Ten Things I Hate About Me (17 page)

“Yeah! You’re finally going to get off your butt and do something with your life,” I tease. “Think of all those poor bimbos you’ll no longer have time for.”

He hits me playfully on the shoulder. “You never have nothing positive to contribute, do you, Jam?”

“Double negatives, Bilal.”

“And I’m
still
hot and sexy.”

Shereen and I groan.

“So does Dad know yet?” I ask.

“Nope. I’ll tell him when he’s in a good mood.”

Shereen lets out a short laugh. “What happened today is going to ensure that window of opportunity is closed for the next thirty-five years.”

We arrive home an hour later. Dad is sitting on the back porch, smoking his argeela and reading a book of Arabic poetry. Each of us greets him with a kiss on the top of his head. No words of anger pass between Bilal and Dad. Just a kiss, a gruff “Hi,” and an uncomfortable few words about their day. It’s how they always make up and move on. Without acknowledging the past. Without talking about the future. Just quiet recognition that this is how it is and family goes on.

Shereen motions for Bilal and me to go inside. She has some confessing to do.

Bilal and I sit in the living room, each of us taking turns to eavesdrop.

At first he yells. About the shame. About the consequences. About police records and future job applications and community gossip.

And then she speaks. About ideals and dreams and naiveté. About mistakes and understanding and forgiveness and the future.

And then there is silence. We sneak a look outside.

There is no longer any talking.

Just a long hug between two people who are learning to understand each other a little more.

“WINDOW OF
opportunity,” Shereen hisses at Bilal as she passes us in the hallway later on in the week.

We respond with blank expressions.

“Apprenticeship. Good mood. Dad.” Her voice is hushed as her eyes scan the end of the hallway for a sign of Dad. “Something must have happened at madrasa. He’s home on a high.”

“How do you know?” Bilal asks.

She looks at us calmly and then smiles. “He just suggested that I take Jamilah to the movies. I quote:
She’s been cooped up at home and seems down lately.
As you are both aware, it is past sunset. It is a weeknight. Jamilah being cooped up has never concerned him in the past.”

“Oh God! Dad’s gone senile!” I fan my face with my hand, trying to calm myself down.

“Maybe somebody slipped something into his coffee at madrasa,” Bilal suggests.

“Whatever the reason,” Shereen says impatiently, “just get your butt into the living room and talk to him.”

Bilal runs his fingers nervously through his hair. “OK, I’m going.”

“And Bilal,” Shereen says, gently touching his arm, “don’t lose your temper.”

Shereen turns to me when Bilal has disappeared inside the lounge room. “Positions?”

“I’ll take the kitchen door. You take the hallway. We’ll regroup in the bathroom.”

Bilal’s never been subtle or diplomatic. He’s as smooth as whipped cream on the dance floor or on the phone with a girl. But put him in a room with Dad and the cream curdles.

He walks into the living room, sits down on a chair, and leans forward. “I’ve got an apprenticeship, Dad. Are you gonna give me a hard time about it or be happy for me?”

I lean backward and my eyes connect with Shereen’s. She has a horrified expression on her face. She pretends to cut her throat and I pretend to strangle myself. We go back to our positions.

“Is it a full-time position?”

“Yes.”

“A good garage?”

“Yes. One of the best. It won some small-business awards.”

“So there’s room to move up?”

I can just make out Bilal’s face from where I’m standing. He’s been caught completely off guard. His face is twisted with confusion. I lean back again and Shereen looks my way. She
throws her hands in the air and shrugs. I shake my head, completely bewildered too.

“Dave—he’s the guy who owns the joint—said that if I stick with him I could manage one of his franchises.”

“And this is what you want? This is what you’ve decided to make of your future?”

“Yes.” Bilal sits up tall and defiant. “This is what I want for
my
life.”

“Then may Allah listen to the prayers of a father and bless you, Bilal. May He make this decision the start of a successful life.”

Bilal is momentarily speechless. He stands up and stares at Dad. “Er…thanks, Dad.”

Dad looks up at him and nods.

The three of us meet in the bathroom. We look at one another with dazed expressions. And then slowly we start to grin.

Amy hasn’t been at school for three consecutive days. She hasn’t replied to my text messages or answered my missed calls on her cell. I send a text to Liz, asking her if she’s heard from Amy. I don’t receive a reply.

