I look up Niqabi Ninjas, clicking on the latest vlog, titled “Doormats and Other Losers.” “Check these girls out. They’re badass.”
The video is of one of the niqabi girls this time, and she’s sitting there talking to the camera. I’m about to close it to show Soon-Lee a real episode when I hear the niqabi say, “. . . back from a weekend in Chicago.”
I pause and rewind to the beginning, turning the iPad to myself. The intro blares out again, a mix of drumming and a man’s deep voice saying something in Arabic.
“Here, take these—you watch. I’ve got an exam tomorrow.” Soon-Lee flings earbuds to me.
“Okay, so I just came back from a weekend in Chicago. And I’m pissed. The weather? No, that was great. Thanks for asking. Yeah, and in terms of that, all those people asking for a FAQ video, that’s still in the works. My partner’s supposed to be on it, but instead she’s studying for the MCAT. Where are her priorities, huh? Anyway, this is going to be a short one. Just wanted to rant about doormats. I’m looking at you if you’re a loser who thinks it’s okay for someone, another being, to click the mute button on you. I was going to look up the definition of doormat so I can make this all deeply philosophically linked, but who cares at the end of the day? It pisses me off if you’re crying about your life, acting like someone took the reins out of your hands, when you’re here in the land of scream-whatever-you-want. Loser. That’s what you are. If you’ve got the means to fix your life and no man-made laws stopping you, then it’s your God-given right, scratch that, God-given duty to face your assaulter, stalker, whatever and squash him. Don’t snivel in the basement of your dad’s million-dollar home that you can’t do anything. Sorry, that took a bit of a personal turn, but pretend I took artistic liberty there. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental blah blah blah. Okay, rant over, will expand on this in another video when Ruki takes her head out of books long enough to ninja-it with me again. Salaams, see ya and stomp on.”
A shot of her Doc Martens ends the scene.
I close the browser and place the iPad next to Soon-Lee’s textbook.
I pack my books. It’s my turn to leave with a lame excuse. “I forgot I had to do something for my mom.”
? ? ?
I call her. She picks up but doesn’t say anything. I wait too because Mom’s just come into the bedroom from the shower, and the first word poised to come out of my mouth would have had her up in arms.
“I’m guessing you saw the latest vlog and you’re not too impressed. Whereas I’m impressed you’re actually subscribing to me. See, I see you in my channel’s new subscribers list from yesterday: janjan123,” Sausun says.
“You’re a bee with an itch,” I say the minute Mom goes into the closet to change. “You lied. You pretended the vlogs were by someone else. You wanted me to spill my secrets.”
“Why? Did I use your secrets? Did I tell anyone the perv tried to—”
“You never told me it was you!”
“You didn’t ask. I wear niqab, don’t I?”
“Yeah, but so do thousands of other girls. You’re a major bitch.”
“Janna! What are you saying?” Mom peers through the privacy screens. Like, so respectful of my privacy. “We don’t use language like that around here!”
I hang up and run to the bathroom, steamy and cloistering. I call the bitch back.
“Major bitch speaking. How may I help you?”
“I hate you and never want to see you again.”
“Okay. No problem.”
“You played with me. You broke my trust.”
“Not guilty on both counts.”
“Why’d you have to talk about me? What am I to your stupid vlogs?”
“It was a rant. I let myself spew. Give me a break, no one will know it’s about janjan123.”
“You owe me for using me as fodder for your rant.”
“Okay, now you’re speaking my language. What do you want? Money? Don’t say drugs because I don’t have any.”
“Get him.”
In the silence, I unwind my scarf and smooth my hair.
“Though it’s intriguing, it’s also disproportional. You’re asking of me more than I did to you.”
“Life’s not fair. Get him to back off.”
“Me? Who am I to him? He’ll blow me off.”
“Make him a star on your stupid show.” I stop talking because I’m getting this idea.
“Oh yes, he’d come running to do that.”
“What if he didn’t know he was on the show? That he was being film stalked?”
“And then what?”
“And then we get him.”
“We? Oh, I like this idea now.” She laughs.
I didn’t realize I’d added the “we” in there. “I mean you, you get him.”
“I’m in if you’re in. That means you get to take Ruki’s place. Ruki’s my other half, but she’s busy studying to get into med school so she’d be willing to give you her coveted spot. You can even borrow her abaya and niqab.”
“I don’t want to be on video.”
“No one will know it’s you. That’s the beauty of it. Besides, aren’t you already on video? You’re practically viral in the Muslim community, thanks to your ‘friend.’ He passed the Bollywood feature of you with a boy under a tree to everyone on the quiz team.”
Sarah saw it?
Nuah saw it.
Is that why he isn’t responding to my texts?
“I can’t be in it. Just do a show on him. And nothing to do with me.”
“I’ll think about it. I’m not into filmmaking for hire.”
“Think of it as what you owe me for using me.”
“Are you saying there’s no truth to what I said? If so, you’re blind.”
“Bye.”
? ? ?
After Mom leaves for work, I sit my laptop on her bed and look up the doormat vlog again. Gone.
I call Sausun. “You took it off YouTube.”
“The guilt, the terrible, gullible guilt ate up my insides.”
“I still hate you for what you did.”
“Good. See all that anger that’s fueling the hate? Take it and aim it at the right target.”
“You.”
“Whatevah. Why are you calling me?”
“Did you think up something?”
“Yes, it’s a blockbuster, coming to a theater near you, called Deal with Your Own Crap.”
Muhammad opens the door, talking into the house phone stuck between his ear and shoulder. “She’s right here.”
He holds out the phone. “Sarah wants to talk to you.”
I indicate my own conversation.
“Jan’s on the phone right now but will call you back. Pronto.” He nods at me and leaves.
I wonder what Sarah wants. Dirt on the video Farooq’s passing around? “I gotta go.”
“Don’t call me again unless it’s to say you’re participating in fixing your own problems. Why should I help someone who refuses to help themselves?” Her voice has lost the flippant quality. Now it’s plain mean.
I end the call and look up Sarah’s number. I reach voice mail. “Assalamu alaikum, Sarah, it’s Janna. You wanted to talk to me? Give me a call.”
Muhammad opens the door again. “Are you calling her on the other line? Here.”
He unsticks the phone from his ear and stretches it out to me. He waits, leaning on the doorframe with both hands in his pockets.
I muffle the phone. “Are you part of the conversation?”