An Emotion of Great Delight Page 6

  I smiled now, remembering this story—Mehdi loved telling it at social gatherings—and trudged toward our drunken minivan, Zahra trailing behind. The after-school pickup was always a logistical nightmare, but my mom had long ago found a way to manage it: she arrived half an hour early, and usually she brought a book. Today, however, she was squinting through her reading glasses at the glossy pages of a magazine, a publication I wasn’t immediately able to identify.

  I rapped on the window when we arrived, and my mom jumped a foot in her seat. She turned and scowled at me, set down the magazine.

  “Hi,” I said, beaming at her.

  My mom rolled her eyes, smiled. The side door slid open and we all exchanged hellos, settled into our seats. The minivan’s interior smelled vaguely of Cheez-Its, which, for some reason, I found comforting.

  My mom tugged off her reading glasses.

  “Madreseh khoob bood?” Was school okay? Then, to Zahra: “Zahra joonam, chetori?” Zahra dear, how are you? “How’s your mom?”

  Zahra was busy responding to my mother in flawless Farsi when I noticed, with a start, the discarded magazine on the console.

  I picked it up.

  It was an old issue of Cosmopolitan featuring a highly airbrushed photo of Denise Richards—under whose name it read: Be Naughty with Him! And, as if that weren’t alarming enough, there was the headline—in bold, white type—

  Our Best Sex Secret

  I looked up. Zahra was saying something to my mom about SAT prep courses, and I couldn’t wait. I cut her off.

  “Hey,” I said, shaking the magazine at my mom. “Hey, what the hell is this?”

  My mom stilled. She spared me a single glance before inserting the key in the ignition. “Man chemidoonam,” she said. How am I supposed to know? “It was at the dentist’s office.”

  Zahra laughed. “Um, Nasreen khanoom”—Mrs. Nasreen—“I don’t think you’re supposed to take the magazines.”

  “Eh? Vaughan?” My mom turned on the car. Oh? Really?

  I was shaking my head. I did not believe for a second that my mom thought the old, grimy magazines at the dentist’s office were free for the taking. “So is the secret any good?” I asked. “Because it says right here”—I scanned the cover again—“that it’s a secret so hot, so breathtaking, experts are raving about it.”

  My mom was driving now, but she still managed to glare at me in the rearview mirror. “Ay, beetarbiat.” Oh, you rude child.

  I was fighting back a smile. “Don’t lie, Maman. I saw you reading it.”

  She said something in Farsi then, an expression difficult to translate. To put it simply: she threatened to kick my ass when we got home.

  I couldn’t stop laughing.

  Zahra had swiped the magazine, and she was now scanning the article in question. Slowly, she looked up at me.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered. “I love your mom.”

  My mother muttered something like What am I supposed to do with you kids? in Farsi, and then turned on the radio.

  My mom loved pop radio.

  Currently, she was a loyal fan of Enrique Iglesias, because she grew up listening to his dad—Julio Iglesias—and when Enrique was first introduced on the radio she clasped her heart and sighed. These days she championed Enrique Iglesias as if it were her civic duty, as if Julio were watching and she hoped to make him proud. Right now, Escape was blasting through the speakers at a ridiculous volume, in what was no doubt an effort to drown out our voices.

  “Hey,” I shouted, “you’re not getting off that easily.”

  “Chi?” she shouted back. What?

  I tried for a higher decibel. “I said, you’re not getting off that easily.”

  “What?” She cupped a hand to her ear, pretended to be deaf.

  I fought back another laugh and shook my head at her. She smiled, put on her sunglasses, adjusted her scarf, and gently bobbed her head to the music.

  “Hey.” Zahra tapped my knee. “Shadi?”

  I turned, raised my eyebrows. “Yeah?”

  “We’re, like, five minutes away from my house,” she said, glancing out the window. “And I just—before I go, I wanted to say sorry. Again. About today.”

