? ? ?
Jeremy stops the car at the entrance to our cluster of buildings, and we get out. Tats starts walking, but I move to the driver’s window and wait for Jeremy to roll it down. “Thanks again.”
He nods. “No problem. See you around then?”
“Sure, as long as you don’t scare away the birds.” I wave as the window rolls up, and he drives away, a smile on his face.
My phone pings. You never told me your brother’s a crybaby.
Lol, why?
He’s calling fouls every day. Basketball.
Hey, go easy on him. He hasn’t played all year.
“Let me guess, is that from Nuah?” Tats has walked back.
“Yeah, why?”
“Because this.” She holds up her phone. A picture of me texting with a smile on my face. I look happy. Like the way happy should look.
“Can I use that for my profile pic?”
“Sure,” she says, leaning over to read my texts. “Let’s go hang with him. He’s playing basketball. Let’s go watch.”
“At the mosque? Friday night drop-in?”
“So? Is it a guys-only mosque?”
“No. My uncle’s not like that and he runs the place. There’s girls’ floor hockey going on right now too.”
“So let’s go. We cut the party short.” She leaves off saying “for you.” We left the party for you. “And the night is young! First day of freedom! Let’s go!”
I laugh. “To the mosque! YEAH.”
? ? ?
Sarah is in the foyer setting up a Ramadan fund-raising drive display.
“I just realized I’m dressed kind of weird for this place,” Tats whispers. “Look at that girl. She looks like she’s from a fairy tale or something.”
Sarah’s wearing a high-waisted mint green chiffon dress paired with a taupe hijab tied short and close to her face, with a chunky white-and-gold necklace, a statement piece, adorning her neckline. She does look royal.
She waves us over. “Assalamu alaikum! Can you girls give me a hand?”
I introduce Tats and we help move a table in between two tall cardboard minaret-shaped cutouts. Each minaret is a thermometer with money amounts replacing the temperature marks.
“It’s a generational contest this year,” Sarah says, pointing at the labels on the minarets. One says ADULTS, the other YOUTH. “We’re going to see who can raise more money.”
“Cool, but is there a scarf I can wear?” Tats asks. I should have remembered that she had on shorts. I should have set her up before we came.
“It’s not a problem, but if you want something to cover with, come with me,” says Sarah. “Janna, can you put out the forms? They’re mixed up in that bag.”
I nod and begin sorting. There are fund-raising forms mixed with other literature. I open a pamphlet that’s titled Domestic Violence: A Hidden Crime. At the bottom of a block of writing describing women’s shelters are Sarah’s name and phone number, as a support person.
Sarah and Sausun. I’d thought they were so different from each other but they’re not. They’re super big picture, into causes and things beyond their lives.
In Sausun’s case, it makes sense. Her sister is trapped abroad.
It’s like she’s forced into advocacy. Actually, it makes sense for Sarah, too. She does it for religion.
Something Mr. Ram said comes back to me: the why you do something is important. The Wiyyah, in Arabic.
Maybe that’s why I couldn’t do anything about the monster before. The why wasn’t there.
Because all I felt was this shame. Like as if I had something to do with it. I don’t even know why I felt that.
The shame should have been all his but I chose to carry it around this whole time.
What if there are others? Like Sausun had asked?
What if there’s someone else, maybe playing floor hockey right now, feeling what I’d felt?
I close the pamphlet. I don’t want a single other girl to carry what’s only his.
I’m shifting the shame. He needs to feel it.
The doors to the gym off the foyer fling open. The sound of dribbling spills out, punctuated with the bang of the doors shutting.
A bunch of guys, sweaty and laughing, make their way to the water fountain.
The monster’s one of them.
He’s feeling good enough to come to Friday night drop-in at the mosque? After yesterday?
I drop the pamphlet on the table and look right at him. I want him to see me. I need him to see me, see that I’m here too, that I belong in this space.
I stand because I’m strong enough.
He notices me, from where he’s waiting at the water fountain, but looks away.
I walk but my eyes remain on him. I know he sees me moving because he flinches.
The gym doors bang open again and it’s Nuah and Muhammad, their T-shirts soaking.
“You okay?” It’s almost Muhammad’s way of salaams. His standard You okay? nods or queries.
“No,” I say, heading to Amu’s office. “But I will be.”
The monster looks up. He’s heard me. He moves out of the line for the water fountain, his eyes watchful, glancing from me to the mosque’s front doors. Coward.
Through the glass window of the office reception area, I see Nuah near the fountain now. He waves, his face breaking into a big smile on seeing me.
If I need backup, there’s Nuah. He found the monster with me on the basement stairwell at Dad’s house.
But I don’t need backup. I’m enough.
? ? ?
When I come out, Amu is beside me, insisting that he drive me home. He wants to gather as a family.
While he goes into the gym to find Muhammad, I sit on the couch in the reception room. I need to send a text. I need to give Sausun hope.
I didn’t write it out and burn the pages. I said it out loud. It’s not mine to carry anymore.
Who’d you say it out loud to?
My uncle.
She sends me a thumbs-up. Then, Too bad you don’t make a good Niqabi Ninja. I listened to the recording. An “oozing slime fest”? A “big empty husk of nothingness”?
Too bad back, because that’s why I’m texting you. I’m in to help your sister.
Um, why don’t you wait to see your audition video? You actually stopped to wiggle your eyebrows at me. Before chasing the perv out of his debut performance.
Fine, I can be the camera/editing gal then.
Fine then.
Muhammad raps on the window and makes a leaving motion. I walk out to the crowded foyer to collect Tats.
She’s at the fund-raising table wearing an abaya over her shorts, a scarf around her neck. There’s a group of guys from basketball and girls from floor hockey collected around the table.
“So this is the form you fill out,” Tats says. “Come on, guys, we can get a head start!”
Sarah points at Tats and mouths, Where did you find her? She’s awesome! and indicates the YOUTH minaret thermometer. It’s at three hundred dollars already.
? ? ?
“Ya Allah. My little one.” When Amu lets go of hugging me, Mom moves in, holding me by my shoulders and looking into my face.
“Oh, Janna, why didn’t you come to me?” She gathers me in her arms and I go slack.
There’s nothing for my breath to get snagged on inside me anymore.
Muhammad puts a hand out to me.