He nods.
“Assalamu alaikum, Janna! Respond to me as I tell you because if I know your brother, he’s hovering around there somewhere. Say ‘walaikum musalam.’?”
“Walaikum musalam?”
“Okay, so your brother is really worried about you and this video that Farooq’s been sending people. He asked me to talk to you and figure out what’s going on. But I know that’s not really going to happen. Now say ‘nothing much.’?”
“Nothing much?”
“So my idea is that you say yes or no to me. And ‘sorta’ if you want me to know it’s none of my business.”
“Sorta.”
“You catch on quick. Are you in any trouble?”
“No. I mean sorta.”
“Do you need help of any kind? That could mean support through talking or hanging out. Whatever.”
“No.”
“Is someone bothering you?”
“Yes. I mean sorta.”
“Is it the guy in the video?”
“No.”
“Is it the guy who took the video?”
“Sorta.”
“Do you want to eat cupcakes with me at Soliloquy’s?”
“No.”
“Ouch. Okay.”
“I mean, I have exams to study for.”
“I know. It’s just hard over the phone.”
“I’m not a cupcake person.”
“That’s because you haven’t been to Soliloquy’s. How about we meet and I talk. About Malcolm. Now please don’t say ‘Malcolm?’ really loud. It’ll be good for both of us to meet up.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to get something off my chest. You sit there and listen and eat cupcakes. Mindlessness, that’s what you need now.”
I think about it. Maybe it would be a healthy diversion: inhaling sugar while listening to someone’s sordid past.
“Okay.”
“Give the phone to Muhammad, and I’ll get him to drive you on his way to the gym.”
? ? ?
Soliloquy’s is the polar opposite of the modern restaurant where Sarah first met Muhammad and me. There’s enough chintz in here to kill modernity. And it’s not just one type of floweriness. The armchairs around the low tables are upholstered in different prints, as are the heavy draperies at the windows and each wall segment surrounding the diners. The ceiling is painted in more ornamental flourishes.
“Look at the cups and plates,” Sarah whispers as we wait in line to place our orders. A waiter walks by with a tray filled with diverse flowery china.
“My grandma would love it in here,” I whisper back. “She’d feel at home.”
“Most of the crowd here is young. It’s about the irony.” Sarah indicates a young woman in black with blue hair, snuggling into a yellow chair while gazing at her phone. In front of her sits a steaming cup of tea and a huge pink-frosted cupcake. I want to take a picture.
We score a table by the window. The chintzy chair is nice and roomy, and I don’t resist pulling my legs up into it. There are even wings at the sides that welcome my head to rest into them.
“Yes, he does look like Liam Hemsworth.” Sarah arranges the cutlery and salt and pepper shakers. “We dated for almost two years. Beginning of first year to end of second year of college.”
“He’s really cute.”
“Yeah, and he really knows it.”
“Is that why you broke up?”
“No, I broke up because I found another love.”
“Some other guy?”
“No. I began helping out with this group that does PR for unfashionable causes. Like organizations that help young unwed mothers find career paths, community rehab programs for ex-prisoners, stuff like that. That’s when I was studying marketing.”
“Liam, he didn’t like that?”
“No, no. Malcolm didn’t mind. He’s kind, a giver too. It’s only that I began drifting away. I found out I love making things happen. In a big way. And he wasn’t into it as much as I was. So we fell apart.”
The waiter appears with a teapot, two cups, and four cupcakes. Two mocha almond fudge for Sarah and a cherry cream and key lime for me. Exam fuel.
Sarah pours me a cup of tea. “It’s chai tea.”
I laugh. “My dad always laughs when people say that.”
“Why?”
“Because the word ‘chai’ means tea. Just tea. So it’s like people are saying tea tea.”
“But what’s this kind of tea called? The one with spices?”
“Masala chai. Or masala tea. Masala means spices.”
“That’s good to know. So when I make spicy tea for your dad, I’ll say masala chai, like a good daughter-in-law.” She finishes stirring her tea and places the teaspoon into the saucer.
“About that, are you really going to marry Muhammad?”
“I want to. But I hope he’s okay with waiting until I finish my PhD.”
“Why?”
“I’m so driven when I’m doing something that I’ll ignore him until I’m done with my doctorate. That’s what I meant about Malcolm and me drifting apart.”
“But how were your parents okay with you dating? Didn’t they think it was haram?”
“They weren’t into religion back then. I got them into it. Third year of college, before we moved here, I started volunteering to do PR for a Muslim group doing street advocacy.” She takes a huge bite. I’m impressed.
“So you got into Islam.”
“In a super big way. I love it. It lets me be driven.”
I taste the key lime. The frosting is heavenly. “Mmm. This is not a kiddy cupcake.”
“Told you so.”
“Can I ask you something? Without you getting offended?”
“Sure.” She’s finished a cup of tea already and is pouring her second.
“Is it your drivenness that makes you want to be in charge of everything?”
She pauses mid-sip. She looks a lot like her father when she does that. “Hmm, maybe. Why, do I look like a control freak?”
“No, just like you like everything perfect.”
“That’s the definition of a control freak.”
“Okay then.”
She laughs and sets her cup down. “Is that why you avoid me?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Janna Yusuf, you’re funny and so right. Maybe I sometimes mistake control freaking for being driven.”
“Anyway, now I know you’re not so perfect. You dated Liam Hemsworth. Haram, haram, haram.”
“No one is perfect except God. When I say driven, I mean striving. You can always strive to make life better. For you, for others. For the planet. Whatever.”
“You’re saying that with a gigantic frosting mustache.”
“Don’t turn now but look at who else has one.”
The woman in black with blue hair is talking into the phone, a pink frosting line under her nose.
We laugh.
I take a picture of Sarah with my phone. Maybe, just maybe, it’ll replace the old picture in my head.
? ? ?
On the drive back, Muhammad’s quiet. It’s eerie, so I fill the void with cupcake facts. “Sorry I didn’t get you one. But I didn’t want to undo your gym visit, plus you know what they say about dudes with beards eating cupcakes.”
He doesn’t respond.
I say, “Okay, I don’t know what they say about beards and cupcakes. But I thought for sure you’d know.”
“So did you tell Sarah about it?”
“About what?”
“This thing Farooq’s sending out.”
“No.”
“Janna, why can’t you tell me about it? What’s happening?” He pulls over to the side of the road and shuts off the car.