Firing at Fort Sumter was a key catalyst action of the Civil War.
I take my exam notes into the living room. After ten minutes, I give up reading the same lines over and over. I have to get my camera.
Muhammad looks ridiculous, and I want proof.
Besides gliding along as though he’s being transported on clouds, he also moves erratically, unsure of what to do next. He goes from kitchen to bathroom to dining room to living room and all sorts of combinations of those four rooms over and over. I consider sticking my feet out to trip him on one of the episodes of happy restlessness, but I’m afraid the noise of him falling would disturb Mr. Ram downstairs.
After careful positioning, I get one blurred picture of the whole thing.
Muhammad grabs my camera and keeps it away from me, via his typical flatulence threats, while he scrolls through my pictures.
Of course he finds and lingers on the stash of Jeremy’s forehead pictures. “Very interesting. What do I see here?”
I run to my room, wondering how, merely a moment ago, I was this close to considering the possibility of maybe, perhaps, loaning him my room for a brief period of time. Now? No way.
There’s no lock on my door, so I sit on the floor, leaning against it, burning up, inside out, sinking my fingernails into my arms as I imagine Muhammad’s face. We don’t even fight like that anymore. Oh, what I would give to cat-whip his face into shape right about now.
That’s when he knocks. And laughs.
Meow-hiss.
“You turd,” I say.
“Oh, I’m the turd?” he retorts.
I stand and open the door in his face. The most excellent idea pops into my head.
“I can’t believe what you’re doing,” I say. “I am so going to tell Sai—Sarah about this.”
And, like I expect, my Ivy League brother stands still, a tiny sliver of fear encroaching on his face. Oh, I’m good at this.
“I’ve got pictures of my friends without hijab on my camera, and you, you sick pig, you’re going through them?” I say. “Give me my camera!”
And right at the moment when the realization reaches his brain and numbs his body that he’s probably seen Fizz et al without hijabs, I reach over and grab my camera. A masterpiece of how to cut your older brother down to size. Totally demolish him.
And make him forget about your forehead fixation.
But the guy bars my way out of the room.
“Wait a sec, freakoid,” he says. “What about your crazy pictures of . . . of . . . a guy’s forehead? I’m sure Mom would want to hear about that late-breaking news.”
I feel that squeeze of fear on my heart that invades on occasion, whenever “Mom” and “guy” are in the same sentence. But then I remember Fizz posing in her spaghetti-strap dress at Aisha’s party last month. She would kill me if my brother saw her like that. She’s the most modest person I know.
“Foreheads are nothing compared to seeing my friends uncovered,” I say. “It’s like peeking into their bedrooms.”
He fidgets.
“Yeah, but I didn’t do it on purpose,” he says.
“Oh really? Your fingers were working through my pics due to some tic? Hand spasms?” I say, gaining strength again.
“Okay, then let’s tell Mom about it when she gets home,” he says. “ALL about it.”
I blink into his stupid eyes. God, how could someone who finished a year studying philosophy be so, so, so petty?
Petty and, I have to admit, triumphant. There is no way I want Mom to see or know about those pictures of Jeremy.
“What do you want?” I say, defeated.
“Now we’re talking,” he says, leading the way to the living room. “I want you to chaperone some of my and Sarah’s meets.” And he actually smiles like, get this, a sheep.
I want to shear him (does it hurt the sheep to be sheared? And if it doesn’t, I don’t want to shear him), but I stay quiet, listening to his dastardly plan.
“Right now, Sarah’s dad or mom does all the chaperoning, at their house mostly,” he says. “They suck the fun out of the whole thing, you know?”
“It’s not supposed to be fun,” I say. “It’s supposed to be serious. Islam is serious. Marriage is serious. Who said anything about fun?”
“Well, Sarah is fun. I’m fun,” he has the gall to say. “We want to know if we’re fun together.”
I make a puking motion.
“I don’t want any part of this. I don’t believe in early marriage anyway.”
“But you believe in early foreheads?”
I make my best shut-the-hell-up face.
And then break down and give in. “Okay, so I like guys with high foreheads. So what?”
“A certain guy with a big forehead,” he says. “Who is he? Maybe I can scope him out for you at the mosque.”
I quickly change the subject at hand.
“What’s in it for me—chaperoning your ‘fun’ interviews.”
“Besides blackmail?” he says. “Well, there’s also that matter of getting some reward from Allah for being nice to your brother.”
“I can’t believe you just did that. Use Allah and blackmail in the same sentence. You suck.”
I go to the kitchen to check on what else he saw from my pics folder. I systematically erase each of Jeremy’s pictures. He belongs to Tats now anyway.
“Remember we have a date tomorrow,” Muhammad calls. “Dinner at her favorite restaurant.”
As I head back to my room, I accidentally sweep his men off the Risk game board.
? ? ?
I’m so angry, I study the Civil War for four hours straight. I decide to never give up my room to Mom and Muhammad’s confederacy.
MISFITS AND MONSTER
Mom opens the door to my room. She’s wearing a new glittery scarf, and it’s pulled back near her ears, highlighting long pendant earrings.
She never wears her scarf like that.
Sandra Kolbinsky’s mom had started dating right after her divorce, and, in eighth grade, Sandra told me that a change in dressing signaled someone new in the picture.
“I’ll be home late. Auntie Maysa and I are going out for dinner. She’s here already, in the living room.”
“By yourselves?”
“Auntie Ameera might join us. Why?”
“Just wondering. Are those new earrings?”
“No, they’re old. Do you like them?” She stands in front of my dresser mirror and tilts her head to look at them. “Because I never wear them. They’re too much, aren’t they?”
“No, they’re really pretty. It’s just that, yeah, you never wear stuff like that.” I close my books. It’s almost time to head to the mosque for the quiz game.
She slides the earrings off and puts them on the dresser. “You have them.”
“No, Mom, I don’t want them.” I pick them up to give them back. They’re heavy, and I can tell they’re expensive from the way the stones feel.
“I haven’t worn them at all. They sit there in my dresser because I’m not even sure I like them.” She’s leaving the room, but I follow her into the hall. “Janna, you think they’re pretty so I’d rather you have them. Besides, Dad bought them for me.”
Auntie Maysa pokes her head out of the kitchen, glass of water in hand. “What is this thing your mom doesn’t want? That’s too pretty?”