Saint Sarah comes over to the front of our table from where she was huddled with the Quiz Bowl organizers. “Okay, we’re in the final round. After the seerah and dua rounds, only the top two teams will compete for the finals.”
She doubles forward and hugs me, squishing me against her perfumed self. “You’re awesome, Janna. I know you’ll be amazing. And thanks for coming through for us at this busy time for you.”
After she leaves, I turn to Muhammad, noticing Nuah’s empty spot as I do so. “Is there glittery eye shadow on my scarf?”
? ? ?
“Round five: seerah.” The host looks at the three teams, Michigan, Ohio, and us, in turn, eyes twinkling. Red, yellow, and blue.
“Question one: Why did the Prophet Muhammad’s mother choose his name for him? Why did the mother choose his name? The Prophet’s name? Why?”
I hit the buzzer.
Farooq moves into view from the audience as I open my mouth. His phone is aimed squarely at me, taking a photo or video. I blink into it for a few seconds.
“Yes, blue team?” The host is encouraging me with kindly nods.
I forget the question. The word “why” reverberates in my head. Why? Why? Why? “Why” what?
The green light turns off above our table.
Curly yellow girl buzzes in. “While she was pregnant, Amina, the Prophet’s mother, had a dream with an angel calling her newborn Ahmad, which is a variation of Muhammad.”
“Yellows, one point.
“Question two: Who in the Prophet’s family owned a leather-goods business? Who owned a leather-goods business? Leather-goods business? Who?
“Question three: What key military strategy did the Prophet take his wife’s advice on? Key military strategy advised by his wife? His wife? What strategy?
“Question four: From where did the Prophet ascend to heaven on the Miraj? Prophet ascend to heaven? On the Miraj? From where?
“Blues, you have not buzzed in for any more seerah questions.” The host is looking right at me. “If you don’t get this last question, you’ll be eliminated from the finals, and Indiana will get your spot.
“Question five: When was the first written constitution, the constitution of Medina, written? When was the first written constitution written? The constitution of Medina? When was it written?”
Who? What? Where? When? The questions bounce around my head as I stare into the host’s face.
I can tell that the monster is still filming me.
I sit back. Curly yellow buzzes in. Her team explodes with hoots as they take first place.
The Indiana greens stand up and cheer, clamoring back onstage. The audience, our home-state audience even cheers.
The only silence comes from our table.
As our team streams offstage, I excuse myself on the pretense of needing the bathroom. I go down a hall beside the studio audience steps, this hallway dingier than the one we entered the studio through, and open the first door I see. It’s a cleaning supply closet. There’s a ceramic garden gnome hanging out on the shelf beside a container of pink liquid, and he watches me spread the Cookie Monster T-shirt on the floor before taking a seat on it.
I lean against the wall, tipping my head back to stare at the stains on the ceiling.
What would it feel like to glide by the monster, all in black, like Sausun? I’d give him no access to me, or my expressions, even my body language, if I wore a huge, tentlike outfit. I could be giving him the finger the whole time, and he wouldn’t even know it.
But what I can’t get is why I don’t even want him to know it.
Why does it feel like I’m wound up, my hands and mouth, by some binding I can’t see?
I dip my head down and rest it on top of knees that are pulled tight to my chest. My eyes close. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow, and everyone will have forgotten I lost for the team.
? ? ?
I wake to the beep of a text from Muhammad: Where are you? We’re leaving to get something to eat.
The time: 8:12 p.m. The date: still Saturday.
Coming. Can I join your car?
After a minute: That’s a no. Sausun refuses to ride in a “stunted car like Aliya’s.” Something about long legs and necks.
I ride downtown curled in half again.
“Janna’s really tired,” Aliya says in a soothing voice to the guys as she strokes my head.
“Must be exams,” Nuah says.
“Yeah,” says the monster. “Exams.”
I pretend to need to be nudged awake again, this time in front of Baba’s Pizza and Pasta. The others rush in and I hang back, leaning against the bricks outside the restaurant. Saint Sarah’s car pulls up and coughs out Sausun. Muhammad emerges minutes later and strides over to me.
“Remember your offer to chaperone a few more meets?”
I shrug. I’m not in the mood to dispute his misuse of the word “offer.”
“Well, a couple of streets over, on Randolph, there’s this really nice Vietnamese restaurant,” he says. “Will you come with us?”
I nod, open to anything that will take me away from the hulking crudeness known as Farooq, currently inside Baba’s.
“Thanks,” Muhammad says. “And don’t worry about the Quiz Bowl.”
I shrug and walk a few steps ahead to prevent him from seeing the wetness pooling in my eyes.
I knew why the Prophet’s mom had chosen his name for him. I knew about his ascension to heaven. I knew exact instances when he’d consulted his wife about military strategy. I knew who in his family had a leather business.
I would have gotten us into the Quiz Bowl finals.
I cry into the wind that blows off Lake Street, hoping I’m headed in the right direction, hoping they didn’t mean to drive to the restaurant. I want to cry and not attack my eyes to stop the tears. Somehow this cry feels deserved.
By the time they catch up with me, I’m composed and looking up at the “L” train tracks running above us.
We walk silently until Muhammad indicates a turn.
“There,” Muhammad says. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”
The restaurant patio is a composition of dark and light wood. Minimalist, lots of clean lines, good for my state of mind.
“Muhammad?” I ask. “Do you mind if I sit at another table? You guys can talk, and I can make some exam notes.”
“Sure,” Muhammad says. “Sarah?”
“No problem,” Saint Sarah says, leading the way into the restaurant. “You get cracking on those exams, and we’ll promise to be super good.”
I eat shrimp and sweet potato cakes and write words on blank lined paper: “fade,” “extinguish,” “evaporate,” “niqabize.” The ways to disappear.
I don’t need to pretend to make notes. They’re so into each other, they ignore my presence. I do my Islamic duty of glancing at them periodically to make sure they aren’t reaching for each other’s hands or playing footsies. Alas, no such drama.
The highlight comes as we’re leaving, when Saint Sarah tells us about the text she received informing her that the others had squeezed into Aliya’s car, even Sausun’s legs and neck, and gone on to Dad’s house in the suburbs. It will be only us three in the car. Sigh of relief.
We’re walking by the patio when someone calls out, “Sarah?”