup people, like some ninja diva.
Saint Sarah goes to huddle with the other team captains. I notice her hands are free. Her clipboard. It’s lying facedown on the table in front of Sausun.
I pull my chair close to Sausun. “Sarah forgot her clipboard.”
She glances at it and then flicks it over. We peer closer.
It’s a hand-drawn table of the weekend, including Friday. The column on the left lists top, bottom, hijab, shoes, purse, and accessories, and the next three columns are filled in with her outfit details. Details, as in pink-necklace-with-dangly-crystals details.
Sausun shakes her head and flips the clipboard back. “Wow. That was refreshing.”
? ? ?
Round one starts with questions on Islamic history. Muhammad braves that one pretty well against the reds from Michigan, the yellows from Ohio, the purples from Minnesota, the oranges from Iowa, and the greens from Indiana. We vault to third place after he correctly identifies a picture of the oldest surviving mosque in America: Cedar Rapids, Iowa, early 1900s. The oranges groan in unison at this fact about their home state.
Then Sausun takes on the Qur’an questions and catapults us to first. She’s really cool to watch. Her voice seems to materialize out of nowhere, reciting verses with precision and rhythm. I think it really throws the other teams off to be challenged by a faceless competitor. I give Sausun a low five at the end of her round. Saint Sarah hugs her so hard that she leaves shimmering eye shadow on Sausun’s veil.
Nuah’s turn. Islamic laws.
“What are the primary objectives of Islamic laws? The primary objectives of Islamic laws? Islamic laws? Objectives?” The host is a kindly older man. He’s got a thick Arabic accent so he makes sure to repeat the important parts of his questions several times, with twinkling eyes and encouraging nods of his head. His beard is Santa white.
Nuah buzzes in. He gets a fist bump from Muhammad as he leans in to the microphone. “Mercy, justice, education, and God-consciousness.”
“Excellent. Good.” The host shuffles his cards. “And what are the five categories of protections enshrined in the laws? Five categories of protections? Enshrined in Islamic laws? Islamic laws?”
One of the girls from the red team buzzes in. The three girls on their team have red hijabs on, and I wonder if they were informed about their team color ahead of time. Not that it would have changed anything for me. Black scarf all the way.
“Faith, life, inheritance, family, and lineage?” The redheaded girl sits back, unsure, as the host begins shaking his head in the middle of her response.
Nuah’s already buzzing in. The green light goes on above our team to indicate it’s our turn to answer.
“Life, intellect, faith, lineage, and property.” The white beard’s nodding as Nuah finishes.
From then on, Nuah’s on an untouchable streak. He cleans up the next three questions and completes round four, keeping us in first place.
At the start of a short intermission, when Aliya and Sausun go for a restroom break, he turns to me in the next seat over. “Seerah’s next. Virtual fist bump?”
He holds up a fist, and I pretend to bump it in the air. I can’t help laughing. Unrelated Muslims of the opposite gender aren’t supposed to touch each other, so his gesture’s funny.
Nuah is looking at me laughing, his head tilted in that odd way of his, the wooden prayer beads hanging around his neck askew. “Aha, I knew it. There’re a lot of smiles in there somewhere.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just that it’s nice seeing people smile.”
“I smile.”
“A lot?”
“When I need to.”
“I get it. It’s on a needs basis. Very economical.” He’s got a big smile as he says this.
“It would be kind of freaky to have this huge smile pasted on all the time.” I arrange a freaky smile on my face, crossing my eyes to add to the effect.
He laughs. “Uh-oh. I’ll have to reevaluate my policy of walking around with a smile now. If that’s what I look like.”
“Well, ask yourself: Do people ever move away from you slowly as you enter a room? Do they glance at each other ever so carefully as they back away?”
“I don’t know. Do they?” He’s looking at me quizzically, a smile still on his face. “At the community center. When you first saw me. April sixteenth.”
I stop and pretend to think. Why does he think I noticed him on April sixteenth?
“Was that your first day of work there?”
“No, I started on April first.”
“So why would I have seen you on April sixteenth?”
“Oops. My bad. I mean that first Thursday in April then. Or whenever you first saw me. Maybe at the mosque. Whenever.” He’s looking away now, tilting his chair back.
Muhammad leans over from the other side of Nuah. “Jan, if you need to review your notes, now’s the time to do it. Look at that girl there.”
A petite girl with long curly hair, drowning in a yellow T-shirt, is consulting a seerah book. A published one. The authoritative one. Sticky notes protrude from the book’s pages, and she closes it once in a while to mutter things to herself before checking the book again.
“Where’s your seerah book?” Muhammad asks.
“I left it at home.”
“Nice.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure I can keep us in first place.”