  “Oh,” I said, surprised. “It’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay. I shouldn’t have just attacked you like that.” She sat back in her seat, stared into her hands. “Ali just— He always gets everything, you know? Things are so easy for him. Relationships. Friendships. He doesn’t know what it’s like for me, what it’s like to wear hijab or how horrible people can be or how hard it is to make friends.”

  “I know,” I said softly. “I know.”

  “I know you do.” She smiled then, her eyes shining with feeling. “You’re like the only one who gets it. And everything is just”—she shook her head, looked out the window—“school is so fucking brutal right now. Do you remember that guy who pulled off my scarf?”

  I stiffened. “Of course.”

  “He keeps following me around,” she said, swallowing. “And it’s really freaking me out.”

  I felt my chest constrict with panic and I fought it back, kept my face placid for her sake. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t know. I thought maybe I was imagining things.”

  “We’ll report him,” I said sharply. “We’ll tell someone.”

  Zahra laughed. “As if that’ll make any difference.”

  “Hey”—I took her hands, squeezed—“look, I’ll stay with you. I’ll walk you to class. I’ll make sure you’re not alone.”

  She took a deep breath, her chest shuddering as she exhaled. “This is stupid, Shadi. This whole situation is so stupid. Why do we even have to have these conversations? Why do I have to be scared all the time? Why? Because of a bunch of ignorant assholes?”

  “I know. I know, I hate it, too.”

  She shook her head, shook off the emotion. “I’m just—I’m sorry I’m taking things out on you. I don’t mean to.”

  “I know.”

  “Everyone is different now. All my old friends. Even some of the teachers.” She looked away. “I think I’m worried I’m going to lose you, too.”

  “You’re not going to lose me.”

  “I know.” She laughed, wiped her eyes. “I know. I’m sorry. I know.” But when she looked up again, she looked uncertain. She whispered: “So you’re really not hooking up with my brother?”

  “Zahra.” I sighed. Shook my head. “Come on.”

  “I’m sorry, I know, I’m crazy.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I just—I don’t know. Sometimes I need to hear you say it.”

  I stole a furtive glance at my mom, who was now tapping the steering wheel along to a Nelly song.

  “Zahra,” I said sharply. “I am not hooking up with your brother.”

  She smiled at that, seemed suddenly delighted. “And you’re not going to, like, fall in love with him and ditch me?”

  I rolled my eyes. “No. I am not going to fall in love with him and ditch you.”

  “You promise?”

  “Wow, okay, now you’re starting to piss me off.”

  She laughed.

  I laughed.

  And just like that, I had my best friend back.

  December

  2003

  Ten

  I left the classroom with the tide, grateful today, as I was most days, that our school was home to the nearly three thousand students who gave me the cover to disappear. I felt lucky, too, that our student body included just enough Muslim kids—and a couple of girls who wore hijab—that I didn’t have to bear the weight of representation entirely on my own. Recently they’d formed a Muslim Student Union, an on-campus club through which they set up conferences and organized interfaith dialogues and patiently answered all manner of ignorant questions for the masses. The MSU president flagged me down a few times, generously inviting me to their events, and I never had the heart to say no to her. Instead, I’d do the more detestable thing, and make pr
omises I never intended to keep. I avoided those kids not because I didn’t admire them, but because I was a husk of a person with little fight left to give, and I didn’t think they’d understand. Or maybe I was afraid they would.

  Maybe I wasn’t ready to talk.

  In the two months since Zahra and I had parted ways, I’d been eating lunch alone. I was too tired to drum up the enthusiasm needed to strike up conversations with people who didn’t know the intimate details of my life. I chose instead to sit far from the crowds, alone with my optimistic thoughts and my optimistic newspaper. Only recently had my innumerable attractions lured a stranger to my lunch table: a foreign exchange student from Japan who smiled often and said little. Her name was Yumiko. We were perfect for each other.

  Dramatic tenebrism.

  It hit me suddenly, like a slap to the head. The answer was B. Dramatic tenebrism. A less intense chiaroscuro.

  Damn.