“Do you know what’s going on with Amy?” I ask in homeroom.

“No idea,” she says, blowing a bubble with her chewing gum. She leans in close. “So has he asked you yet?”

“Huh?”

“Sam told me Peter’s going to ask you to the formal,” she whispers through clenched lips. “It’s only three weeks away. Can you believe it? The most popular guy is going to ask you to the formal! It will be so cool! We can double-date!”

“I’m worried about Amy. She’s been missing school a lot lately.”

Liz is not amused. “Didn’t you hear me? Peter might ask you out.”

“That’s nice,” I say in a distracted tone, “but don’t you think something might be up with Amy?”

“How long has she been away from school?”

“Haven’t you noticed?”

She lets out an embarrassed burst of laughter. “Not really, to tell you the truth. We’re not that close anymore. I think she’s jealous.”

“Of what?”

She almost looks offended and then seems to take pity on me. She stares at me with the resolve of somebody about to educate the ignorant. “She’s jealous of my relationship with Sam and the fact that I’m with the in-crowd now. She’s probably jealous that Peter’s interested in you too. He likes you because you’re quiet. It doesn’t have to go too deep, you know? You can have your fun without any complications.”

Without any complications.

I’m beginning to realize that I want complications. I need them. Because without them I’m a shadow on the field. A whisper in the classroom. Barely here or there. I’m not
living. I’m just surviving. Surviving a battle of my own making.

Peter is all arrogance and good looks. He grins at me and his confidence is maddening.

“So is it a date?”

For the first time in my life I realize that I deserve more. But I’m not quite ready to admit that I’m not allowed to go to the formal. I make a promise to myself: This will be my last lie.

“Thanks for asking me. But I already have a date.”

My words impact on him like a car air bag exploding in somebody’s face. His forehead twists in confusion. His eyes widen in surprise.

“
You
have a date? Who?”

“It’s a surprise.”

I HAVE MY
confrontation with Timothy in the playground at McDonald’s as I’m cleaning up the remains of a squashed burger and soft-serve cone off the slippery slide.

I’m clearing the table in the playground when a little girl with a mane of golden hair and bright brown eyes walks up to me. She informs me that I have an “ugly uniform,” and looks me in the eye as she proceeds to mix her burger and cone on the slide. The temptation to dress her in the ice cream is overwhelming. Her mother storms over and demands that I clean it up before it poses a public liability risk to other children.

It’s times like these that I start to question the value of my emancipation.

As I’m scraping the gooey mess into a paper towel I feel a tap on my shoulder.

It’s Timothy.

“It’s not good to play with your food,” he jokes.

I give him a look that clearly indicates I’m not amused and stand up, a soggy mess of paper towels in one gloved hand, a bottle of disinfectant in the other.

“You’re holding that disinfectant like it’s a can of mace. You hate me that much, huh?”

“Let’s see,” I say, “you only pretended to be somebody else all this time. You read my innermost thoughts when you knew I didn’t want a soul at school to know about my life. You deceived me.”

“I never meant to deceive you. Or lie to you. E-mailing you was a coincidence. At first I had no idea it was you. I never hid who I was. It was right there for you to see if you’d only opened your eyes.”

“That’s no excuse! There you were telling me to be true to myself and to be honest and up-front and blah blah blah. What a load of crap when all along it was you who was the phony.”

We’ve developed a bit of an audience. A couple of children are standing around us now, oohing and ahhing at the “grownups fighting.”

“I guess that’s it, then,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ll see you around.”

He turns on his heels and walks to the purple-and-red gate.

He can’t slam the gate in anger because it has a child-proof lock, and who would slam a gate that has a smiling picture of
Ronald McDonald painted on it? I can’t even cross my arms over my chest because I have ice cream melting down one hand and a kid tugging on my pants, asking me to move out of the way because I’m blocking the slide.

What an undignified mess we’re in.

It doesn’t take long for Uncle Joseph to find out about Shereen. Don’t ask me how. It’s a somebody who knows somebody who saw somebody who tells somebody kind of thing.

My father’s cell phone rings and I hear him answer it from his bedroom and greet Uncle Joseph. I tiptoe to the half-open door and listen carefully, watching my dad stand at his bedroom window as he talks on the phone.

