I look up and see him walking to his car, head bent over his phone.
My traditional self would have ignored such an intrusion, but something kick-ass woke in me when I saw the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle backpack walking away this morning, actually walking away from me when I told it to. I want to wreak something.
Do you have a problem other than a total lack of maturity and intelligence?
It’s that dude Farooq.
Go play with your turtles.
He’s bothering you.
Did I ask your opinion on anything? No, cause you’re like 4 years old.
Right?
I glance at his car, hoping he’ll look my way and see my scowl. But he’s at the steering wheel, intensely staring at his phone, oblivious to my shut-the-hell-up face.
I’m about to turn my phone off but can’t resist one last message. And fyi, only hot guys look good in necklaces.
Muhammad gets into the car, and I shut the phone off. As Nuah drives by, my brother waves, but there’s no wave back because Nuah’s eyes are straight ahead.
I, astounded at my power, finally smile. I can’t wait to get home and get ready to meet Jeremy at the lake.
? ? ?
Mom, who is totally absorbed in her own state of affairs most of the time, decides to pick this day of all days to “reconnect” with me.
She starts with questions about the Quiz Bowl and then hops to Chicago and then home-runs to gossip gathering about Dad and his brood. Though Muhammad is available and willing to entertain her with a fully mimed performance of the whole weekend, saving his surprise status change as the last juicy tidbit of his recount, Mom persists in following me while I head to the bedroom to dump my stuff.
I grunt replies. I mean, what can you say to “Did Linda cook Indian food or white food or Greek food?” except “Food, just food”?
I close my/her bedroom door on her after I grunt, “Sweaty, must change.”
Where were you, Mom, when I came home from Fizz’s house a few weeks ago and curled into bed without taking off my shoes or hijab because no one told me Muslim boys could also be pervs?
Oh yeah, you were with your friends, having another girls’ night out.
And then I see my seerah book lying on my bed, open to the last page.
A sketch of two people at the lake and a date, today’s, underlined three times.
OMG, Mom totally knows. She’ll never let me out of the house.
But not overtly, because she promised me privacy. Such a lie.
“Janna, I made your favorite, salmon cakes,” Mom calls from too close to the door, her breathing, uneven and stressed, belying her chipper words. “And I got us season four of Downton Abbey, Mary on her own. We got a long night, so I got a big tub of Ben and Jerry’s Half Baked.”
I need help. I need Fizz.
Can you call me right now? On the home line?
I wait for a text back but instead get the sweet sound of our phone ringing. Muhammad raps on the door, yelling, “Fizz to Janna, come in, come in.”
I open the door and grab the phone, ignoring Mom standing in the hallway.
“Fizz, can I come over?” I whisper.
“Sure, but I’ll be home in about an hour; I’m still teaching Sunday school,” Fizz whispers back before yelling, “Adam, sit down! You don’t need to wash your shoulders before prayer. Can someone else come up here and demonstrate washing up before salat?”
“That’s okay—I’ll be there after two anyway,” I say. “Thanks, see ya.”
“Okay, give me a full replay of Chicago when you come. Aliya’s version wasn’t impressive. Plus, why are you ignoring my messages on Facebook? What’s up with your nonhijab pics? Is someone shaming you?” Fizz says.
“I’ll talk to you later. Promise.”
I place the seerah book under the bed and slide out of my jeans and top. I already planned my outfit on the way home this morning: my white ultrathin sweatshirt, the one with the witty sayings written in an owl shape, layered over a pink shirt with my favorite jeans and pink jelly flats. And black hijab.
After changing, I throw some lip gloss and mascara into my sling purse. The lobby mirrors are perfect for adding last-minute makeup.
I open the door and breeze by Mom. She hasn’t moved from her spot in the hallway, and though Muhammad has reached the pivotal point of Sarah “declaring” her commitment to him, it isn’t him she’s staring at.
I turn at the last second, at the door, as if in afterthought.
“Oh, Mom, Fizz wants me to come over for help with something,” I say. “So assalamu alaikum.”
“But Fizz teaches at the mosque and it’s not done yet,” Mom says, coming closer to me.
“But it is at the mosque,” I lie supremely. “I’m going there now. To help.”
“I can drive you,” Mom says, stepping forward to reach her purse hanging on the hooks by the front door. “Auntie Fatima asked me to try to come by to pack the care packages for Syria. That’s why Fizz probably needs you. We can work together.”
“No, I need to stop by the stationery store to get stuff for studying anyway. I’ll go.”
“That’s on the way; I can take you,” says Mom, sliding her purse up to her shoulders.
And then, thank Allah, Sarah saves me. She rings up from the lobby, saying she wants to come up to drop some stuff we forgot in her car. In the noise of Muhammad insisting that she be asked to stay for lunch and Mom scrambling to find something to serve her (What about salmon cakes and Ben & Jerry’s, Mom?), I slip out.
For sure the sun has to shine the rest of the afternoon: I don’t even see Sarah on the way down, even with our elevator situation. I put on makeup hassle free in the lobby.
The wind that’s ever present outside our lobby doors due to the way the buildings are clustered feels special when it hits my face and blows back my hijab a bit. Some of my bangs loosen and fall across my forehead. The wind skips behind me, nudging me forward down the walk and then away from the main road, toward the older homes, his neighborhood, right beside the lake.
I refuse to glance back. Mom’s bedroom looks out right onto the path, and I know the face that would be staring at me from the window would be filled with utter disappointment. While I’m filled with utter hope.
? ? ?
How do you know if an experience is going to become a memory while you’re actually in it? Like, as I come closer to the picnic table next to where Jeremy stands, with the lake shimmering behind him, I can feel the nostalgia already creeping in for this scene to repeat again and again, even though it hasn’t even officially begun yet.
Me, walking toward the guy I’ve been thinking about since April. Him, waiting with a smile on his face.
I adjust my hijab and turn to snap a picture of the formation of rocks edging the walkway. To quell things.
When I turn back, I see the rest of them. Besides Jeremy, who’s turned around to face the water, there are a few others. So he came through on his promise of making it a group thing. How had I not seen them before?