  I sighed as I followed the sea of students down the hall. I had one more class before lunch, and I needed to switch out my books. Miraculously, my body knew this without prompting; the autopilot feature had flickered on in my brain and was already guiding my feet down a familiar path to my locker. I pushed my way through a tangle of bodies, found the metal casket that housed my things, spun the dial on the lock. My hands moved mechanically, swapping textbooks for textbooks, my eyes seeing nothing.

  It took very little for Zahra to ambush me.

  I turned around and there she was, brown curls and almond eyes, perfectly manicured brows furrowed, arms crossed at her chest.

  She was angry.

  I took a step back, felt the sharp edge of my open locker dig into my spine. It was all in my head, I knew that even then, but it seemed to me that the world stopped in that moment, the din dimmed, the light changed, a camera lens focused. I held my breath and waited for something, hoped for something, feared so much.

  When Zahra first cut me out of her life, I had no idea what was happening. I didn’t understand why she’d stopped eating lunch with me, didn’t understand why she’d stopped returning my calls. She plucked me from her tree of life with such efficiency I didn’t even realize what happened until I hit the ground.

  After that, I let her go.

  I made no demands, insisted on no explanations. Once I understood that she’d ejected me without so much as a goodbye, I’d not possessed the self-hatred necessary to beg her to stick around. Instead, I grieved quietly—in the privacy of my bedroom, on the shower floor, in the middle of the night. I’d learned from my mother to hide the pain that mattered most, to allow it an audience only behind closed doors, with only God as my witness. I had other friends, I knew other people. I was not desperate for company.

  Still, I had violent dreams about her. I screamed at her in my delirium, sobbed while she stood over me and stared, her face impassive. I asked her questions she’d never answer, threw punches that never landed.

  It felt strange to look at her now.

  “Hi,” I said quietly.

  Her eyes flashed. “I want you to stop talking to my brother.”

  A cold weight drove into my chest, punctured a vital organ. “What?”

  “I don’t know what you’re thinking or why you would even think it, but you have to stop throwing yourself at him. Stay away from him, stay away from me, and stay the hell out of my life—”

  “Zahra, stop,” I said sharply. “Stop.” My heart was racing so fast I felt it pounding in my head. “I’m not talking to your brother. I saw him yesterday by accident, and he drove me t—”

  “By accident.”

  “Yes.”

  “You saw him by accident.”

  “Yes, I—”

  “So you saw him by accident, he gave you a ride home by accident, you left your backpack in his car by accident, you were wearing his sweatshirt by accident.”

  I drew in a sharp breath.

  Something flickered in Zahra’s eyes, something akin to triumph, and my composure broke. Anger filled my head with stunning speed, black heat edging into my vision. Through nothing short of a miracle, I fought it back.

  “I’ve told you a hundred times,” I said, “that I didn’t know it was his. I thought that sweatshirt belonged to Mehdi. And I don’t know why you refuse to believe me.”

  She shook her head, disgust marring the face that was once so familiar to me. “You’re a shitty liar, Shadi.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  She wasn’t listening. “Every time I asked if something was going on between you and my brother, you’d always act so innocent and hurt, like you had no idea what I was talking about. I can’t believe you really thought I was that stupid. I can’t believe you thought I wouldn’t figure it out.”

  “Figure what out? What are you talking about?”

  “Ali,” she said angrily. “My brother. Did you think I wouldn’t put it all together? Did you think I wouldn’t notice what you did to him? God, if you were going to mess around with my brother the least you could’ve done was not break his fucking heart.”

  “What?” I was panicking. I could feel myself panicking. “Is that what he told you? Did he tell you that?”

  “He didn’t have to tell me. It was pretty easy to put the whole thing together.” She made a gesture with her hand. “One day he comes home looking like he got shot in the chest, and the next day he stops speaking to you forever.”

  “No.” I was shaking my head, shaking it so hard I felt dizzy. “No, that’s not what happened. You don’t unders—”

  “Bullshit, Shadi.” Her eyes were bright with an anger that scared me, worried me. I took an involuntary step back, but she followed.