“Yes, I know…No charges were pressed. Yes…well, I suppose there will be people who will see it as a disgrace…Well, yes, there will be men who will lose interest now…Yes, Joseph, yes…thank you for telling me…Jamilah? Oh yes, she’s still working…yes, I’m still letting her…As far as I know she does not smoke, it’s just some extra pocket money…Oh well, Bilal’s found a job and he’s very excited…No, he won’t be going to university…I understand that you care…Good-bye.”

I let out a heavy sigh. Once again my father has failed to come to our rescue. Uncle Joseph continues to preach and my father takes every blow, leaving Shereen, Bilal, and me to deal with the long-lasting bruises.

My dad is staring out the window. He then sits on the edge of his bed and puts his head in his hands. I can sense the weariness oozing out of him, like air being slowly released from a balloon. I’m transfixed, watching him deflate like that. Then he suddenly sits up straight, grabs his cell phone, and dials.

“Joseph,” he says in a firm tone. “Yes, I’m well, thank you…Yes, something is wrong…I don’t appreciate you calling me and saying such things about my children. Jamilah’s proven herself to be responsible. I have every faith in her. And Shereen’s intentions have always been noble and sincere. She’s learned her lesson. She’s only ever made me worry because she has too much heart. As for Bilal, he’s exceptionally talented at what he does and I know he will go far.

“No, you listen to me, Joseph, I’m not concerned with how it looks or what people will say…No, hear me out. I trust my girls. This society is full of temptation but my daughters are always making me proud. Do you understand, Joseph? That is all
you
and anybody else who wishes to talk needs to know…Yes…we will see each other soon,
Inshallah,
God willing. Good-bye, Joseph.”

I remember my dad giving us piggyback rides through the house and my mother yelling at him to be careful because I’d be laughing so hard I’d be half dangling off his back. I remember him peeling every inch of the white pulp from my mandarins and dividing them into segments for me. I remember the way
his eyes light up when he recounts lifting me from my mother’s stomach during her Caesarean operation.

I remember all these things and they glide around in my head like ballroom dancers.

I have one more memory to add now. And that’s Dad telling Uncle Joseph he is proud of me.

MY FATHER CALLS
a family meeting. Bilal, Shereen, and I take our seats in the living room and my dad sits in his armchair, clutching on to his water pipe as though it were a life-support system.

“Bilal, Shereen, Jamilah,” he starts, his voice shaky. He clears his throat and continues. “You all know I love your mother very much. She was and always will be my first love. She is the mother of my children. May Allah rest her soul and grant her paradise…It’s been seven years now and not a day goes by when I don’t think of her. Not a day will go by when I will not think of her.”

He doesn’t need to finish. It hits me hard. I preempt him and blurt out: “You’ve met somebody! You’re getting married!”

He looks at me in surprise. I see his fingers wrap themselves tighter over the pipe.

“Yes, Jamilah.” He looks down at his lap. At first I’m confused by his demeanor. My father has never sought our approval or counsel about matters to do with him. Indeed, he has rarely sought our opinion about matters to do with us. For the first time he seems vulnerable. So open and approachable.

“I have…met somebody who I…” He clears his throat, raising his eyes to glance at each of us in turn. “…wish to marry. She is a good woman. In fact, she is practically part of our family already. I have asked Sajda for her hand in marriage and she has accepted.”

The three of us look at one another in mute shock. The announcement is met with drawn breaths, heads in hands, stunned silence.

The betrayal slices through me. It cuts into me, dices me, chops me up into tiny pieces. I confided in her. I allowed myself to trust that she cared about me. But now it seems it was all for an ulterior purpose. To get close to me. Gain my trust and then slide right in.

My dad sighs. “Please try to understand. Sajda will never replace your mother. It is impossible. But people need companionship.”

Bilal clears his throat and makes to say something but then stops. He leans back in his chair, the words seeming to recoil in his throat.

Bilal and I look at Shereen, our eyes pleading with her to come to the rescue. She stands up slowly and approaches my dad.

“Don’t worry about our reaction, Dad. It will take getting used to, that’s all.” She embraces him in a big hug.

Bilal follows her lead and kisses my dad. “
Mabruk.
Congratulations, Dad.” He steps aside and I lean down and hug my father. I stupidly burst into tears and he hugs me tighter.