“I’m talking about this,” she says. “There, look at your video messages.”
I draw the phone away from my ear and open the new-message indicator.
It’s me and Jeremy by the trees, this afternoon. I’m looking up at him with this really fawning expression while he feeds the chickadee. Then he gives me the seeds, and we look at each other. I didn’t know that I smiled afterward, but apparently I did and it looks sort of cheesy.
“Where did you get this?” I say, replacing the phone to my ear.
“Janna, I don’t know what you’re up to, and I don’t like that you’re just hiding this whole thing from me,” Fizz says. “Am I a friend or not?”
“Who sent you this?” I say, slowing my voice as I realize there’s only one person who could have done this. Motive and opportunity.
“Farooq, who had the decency to tell me,” she says. “You know they’re like best friends, right?”
“I don’t care!” I scream. “He’s an asshole! A disgusting creep!”
“What is wrong with you?” she screams back. “You’re talking about an innocent guy . . . he’s got nothing to do with what you’re doing behind everyone’s backs. You’re actually stepping away from Islam, and you get mad at the guy who’s helping you back to it? Janna, you’ve changed so much!”
“He’s a pig and I hate him!” I say, crying now.
“He’s a hafiz of the Qur’an. Watch your mouth,” she says. “I don’t want to talk to you. I can’t believe you’re saying all this just to protect your relationship or whatever with this non-Muslim guy? Someone you know nothing about?”
“You don’t know anything about your cousin,” I say, aware that she can’t probably understand anything I’m saying because I’m blubbering so hard. “He’s a . . . a . . .”
She hangs up on me.
A new-message notification pops up on my screen instantly. It’s Muhammad, who probably heard me screaming from his bedroom next door.
Everything okay?
“A ‘No’ uttered from the deepest conviction is better than a ‘Yes’ merely uttered to please, or worse, to avoid trouble.” That’s what Gandhi said. Mr. Ram told me.
I’m coming.
He opens the door and shuts it behind him quietly before moving a portion of the privacy screens back.
“What’s going on?” he says.
Can I just go to bed? I text. He sits on Mom’s bed to read his phone.
You and Fizz fight?
M, I’m tired. I’m sure mom told you about the drama.
That’s it?
Yeah, that’s it.
You sure?
Yeah, and that guys suck.
Except Gandhi and Mr. Ram?
Zzzzzz
He leaves the room but is back as I’m settling into a long night of sleeplessness. He’s holding his phone out for me to see.
“Farooq sent me this,” Muhammad says. “Why?”
It’s the video of me and Jeremy by the lake.
The creep is ruining me.
Anger like I’ve never experienced before, tsunami-size, crashes within.
MONSTERS
My history exam is at nine o’clock. I think I’m ready. War is bad and there were many. Misunderstandings account for most of them. Clear communication between affected parties would have saved countless lives. Describe each war thus, citing dates and locations, and earn an A, as Oliver pointed out.
Avoid thinking about Farooq and the Nazis and the world is all good.
I skip eating breakfast, as Mom fell asleep on the couch. Kitchen sounds would have woken her, and I don’t want to face the calm after the storm. With Mom, that means a guilt-laden experience with many allusions to her struggles as a single mom. I turn the key in the lock without fanfare, intent on making it out of the building without being sighted.
The elevator doors open in the lobby to reveal Sandra and Ms. Kolbinsky, who’s holding a plate of samosas.
“Hey.” I hold the doors apart for them. “Where are you two off to?”
“I will visit Mr. Ram. I made these for him. Here, there’s some for you, too.” Ms. Kolbinsky peels back a bit of saran wrap and eases a few samosas out. “Try it. They are very spicy.”
I accept one and bite into it. The pastry covering offers muted flavor before the spiced potatoes explode in taste, tangy and hot. “Mmmm, oh my God, they’re so good! You made these?”
“Yes! I’m a cook, always cooking. You’ll like more?” She’s unwrapping more of the saran, but I put out a hand to stop her.
“I have an exam, gotta go. But . . . so do you?” I turn to Sandra, who’s already tucked into a corner of the elevator.
“I’m just taking my grandma up.”
“See you then. Tell Mr. Ram I said hi.”
I let go of the doors. Before they close, I glimpse Sandra’s face changing as she turns to her grandma. It becomes unguarded, tender, like she’s eleven years old again.
Like when she returned two weeks late into the beginning of the school year in sixth grade. She took a seat and turned a sweet grin to me. “You’re new? I’m Sandra. Just got off the plane from Florida, visiting my dad. I live with my mom.”
A little spark lit in me when I heard that. “Me too. I live with my mom too. My dad’s working in Chicago.”
She was my first friend in Eastspring, before Tats and I latched on to each other at the exclusion of everyone else. And before the art teacher made the class do an extensive study of Frida Kahlo at the end of eighth grade, and Pradeep muttered that Frida’s mustache was nothing like someone else’s in our class. A group of guys coughed “Sandra” discreetly every time Frida’s self-portraits were projected onto the screen. Sandra’s sweetness began drying up and disappeared completely once mustache stickers made their way onto her locker door every week.
I take a seat beside the fake banana tree in the lobby to wait for her.
My phone beeps. Mom.
Why didn’t you eat breakfast? I bought waffles for you, the big ones from Parades. They were in the freezer.
I swallow. Those are my favorite—thick and crispy on the outside. And the inside? A heaven of fluff. Slathered with buttery syrup, it’s the best breakfast.
I’m not hungry.
You have an exam. Come back up, you still have time.
I got a samosa from Ms. Kolbinsky.
What? Ok, do what you want. Salaams.
I scroll through my messages.
And fyi, only hot guys look good in necklaces. I can’t believe I wrote that to Nuah. I delete it and the previous texts that took me to that crazy point.
Salaams Nuah. It’s Janna. I press send and wait for a bit. I just want to apologize for the texts I sent yesterday.
I wait. Is he driving or something?
Remember I told you I WASN’T nice? See it’s true.
Maybe he’s already in class.
Anyway, just wanted to say SORRY. I fill the text field after that with sad sorry emojis and press send.
Maybe he’s taking an exam.
? ? ?
“I told Mr. Ram you said hi, and he gave me these for you.” Sandra hands me a paper shopping bag.