  “You lied to me for years. Not only did you hook up with my brother behind my back, but you broke his heart, and worst of all—God, Shadi, worst of all, you pretended to be so perfect and good, when that whole time you were actually just a slutty, lying piece of shit.”

  I felt, suddenly, like I’d gone numb.

  “I just wanted you to know,” she was saying. “I wanted you to know that I know the truth. Maybe no one else sees through all your bullshit—maybe everyone at the mosque thinks you’re some kind of a saint—but I know better. So stay the hell away from my family,” she said.

  And walked away.

  I stood there, staring into space until the final bell rang, until the chaotic hall became a ghost town. I was going to be late to my next class. I squeezed my eyes shut, tried to breathe.

  I wanted, desperately, to disappear.

  Zahra and I had been friends since I was eleven; I met her and Ali at the same time. Our family was new in town and my parents wanted us to make friends, so they sent me and Shayda and Mehdi to a Muslim summer camp, a camp none of us had wanted to attend. It was our shared loathing of spending summer afternoons listening to religious sermons that brought us all together. If only I’d known then that we’d usher in our end with a similar emotion.

  Zahra had always hated me, just a little bit.

  She’d always said it like it was a joke, a charming turn of phrase, like it was normal to roll your eyes and say every other day, God, I hate you so much, to the person who was, ostensibly, your best friend. For years, her hatred was innocuous enough to ignore—she hated the way I avoided coffee, hated how I took the evil eye seriously, hated the sad music I listened to, hated the way I turned into a prim, obedient child when I spoke Farsi—but in the last year, her hatred had changed.

  I think, deep down, I’d always known we wouldn’t last.

  I’d known about Zahra’s old pain; I knew she’d been used and discarded by other girls who’d feigned interest in her friendship only to get close to her brother. I tried always to be sensitive to this, to make sure she knew that our friendship was more important to me than anything. What I hadn’t realized was how paranoid she’d become over the years, how she’d already painted upon my face a picture of her own insecurities. She was so certain that I’d ditch her for Ali that she nearly fulfilled her own
prophecy just to be right, just to prove to me—and to herself—that I’d been worthless all along.

  Soon, she hated everything about me.

  She hated how much her parents liked me, hated how they were always inviting me to things. But most of all, she hated, hated, that I was always asking to come over to her house.

  I felt a flush of heat move across my skin at the memories, ancient mortification refusing to die.

  I just want to know why, okay? Why do you always want to come over? Why are you always here? Why do you always want to spend the night? Why?

  I’d told her the truth a thousand times, but she never believed me for longer than a week before she was suspicious again. And so it went, my screams soldiering on in their usual vein, unnoticed.

  Eleven

  I dropped my backpack on the damp, pebbled concrete, took a seat on the dirty curb. I stared out at the sea of glistening cars quietly settling in the parking lot of an outdoor shopping mall.

  So this was freedom.

  Yumiko and I had spent enough lunches together now that I’d begun to feel a sense of obligation toward our meetings. I always tried to tell her when I wouldn’t be around, and though I’d invited her to join me on this unexciting sojourn off campus, she gently reminded me that she was only a junior. Seniors alone were allowed to leave school for lunch, but given the time restraints—and my lack of a car—the local shopping mall was as far as I ever got, which often diminished my motivation to make the effort.

  Today, however, I’d needed the walk.

  I’d purchased a slice of pizza from a beloved local place, a place run by a guy named Giovanni. Giovanni was never able to hide his disappointment when I showed up. Giovanni always broke into a sweat when I walked in, his eyes darting around nervously as I ordered. Giovanni and I both knew his real name was Javad, and he’d never forgiven me for asking him, out loud, in front of a long line of people, whether he was Iranian.

  When he’d denied it, looking aghast at the insinuation, I was dumbstruck. I’d stared at the crayon drawings taped to the wall behind his head, shakily done stick figures with titles like baba and amoo.